24th December 2012, Christmas Eve 11:58pm
John is sat cross legged on the soil in front of Sherlock's grave, surrounded by a light scattering of snow, his cane laying beside him. He stares at the gold lettering against the black marble, eyes drifting along the curves of the letters. He glances down at his watch and laughs quietly to himself, "it's almost midnight. I've been here nearly three hours."
For some reason, when he visits Sherlock's grave he feels lighter. He tells Sherlock about his day, or about Mrs Hudson. Sometimes even about interesting cases that have been in the paper. John feels as though Sherlock would like to know these things, and it helps him get things off his chest that he would feel uncomfortable other people knowing (like how dependant he is on his cane, especially in recent months).
John stands and stretches his legs, groaning when his knees crack faintly in the almost silent cemetery. He hears Big Ben ringing out the hour, followed by the twelve chimes calling in a new day. John rests his hand on the top of the stone, "happy Christmas, Sherlock."