Sherlock's quiet. Normally, he is only quiet when he's thinking too hard, and Ellie can't exactly blame him. It's a lot to take in, a lot he's been absent for.

"It's daylight, John's probably at the clinic," Ellie offered. "I mean, he probably slept there." It wouldn't be unusual for him, not lately. Seems he has little reason to go home sometimes. "Probably not eating."

Come to think of it-

As they pass the bare, sagging trees damaged by the winter storm, Ellie turns her head towards them. It's the only indication that she's doing anything, willing any of them to life again, but certain plant life begins to go green again as she passes it. Trees, mostly -- fruit trees in particular.

They pass an apple tree. It's blown nearly to matchsticks in the front of someone's yard, damaged by the ice and what looks like the impact of something the size of a car. It's buckled, dying. As they come up on it, the bark knits, the tree springs into leaf, bright red apples dotting the branches.

Like something out of a fairy tale.

One is almost low enough for Ellie to reach. She stops under it, reaches up a hand, jumps as high as she can. Her fingertips barely tickle the underside of it. Her sneakers slap down on the sidewalk, and she whispers a curse.