Sorry for the brevity, I'm doing NaNoWriMo so that's taking up a lot of writing time.
Remembrance Day
People gathered solemnly around and communicated in hushed tones. He hid in the crowd as men stood, stony faced, and women sobbed for those they had lost. Soldiers marched past in their best uniforms, the ones they saved for showing off, for the public. The people at home wouldn't seem them in their work gear, the stuff they wore on active duty. They only saw the costumes.
He had watched the majority of the service indifferently, with the same emptiness inside of him. He was a hollow shell and had been that way for 2 years, 4 months and 25 days. Today was the day that this changed.
A man stepped out with a cane in one hand and wreath in the other. Hobbling along, he winced with every step he took. He placed the memories on the cenotaph and took his place back in line without turning his back to it. His faced gave nothing of his story away and to all the world he was simply one of the many. Sherlock Holmes felt something then; a strong compulsion to walk forward and back into that man's life, that one man who made him feel, and to tell him that he was missed and cared for.
He also felt something else, something he'd felt on that 'last day of his life'- certainty. The same certainty he'd felt when he jumped. He was so certain that he would return to John, so certain he'd get to explain himself to him. He wanted to explain himself. For the first time in a long time, longer than he could really recall, he felt like he should be impulsive.
However, as the bugle was played and the silence engulfed the crowd to commemorate the ending of the First World War, it was obvious from any position that many other wars were still being fought. And from Sherlock's position, one war in particular stood out; Watson's War.
AN: This was far more touching in my head, so sorry for that. I just thought I'd post it because we had a remembrance assembly at school and it was sad and then this came to mind on the way home. That's all.