A/N: My first foray into the Sherlock Holmes fanfiction. A little one-shot, as I always found the time between "The Final Problem" and "The Empty House" a very poignant period in the Sherlockian world. It's not long for the simple reason that I didn't spend a very long time writing it.
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing, and I never will, except maybe the chocolate I got from my Secret Santa...nah, that probably belongs to someone, too.
Sometimes, especially on the days when the wind is whipping through the cobblestone streets and causing his leg to twinge painfully, he forces himself to walk through the graveyard.
He's not sure why he only does it when his leg hurts. Maybe it's because he wants a physical pain present to help dissipate the ache of the inner one when he reads the name on the tombstone for the hundredth time. Maybe it's because the pain reminds him that such is hardly a pain compared to the pain his friend must have felt before his death. But most probably, it's because he remembers the winter days when his leg hurt and Sherlock Holmes would lean over to stoke the fire, even when he himself was perfectly comfortable.
But reasons aside, it is on the cold days that Doctor John H. Watson limps down to the graveyard where the simple tombstone lies, hardly worthy of the man it represented.
There is nothing under it, of course. After he had gone over the falls, Doctor Watson had lost every living piece of his friend to have ever walked God's green earth. All he had left was a wrinkled note, a scratched walking stick, a tear-stained face, and a world full of memories. The coffin had been buried empty, but every thump of the dirt on its solid lid hurt as much as if the man himself had been present beneath it.
Now, Doctor Watson kneels by the stone and bows his head silently. There is nothing he can say, nothing he can do to bring his friend back. One chapped hand reaches out slowly and touches the top of the stone gently, trembling slightly. He rubs his fingers on the cool stone, letting the memories drift back, if only for a moment. Memories that time and Moriarty can never take from him. Memories of the cases, the days off, the surprises, the cocaine, the deductions. He lets the memories fill his mind, and, slowly, tears fill his eyes.
"May God grant you peace, Sherlock Holmes."
Across the way, a rugged man watches him, one hand supporting him against a frigid lamppost. He smokes a cigarette easily, watching the sophisticated gentleman kneeling in the frozen graveyard. Every muscle in his body screams causality and calmness, but, beneath the brim of his cap, a single tear makes its way down his cheek.
"May God grant you peace, my Boswell."
His cigarette falls to the ground, Doctor Watson hears the crunch of leaves and turns, but when he looks upon the lamppost, it is empty. He shakes his head sadly and picks himself up, preparing to head back to the relative warmth and comfort of his home. But as he passes the lamppost, he can almost swear he smells the familiar pipe from Baker Street.
In the shadows, Sherlock Holmes smiles. One day, he will return to Baker Street. One day, he will greet his ever-loyal Watson with a rare, beaming smile and watch the expression on his face when he realizes that not all was as it seemed. One day, he will sit on his chair near the fire and play Watson's favorite songs on the violin, not because he loves the songs, but because he loves the friend. One day, he will return home.
But not today.