As the sun dipped behind the far off line of trees and the crisp wind stirred up yet again, John stood in front of the grave. It was black and shined from polishing done during its production. Mycroft would only have the best. But there was something missing. In the last few hours filled with silence- filled with things unsaid, that never will be said- John had stood here, gazing at the golden letters engraved into the polished stone. He couldn't help but feel that they did not express the person behind them... or under them for that matter. Sherlock Holmes- a brother and friend. It was simple and true, to the few that really knew him at least. But they seemed to miss the complexity of the man they stood for. They did not mention his experiments that crept into the kitchen and their daily life. They did not mention that he was there for those he really cared about, even if he was cold to everyone else. But most of all, they did not mention that he was a great man and, in the end, and good one too.
Fat drops of rain fell down onto his cheek. Soon it was pouring. But John just stood there, soaking in the rain, staring at the gold words that weren't quite right... and pondering what would best replace them.