Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, Moffat does
The grass swayed with the chilled air of November and a pair of shoes was straying in the recesses of the dull mind in which he was plagued with, as Sherlock once said. Somehow the army doctor's mind always found a way to travel back to the consulting detective. A familar sight came into view over the many stones and final resting places of the local town. A black granite slab that was engraved with the beautiful golden letters that were fading in the once shining and brilliant color after the three years from it being placed on the particularly green patch of grass, fit for a one of a kind man such as Sherlock Holmes. The sight was plagued slightly when a taller figure stood over the grave, not minding the few wilting bouqets that lay close to it. It was slightly swaying as with the grass, though the wind was not great enough to move a fully grown man. It hopped on each foot for no more than a second at a time and it had a wooden object in it's hands. How odd, John Watson thought to himself as he advanced on the slim man. He was within a few hundred feet of his best friends grave when he swore that a personel melody of Sherlocks was being emitted from the violin playing stranger. No. No. No. No. NO. John stood completely shocked. No one could ever have known that piece as well as the composer. It was played with delicate hands that didn't seem to try when the bow hit the strings of the instrument. "Sher-" He started but it came out as a hoarse whisper and he shook his head. It was not him! That was immpossible! However much he wished this was Sherlock Holmes that annoying bloke he used to share a flat with, it was not possible for him to be standing on his own grave. His legs took control while John was still hunched over in his brain, trying to solve the riddle in front of him. He was finally aware of his actions but it was too late when he say that all to familar hand of his reach out to the shoulder of the slim man with the bouncy raven curls and deep purple shirt that was all to fitting. With much less energy than he had intended on moving the man with, he whipped the figure around and saw the face that had never escaped his nightmares or even his pleasant dreams. The tall cheekbones and defined nose. Those shocking blue eyes stared back into his own as the deep and dark voice uddered two words he never wanted to hear again unless it came from one particular mouth, the one that was right in front of him. "Hello John."