One day, John and I will be here - or somewhere similar - and there won't be anyone to supervise while they brush their teeth. No one to tuck in. A little voice won't cheekily appear (long before it's owner) to ask for a glass of water, or to register some other complaint. (No, we can't phone Heathrow and make them stop the aeroplanes).
And if there isn't that, there won't be the moment of stillness after. The slowing of the flat. The gentle tidying up and putting away that currently happens. Because that stillness, that silence, will be here all the time. (almost.)
There won't be us, on the sofa (when we have one), ears pricking up just as much as the dogs' ever do, when there's a sound which might be the thump of small feet swinging out of bed and onto the floor.
The TV volume won't be down low. Our bedroom door may not be closed. I can assure you, I won't be sleeping in shorts!
And it will be a new chapter in our lives - a welcome one. But this current chapter will be done, and I know we'll both look back at it longingly, too.
Days like today, when I'm at home, I get little flash-forwards, to that time. Because from 9-3(roughly speaking), it is the two of us, and the flat does have that stillness. Even worse, when I've been here alone, for whatever reason, when the door closes solidly as John leaves for school with Sherlock. And the silence (such as London's silence is), is heavy around me. I don't like it, when it's like that.
It's the time - the only time, now - when I feel like I don't belong here. Like a visitor in someone else's house. For many reasons, all of them past, not present.
I very much hope, though, that that future-silence which is creeping up on us, is still broken, by Mycroft (door closed carefully, latch checked, coat hung, shoes removed WITH laces undone) and Sherlock (Door pushed, coat thrown, shoes possibly kicked off, laces firmly fastened.)
As you can probably guess, I've been thinking a lot today.