Sherlock stood at the window in his living room, violin in hand but not playing. He looked out at the grey London sky. To an outsider it would seem like he was daydreaming or maybe thinking of a nicer place to be than the grey capital.
But Sherlock Holmes wasn't one to daydream or wish himself to a different place. He was remembering and thinking of different times. In his mind he saw a ginger haired man sitting in a beautiful garden, enjoying a holiday surrounded by family.
Sherlock started playing a rather happy tune. The melody quickly turned to a surprised and then to an almost lethargic one.
Meanwhile his mid showed him a serious looking man in a crinkled suit entering the garden and talking to the ginger haired man. The man in the suit handed the other one a small package, shook his hand, nodded to the family and walked away. All while the ginger haired man sat in his chair, not moving, one hand clutching the small package, the other one touching his wedding ring. Carefully, almost as if he wasn't sure it was still there.
The picture in his mind changed to a day just as grey as the current one. The melody turned from lethargic to sad.
In front of his mind's eye he saw a large group of people standing around a freshly covered grave. One after one, he saw them going past the hinger haired man, expressing their sympathies. Sherlock saw the man's eyes growing darker and colder with every person passing him. Until there was no one left to express their sympathy. His eyes looked like ice now.
The melody grew hard and distanced, something that sent a shiver down your spine.
It stayed like that for quite some time until it turned desperate, shaky and finally broke.
In his mind he saw the ginger haired man stop smiling, stop visiting his family and dedicating his entire life to his work. Somewhere in the back there was a younger man with curly black hair. He desperately wanted his older brother to smile again, wanted to let him know he felt with him and was there for him. But he didn't know how.
The last picture Sherlock saw, before forcing himself out of that memory was himself, a needle in his hand trying to escape the horrible feeling of not being able to help his older brother.
In another part of London, Mycroft Holmes sat in front of his fire place. It was the one day of the year he allowed himself not to go to work, leave running Britain to someone else, and grief. He managed to either keep her out of his thoughts or only think about the positive memories throughout the rest of the year.
On this day though, he allowed all the sadness to resurface and push his Iceman mask aside.
It was, after all, the anniversary of his wife's death.