Watson looked at the glimmering lights of the shipping in the bay and wondered when he would see the sight again.  Holmes had been right, he was going to join his old unit, for whatever happened the army would still need surgeons.  War was horrendous, but with any luck this would not last for more than a few months.  Nevertheless, Watson drank in the current sights and sounds.  He could hear a nightingale singing and realised this might be its final song before leaving the English shores to fly south.

Holmes too looked at the shipping, but he knew, far better than Watson, the level of devastation the war would bring.  Nevertheless, or perhaps for that very reason, he observed all that was around him, committing it to memory, keen not to let anything escape; the feel of the beginnings of a gentle warm breeze on his face, the scent of the crushed grass.

They chatted together, remembering some of their past adventures: the Woman; the ridiculous adventure of Jabez Wilson and the red-headed league; the strangeness of the six Napoleons.  Each was at ease with the other and making the most of what they were aware was but a few minutes of true happiness.

Neither would forget the moonlit sea and Holmes’ words that the East wind was coming.