Sunlit Roses. A Sherlock fan fiction by CowMow.
Beta-read by MrsCumberbatch.
Sherlock scoffs silently at the blue sky. It should be raining, thundering, snowing, anything but this ridiculously beautiful weather. The happy sun shines too brightly, pouring her caressing warmth over the graveled paths, over the few flowers Sherlock can see. Stupid sun.
She didn't even like sun. She preferred the coolness of the rain, the purification of thunder, the blue-y intensity of snow. Anything but heat. She couldn't bear heat well.
His black dress shoes dig deep into the thick layer of gravel as he strides toward the gate which he opens in a fluid motion, creating an earsplitting screech.
It is too hot to wear his long black coat, but he doesn't consider taking it off for a second. She always liked this coat on him; it was her gift for his 30th birthday after all. Sherlock had argued it was too expensive and really unnecessary because he already had a coat, and a good one at that, but she had just squeezed his shoulder. "You deserve it, Sherlock. You need a good coat, a warm coat, with all that running around on rooftops in any kind of weather. I don't want you to fall ill. Besides, it looks very well on you, handsome man!"
And now, roughly seven years later, Sherlock had to admit the coat certainly did the protecting job well, his mother would have been proud. It had even become his trademark now, John had often remarked with a grin.
He scowls as the cool wrought iron of the small fence leaves his left hand. He quickly rubs his hand down his woolly coat to get rid of the burning feeling left in his hand palm while he continues to walk down the white-graveled path.
Why did they choose white gravel? Dull grey or solemn black would have been much, much better. The reflected sunlight hurts his eyes and his head, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, hopelessly trying to stop it from burning the images in his mind.
How long since he had been here? Two years, it can't have been more than two years ago. He sighs and resists the urge to wipe the sweat beads from his brow. His curls, too long since they had seen scissors, stick to his temples and neck, causing unwanted friction with the turned-up collar of his beloved coat.
His shoulder itches. The wounds he had received there are still healing. It was his left shoulder, thank goodness. He can still write and do everything he needs and wants to.
The sun continues pouring her warm smiles over the solitary man between the cold stones and panting trees.
She always got out of the house when it had rained, dancing in the wet grass, preferably barefoot, twirling with him or Mycroft, sometimes both, in her strong arms. He smiles despite himself. He would join sometimes too, when he was in a good mood. The more Sherlock could remember, the angrier he became, the less he danced with her. The less he wanted to remember.
He stops stock-still, the pathetic bouquet of red roses hang limply down from his tight grip. She didn't even like roses, but it seemed the right thing to bring something anyway. John would be pleased to know he didn't forget to do this. Red roses stood for love, the woman in the store told him. Of course he knew that, he wasn't dim, he just wonders if it was the right bouquet to buy.
No, she never liked roses. "Never a rose without thorns," she always said, "and one should always try avoiding thorns."
Cruel fate allowed her to marry to a man who had all the nastiest of thorns but missed the sweetness of the velvety flower. Crude sense of humour, fate has.
His dulled, distant eyes glide over the headstone, and his tongue moisturises his lips when he reads what is engraved in the red marble.
He shouldn't have brought the roses. She despised roses, especially in the end. The unnaturally sweet smell that always enveloped their white-painted veranda often made her feel sick. Sherlock contemplates throwing them away, but then he has nothing to place on the grave. He looks down and his lips twitch into a vague smile when his eyes meet a small plant. A cactus. How Mycroft loved to be dramatic.
To Be Continued