John stares at the photograph in his hand, tears of happiness blurring his eyes. He can remember every single detail of that photo and all the events leading up to it. He touches the face of a very familiar raven-haired man captured for eternity smiling. A rare and fleeting smile that left the people feeling a little out of sync. Or maybe that was just John.
It was at a park. The grass wasn't very green at all. The hot dry summer had parched it and now it was a sickly yellow colour, thinly spaced across the small field where the photo is set. In the background of the photo a shirtless man is comforting their child and the small toddlers mother is running her hands carefully through his sandy blonde hair, comforting him.
At the other side of the photo, slightly obscured by a tangle of raven coloured hair, two young girls and one young boy are kicking a football around, the taller girl has her mouth opened wide, perhaps shouting at one of the shorter less intimidating children about missing the ball.
There isn't any mud; it's just sandy and cracked, waterless like all the other vegetation in the park. The trees are hanging limply, leaves bright and full of colour, embracing the sunshine. The flowers are open too but all the colours look too bright in John's tearful eyes so he moves to focus on another part of the picture.
The first thing that is interesting about the two people in the forefront of the picture is that they are complete opposites. One, short for a fully grown man with a sandy coloured military style haircut. The other tall and lanky with an untameable mop of dark black hair, tangled in the soft wind. The shorter man is looking up at the taller one with a smile full of joy and eyes filled with love and fierce protectiveness. The dark haired man looks just to the left of the camera, mouth open in a heart-stopping grin. His eyes, like a long distance galaxy, shine brightly at whatever has just been said. The taller man seems to be half-dragging the shorter one along as he is slightly in front.
The men are holding hands with a tight grip. They both have matching rings on their wedding fingers.
That was the day that Sherlock had asked John to marry him.
John had said yes, how could he not?
Sherlock had bent down on one knee in the middle of the park and whispered the words that stopped John's racing heart.
"John Watson, will you do me the honour of becoming my husband?"
"Yes" John had yelled, before jumping on the detective, pressing their lips together. When they broke away, cheeks flushed, Sherlock slipped a ring onto John's finger.
They had been strolling home eager to tell Mrs Hudson the good news when the click of a camera had caused Sherlock to drop his grin. He strode over, John in tow, to the teenage girl who had just taken a picture of them. Before he could begin to shout John had interjected and politely asked the girl what she was doing. She told them that she was doing a photography project and was trying to get candid shots of partners for a big collage.
"Why would you want a picture of us?" Sherlock retorted, "We're gay."
"I had noticed," She replied, "But my project is focussing on all relationships, not just straight ones. I understand if you don't want me to use your picture but it's absolutely perfect." She had then turned to a table behind her and plugged her camera into the laptop that was perched there. She hooked a printer up and set one to print.
Silently, she handed John the piece of paper. She was right, it was perfect.
"You can use it." John had replied, giving the paper to Sherlock. The girl turned to the printer and sorted out a copy for John.
The two of them had then strolled off, caught up in their happiness, to tell Mrs Hudson the news she had been waiting to hear for the last seven years.
The flashback ends and John is sitting on the bed, the photograph held lightly in his fingertips. Slowly he turns it over and there on the back of the paper, in the girl's loopy writing, are the words:
'Have a great life together.'