Sherlock Holmes was six years old when his father died.
The funeral was on May 22nd, 1983. He remembers that it rained that day. He remembers his brother holding his umbrella over Sherlock's head to keep him dry. Mycroft had been wearing a black suit with silver cuff links and a white collared shirt. His tie had had faint grey pinstripes on it, and there had been slight creases where he had retied it three times before getting the knot just right. Sherlock had counted each faint wrinkle in the material, and he can recall them still to this day, picture those exact creases that spoke of tying and re-tying in his mind's eye. He remembers that his own suit was a dark grey. He remembers the colour of the flowers in the courtyard - they were yellow, and he can recall from memory the exact shade. He remembers the dress mummy wore and the way she did her hair and the way his own was combed, and the words the preacher said over his father's body. He remembers that it was 8:13 am when the service ended and that he read this time off the gold wristwatch on Mycroft's left wrist with a small scuff on the edge where he had dropped it and slight streaks on the face where he had cleaned it that morning.
He remembers that Mycroft cried when they got back to the house and that he was frightened because Mycroft never cried, not ever, and it had made him cry too.
He remembers all of this, but he does not remember his father. He will try, sometimes, but where clear and defined memory should be it is vague and undefined. This is confusing to him.
Perhaps it is true that he had not known him so well - not so much so as Mycroft, who had been infinitely close to their father - but still there ought to be something of a memory, especially from Sherlock who remembers everything. And there is. A smile, a frown, a scolding, a laugh, the fabric of an expensive suit, the smell of a pipe. But these are little things, faint things, fragile things, and they wear away with time. Now, today, there is nothing left but that suit and that pipe and even that is blurry and hazy and strange.
And yet, when today he thinks father, there are other things, other memories, the touch of a hand and the warmth of a smile, cool hands on his forehead when he was sick, gentle arms round him when he was scared, a favour, a joke, a hug, an argument, a haircut. He remembers praise and disappointment and pride and sacrifice and love.
These are memories of a man who's suits are coarse with cheap fabric and who wears nicotine patches and does not smoke because there is an arrangement between them. These are memories of Lestrade, and this is curious because father means Lestrade now, and memories of Lestrade are mixed in with memories of expensive suits and the smell of a pipe, and Sherlock, who knows everything, no longer knows which are which.
And Sherlock, who should be infinitely bothered by this, does not mind.