Sherlock
Memories
A/N: This is just born from a headcanon of mine, I hope you all like it. I know it's short, bite me.
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The London air was crisp and cold that morning, a fog lowering over the city. In a graveyard of an old church, John Watson walked through the headstones until he came to one that rested beneath an old tree. He smiled and laid a bouquet of flowers at its base before sitting down in front of it.
"Hello, Granddad," He gently brushed his fingers over the lettering on the stone, happy that the acid rain hadn't gotten to it yet. The headstone read, "Here lies John Watson", a birthdate and a date of death, and beneath that, "A true, dear friend."
To some, this would've seemed like the wrong thing to put on a headstone, but everyone in the Watson family knew it was enough. John had never met his namesake, as he had passed when his mother was about ten, from what she remembered, but the stories his family told him as a boy about the man had always made him smile. He had been visiting this grave ever since he was twelve.
"Oh, my leg? It's better now. Sherlock reckoned it was psychosomatic or something. I'm living where you used to when you lived in London. Yeah, Baker street. Oh, it hasn't changed that much from what I saw in the photos. Sherlock? Oh, he said he was being called out of town for a while. Said it was important, told me not to go with him. Probably something small he's been badgered by Mycroft to do..."
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Winter was slowly making its way over the Sussex downs. The last leaves of Autumn were falling and the air was as cold as ice. Sherlock pulled his coat further around him to block out the cold as he trudged over the hills to an old cottage nearby. He knew this place well. He'd had the key to it for a very long time, ever since he was a boy, really. He'd taken it from his father long before he'd thrown him out. It was supposed to go to Mycroft when their father died, and even though his brother knew he'd taken it, he didn't mind and probably didn't care.
Sherlock turned the key in the door and let the door swing open before putting the key back in his pocket and closing the door. As he walked slowly through the house, the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. He wandered about, casually thumbing through the books and old papers on the desk near the fireplace. There were old photographs there, too, carefully kept sepia pictures in wooden and brass frames. One that particularly caught his eye was of two men, one tall and thin with dark hair and the other shorter with greying hair and a moustache, both with smiles on their faces and pipes in their hands. He knew those two from his Aunt's stories and it made him smile all the more.
He walked out the back door of his house, passing the rows of old beehives that still buzzed with life on his way to a hill with an old tree still losing its leaves. Beneath it was a headstone, which Sherlock crouched in front of, his smile still lingering.
"Hello, Grandfather." All that met him in return was the wind that blew about him.