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Chapter 1

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John Watson trained his eyes on his active five-year-old daughter but his mind was elsewhere. While Rosie got reacquainted with her friends she hadn't seen for many months, he stood in a location that was somewhat apart from the other parents. He had got used to practicing social distancing during the coronavirus outbreak and even though he could have chosen to stand closer to the other parents as long as he wore a face mask, he preferred the view. Not only did he not need to wear his mask at this distance, it offered him a full sweep of the park's playground. Also, he liked using Rosie's playtime to think.

Lately, his thinking time had become worrying time. "God knows," John huffed to himself as Rosie charged toward him at full gallop, her eyes bright behind her sunshine yellow face mask. "Just when you think you've figured him out, he pulls another—ummph! " He staggered from the impact of his daughter's energetic tackle. "Careful now, Rosie! You nearly knocked me over—"

"Sorry, Daddy," Rosie slipped off her face mask and peered up at him; her expression sympathetic, her face flushed from fleeing her playmates. "But I'm safe, now. You know: mummies and daddies are safe zones!"

"Right. Mummies and daddies. Safe zones," John agreed behind a soft smile. If only that were forever true.

Rosie gave him a peculiar look and asked out of the blue, "Talkin' 'bout Unkel Sher-kel, 'gain?" Her dad's silence prompted her to push, "'Can tell, Daddy, 'cauz your voice gets like that."

John cleared his throat. "Yes." He hadn't meant to speak his thoughts aloud, much less have Rosie hear them. Without elaborating, he leant over to give her a hug, and changed the subject. "Well, my lamb, let's wipe down your hands," he said, pulling out the sanitizer from the small rucksack slung across his shoulder. "Have you finished playing with your friends?"

"No, silly!" She giggled and waited until her hands were clean before latching her arms around his neck to hug him. "It's mask break and time out, now. Look. See!"

John yielded to her embrace and kissed the top of her head before she released him. "Right. Let's have a look-see, then, my smart girl."

He scanned the greensward edged with shady sycamores. The other children had removed their masks and were taking a temporary time out, sitting down on benches beside their mothers or minders, enjoying refreshments.

"I see, Rosie. Mask break, time out and snack time!" He deposited the rucksack on the ground. "Would you like some apple slices—?"

"Wat-tah, please."

John uncapped the thermos bottle, crouched down, and handed it to her. Rosie drank, eyeing her father all the while. Three hurried gulps were enough and she gave it back to him.

"You are dis-pointed!" Rosie blurted, her blue eyes wide.

"Huh?" John squinted in surprise. "Why would I be disappointed? I only say that when you misbehave…"

"No, not at me." She shook her head vigorously; her long plaits whipped her shoulders. "With him. 'cauz he missed my birthday."

John was taken aback by Rosie's assertion. He stood, replaced the cap, and returned the thermos to the rucksack. He did not look at his daughter. That she was right unnerved him. It's not like him. Sherlock had been there for Rosie's first and, until seven months ago, had never missed a birthday. Even if they couldn't have a party this year, a least he would have called. Worse. It's been eleven months since anyone's seen him…

Young as she was, Rosie was perceptive. She was so much like her mother in her ability to read people, but different, as well. An empathetic spirit—some children were born that way—she showed tenderness to those who were injured or weak—a wounded bird, an unhappy friend, a newborn kitten. She knew how to comfort, sometimes with her soothing voice, other times with her delicate caresses.

His daughter had soothed him often enough on those evenings when his thoughts turned to Mary. Sensing his melancholy, Rosie would join him on the sofa, climb into his lap, and give his cheeks gentle kisses or pat his head before returning, to her playthings.

Consoling her father was her forte, even now in the park. "Don't worry, Daddy. He'll be back."

Worry. John had enough worries raising a child alone in these unprecedented times. When he was not focused on parenting, work at the surgery—especially the worrisome months dealing with COVID-19—filled his time. Although he had less spare time for occasional dates with interesting women, those had been respites of sorts, until everyone stopped socializing in person. Even so, so far he hadn't been looking to replace Mary. Each date had reminded him he wasn't ready for that. At least, they had been distractions from the usual worries—until the pandemic struck.

Worrying about his remarkable friend was another matter. Over the past four years, Sherlock had worked many successful cases without him. And after, when Sherlock shared his accounts of such investigations, John listened in admiration. While sometimes it seemed that Sherlock made calculated risks—calculated being the key word—the great detective usually returned in due time and with solutions in hand, proving his calculations spot on. John had no cause to worry.

But this time seemed different and John had become worried by Sherlock's prolonged absence. As the pandemic spread he wondered where his friend might be and if he had been able to stay isolated from the virus. Whenever Rosie and he spent a special day—like today—in a London park, it reminded him how much time had passed since he had last seen or spoken to his friend.

Rosie's confidence in her godfather was reassuring in some ways. It may have explained why Rosie had never asked him where Sherlock was or when he'd be coming home. John hadn't brought it up, not wanting to worry her. "I'm sure he will be back, Rosie."

"I know he will. He promised me."

John shifted uneasily at his old fear of believing Sherlock's impossible promises. "He promised you? When was that?" he asked, attempting to sound nonchalant.

"The last time," she shrugged as if her answer should be clear to him. "But not for my party. He told me he was gonna miss that, but he said he'd try to be back aftah … Now, it's aftah my birthday, he'll be back. I know he will—oh, see! My friends are playing again! 'Bye, Daddy," She pulled up her mask over her nose and raced off, her honey-colored plaits flying behind her as she rejoined the game.

...he'll be back….I know he will…

Not that he expected Rosie's words to materialize his friend out of thin air, but John couldn't help himself. He turned around to check the park entrance. He didn't see the familiar figure among the assorted masked men, women, and children entering the park. Disappointed again and simply missing his friend, John turned around and returned to his thoughts. Eleven months earlier, while Rosie and he were in the same park, seasonally painted in golds, rusts, and reds, Sherlock had "popped by" without prior warning. Back then, John had not been surprised. Sherlock had been making these unannounced visits—meeting them in parks—since Rosie was two. Such encounters were never prearranged and John was never certain if and when Sherlock might show up, but the possibility existed and John had got used to the strong odds of might.

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The very first time Sherlock had made his appearance in the park, it had been a warm spring day. John had taken Rosie to the tiny tot's sandbox, where a little boy, approximately Rosie's age, had been shoveling sand into his pail. His mother hovered nearby talking on her mobile. At John's urgings, Rosie had taken up her shovel in her dimpled fist, but she had been more interested in watching the little boy than digging for herself.

"I see your daughter's still in her parallel-play stage."

John had looked up in surprise at hearing the familiar voice behind him. "Huh?"

"Observe, John. They don't interact," Sherlock had explained. "According to child-development research, 'this is the form of play in which children remain adjacent to each other, but do not try to influence one another's behavior.'"

"I know what parallel play is," John had huffed under furrowed brows. "I'm just surprised to see you here in this out-of-your-way park."

"Surprised? Why?" Sherlock had shrugged and looked around, his face feigning innocence. "It's perfect park weather; Londoners are out enjoying the spring blooms, I am a Londoner. Hello, Rosie," Sherlock had given Rosie a wiggly-fingers wave.

In response, the two-year-old had grinned at her godfather with a drooling smile, cooing, "Hah-wo, K' Sshu-och."

John, too, had grinned, but at Sherlock's ridiculous comeback. He had not expected Sherlock to withhold his actual reason for tracking them down. That he had was peculiar.

Aware John was waiting for a different explanation Sherlock had added, "The odds of encountering someone you know in any park on a day like today are actually quite strong, John. High. Astronomical, in fact."

"Astronomical? Is that so, then?" John had looked askance at his friend, incredulity peaking in his voice, and licked his lips to mask his grin. "Still, what are the chances?"

"John, if I wanted to debate probability, I'd hold court with my brother!" Sherlock had deflected in his signature tetchy tone. "Now let's show Rosie how to play with others—a concept Mycroft and I failed to grasp at this or any age." Sitting down beside her in the sand, Sherlock gently helped Rosie dig with her shovel.

"Well, then," John had chuckled to himself, "that does explain a lot."

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These occasional meet-ups became a regular thing, despite being unpredictable and random. Sherlock had always held that scheduled forays in public made a person an easy target—that was how he caught many a criminal. So his "accidental" visits—due to his wary ways—were not out of character for the genius detective.

John, on the other hand, had fewer qualms about following schedules. A reliable system made child-rearing easier. Going to the park was one such routine. While Erika, their long-term childminder, regularly took Rosie to meet her playmates in the suburban parks near his flat, John would change it up a bit. On his days off from the surgery or when he took the early shift, he sought special father-daughter time sans childminder—as recommended by his therapist—by taking Rosie to London parks. Sometimes he and Rosie would go to grassed areas in Central London or to West London to enjoy the playgrounds, flower gardens and tree-edged lawns. By comparison to his ordered life, John's choice of parks was serendipitous, which is why each chance encounter with Sherlock was mystifying.

These park appearances continued especially when Rosie had outgrown her early toddler years. More capable of interactive play, like hide-n-seek among the Peter Pan teepees and the giant pirate ship at the Diana, Princess of Wales Memorial Playground, she would give enthusiastic squeals when she found her godfather pressed against the ship's bow pretending to be a wooden figurehead. In St. James, another favorite park, Rosie was delighted whenever her lively uncle joined her in the sandbox to build elaborate sand castles or pushed her on swings or stood ready to catch her in the climbing areas.

John would watch and wonder what methods Sherlock had used to find them. If he was not employing some tracking or face-recognition software by hacking into the CCTV cameras or utilizing a GPS location app connected—unbeknownst to John—to John's mobile, there was probably an algorithm that guided Sherlock to the right park at the right time, a rhythm only Sherlock knew. The tempo changed too; sometime the visits were closer together, sometimes farther apart, but no matter what, there was a dependability to it—Sherlock would eventually bump into them in some park.

How Sherlock did it was one thing. The real mystery was why?

There seemed no purpose to these visits other than companionship—which was a purpose in itself. However, John wouldn't have put it past the scientist—who also proved to be a master at the fine art of play—to be tracking Rosie's development milestones for a research project.

Oddly, during these "pop ins," Sherlock refrained from work-talk. John remembered well that there were challenging cases and ongoing mysteries waiting to be solved—sometimes John was working the case alongside Sherlock—but during "playtime with the Watsons" the detective had imposed a moratorium on discussing them. Had he worried that Rosie would overhear something disturbing? Probably, but perhaps more evident had been that Sherlock relished the "escape" just as much as they had. Play was freeing, refreshing, and gave joy in a troubling world.

Who could really know the reasons—as logical as they might be—for Sherlock's participation in this ritual of play? It was Sherlock Holmes, after all. And yet, there was one explanation—perhaps the most important one—that John thought might be his friend's primary impetus. Since Mary had saved Sherlock's life—"conferring a value on it"—by sacrificing her own, the man she had saved honored her by being a regular presence in both Rosie and John's lives. Perhaps this was how Sherlock—the reformed Sherlock—had chosen to spend that "currency." Whatever his reasons, John welcomed his friend's company whenever Sherlock gave it. And he had got so used to the surprise meetings in the park that he had begun to take them a bit for granted.

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October 2019

Eleven months ago, on that brisk fall day in the park, John had been busy following Rosie around the playground. When Sherlock had showed up, it had been late for the usual playtime encounter. They were readying to leave. As John slung Rosie's rucksack over his shoulder, he noticed that Sherlock appeared fidgety, distracted—signs suggesting something was more pressing on his mind, something he found hard to let go or that wouldn't let him go.

"Bye, bye, Unkel Sher-kel," using her godfather's nickname, Rosie tugged on his greatcoat, and displayed her widest smile of primary teeth. She twirled her little hand, a waving gesture she had mastered as a baby. "Too late for playtime. We're done, now. Next time, okay?"

Sherlock had glanced toward the park exit before looking down at her upturned face. "Next time," he flashed a bright smile. Stooping down to hug Rosie, he whispered something that made her giggle and patted her head. When he straightened and turned toward John, he appeared about to say something more. In an instant Sherlock's face had changed, his expression neutralized.

"Sherlock?" John puzzled, curious about his friend's abrupt reticence. "You okay?"

"Nevermind. A thought has occurred…must be off to attend to it," Sherlock replied in a dismissive voice, abandoning his attempt to shake John's hand when he saw Rosie had curled her hand in her father's for warmth. The little girl's trusting gesture raised a scant half-smile on Sherlock's serious face.

"Goodbye, Rosie," he said and pulled up his collar against the cold evening air. John narrowed his eyes and waited until Sherlock met his gaze. Their eyes met, but the glance was too brief for John to glean anything before Sherlock had looked away. "Later..., John," he nodded again and was gone in the growing darkness.

It troubled John in hindsight that he hadn't asked Sherlock why he had been so preoccupied that evening in the park. Had he missed a clue that something was amiss when Sherlock tried to shake hands, when Sherlock avoided his glance? He should have lifted Sherlock's moratorium on discussing his work and encouraged his friend to speak freely. In fairness, John had expected that Sherlock would text him to meet had the detective wanted to talk about a case. When no such text came, he had dismissed his perception of Sherlock's mood as a nonissue.

John had not imagined then that their encounter in the park would be his last glimpse of Sherlock for such a long time.

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