The last few weeks before we moved to Sussex, I spent a lot of my time wandering the streets, reminding myself of all that had happened since I had returned, dispirited, from the Afghan wars. It seemed that every corner I turned brought back another memory: Holmes and I returning from a concert, Holmes and I going out for a meal together, meeting with Lestrade or Hopkins in the course of a case, the odd occasion when we had visited Mycroft. Each memory I sought to lodge in my mind, for when we left the city.

And then there were the places which Mary and I had known. They were even more precious to me. I knew I would never forget them, but I felt it was important that I revisit them one last time, to savour what they had meant to me, before we moved.

The last day, when I returned to Baker Street, Holmes asked me if I was happy that I had packed everything I would need. I assured him that this was so and that nothing we were leaving behind would be missed. I was determined that being in Sussex was a new beginning, and therefore had no wish to recreate 221B in our new cottage. I had already packed those items which were most precious to me, mostly keepsakes from my life with Mary, which were safe in their own box. Holmes was taking his commonplace books, so I had no need to pack further memories of our past.

And the time had come for us to move on and start to make new memories, which would, in their turn, become precious to the two of us.