As he bounded up the dust track under the pale blue, never ending sky, Sherlock watched the old bus bounce along the road, out of sight. He was not a fan of running, athletic and nimble though he may be, so he made no further attempts to pursue the vehicle. He slowed his walk to a standstill and gazed around at the emptiness that surrounded him. The sand swirled his coat around his calves and stung his eyes. He squinted into the distance and frowned, for he knew that another bus would not travel the empty path through Utah for many a day.
He had been following the coordinates on the letter for half a week now, only to find how middle-of-no-where they really were. He had found the bus, that runs once a week, but was just too late. Though he swore that as he approached, and the engines roared into life, he saw a swish of red hair and heard a laugh that sounded as familiar as John's voice. It couldn't be... How can she be here, the same, after these decades? It was this pause, this moment of confusion, that led to Sherlock missing the bus.
John stared through the long bay window that stood tall along with wall of the empty flat, and tried to fathom a way of reaching Sherlock in time for... For what? John didn't know. His companion had left at first light, leaving nothing. He paced around the room as Mycroft sat still and calm in the arm chair, though John knew how tense he was.
As he walked up the long, barren road which led to the cliff top, he stumbled over rock and weed. Although the bag he had brought with him held things for at least one, maybe two weeks of travel, Sherlock was beginning to feel the strain. He had shed his long, dark coat a while back, but with great regret, as he feared that someone might find it, and that someone may be John.
Also, he had developed a great fondness for that coat, and hated to part with it. He was now left in his slim black trousers and fitted purple shirt, which he was now starting to regret wearing as he gazed into the clear sky, and the sun beat down on him. He tripped over yet another obtrusive root, and cursed aloud.
As he emerged at the top of the hill, he found himself gazing down on a vast lake, with water crystal blue. A car was parked up along side a picnic blanket. Sherlock squinted into the sun and caught sight of a ripple of red. The laugh once again rang in his ears, followed by a deeper chuckle.
He saw him. He was lounging on his side, a bottle of wine in his hand, although he did not seem to drink from it. It swung from his fingers like a pendulum, seemingly in time with the small waves from the lake lapping the shore. He seemed to be waiting for something, expectant. Was he waiting for Sherlock?
Sherlock could make it down the cliff; he was only a short distance from a track that led down to the waters edge. But there was something that stopped him. As he gazed down at the party of four, the Doctor, Amy, and two others he didn't recognize, he saw their happiness. He did not know why he had been invited, moreover what they had all been gathered together for. But he knew that this was not his place. Sherlock felt lost without London's familiar streets, and John's calming smile.
A figure rose from the water, perhaps a fifth guest, apart from himself. Sherlock began to turn away, feeling the sand and the heat burning him. The girl looked up at the cliff, right at Sherlock, and made to say something. Suddenly her attention was diverted. The group stood facing the lake as, to Sherlock's great surprise as well as their own; a spaceman stepped onto the sand.