The trees rustled in the wind as the sky was slowly transforming from a brilliant blue into a million shades of pink and orange. A man dressed almost entirely in black, apart from a dark blue scarf, was leaning against a tall, common ash tree in a graveyard. He was tall and slim, and had a mysterious aura about him. His most prominent features were his high cheekbones (accentuated by the collar of his coat, which was grazing his jawline) and his eyes which seemed to be constantly changing colour from silver to blue, and even light green. The man held both hands, palms in, up to his lips, with his eyes closed as his shaggy, wavy hair blew softly with the cool breeze. His thick eyebrows were furrowed, but aside from that, not a trace of emotion was on the man's face.
Only one other individual was occupying the lawn cemetery. Within earshot, a shorter, stouter man who wore a tan, cable-knit jumper was standing solemnly in front of a black headstone. He had short, sandy hair and his eyes were a dark blue-grey. If one were to judge by the bags which were quite prominent underneath his eyes and the way he carried himself with his cane, he hadn't been getting much sleep. His head was down, making him look a bit like a wilting flower that needed water. He had been standing in that spot for an hour or so, mumbling about nothing out of the ordinary to this headstone. He spoke about his day, about people he knew, even a bit about the weather. Occasionally he'd reach up to wipe a tear off of his face, and sometimes, his voice gave out for a while and he just stood and stared at the grave in front of him.
What this man did not know, was that the person whose grave he was speaking to heard and would remember his every word. A passer-by might think it was a fairly normal scene until they realized the name on the tombstone in comparison to the name of the dark figure leaning against a tree made this scenario entirely unique. In both cases, the name involved was Sherlock Holmes. Dr. John H. Watson, the man across the graveyard, appeared oblivious that he was talking to the empty grave of a man who was standing not even ten meters behind him.
But Sherlock couldn't come out for a happy reunion. No, his visits to his friend—his only friend in the world—had to be stealthy and few. Actually, no one knew he had been visiting John at all, not even John.
After the heart-breaking realization that his best friend had died—committed suicide, no less—John sunk low. Lower than low. He was in a very dark place, and everyone around him knew it, though he tried to pretend he was fine. John would never forget the look on Mrs Hudson's face when she found him talking to no one as if he were talking to Sherlock. As if he was there. It was a face of pity, and most of all, one of realization that a friend had experienced something so traumatic that they had literally lost their grasp on reality. Before, John had reality in a death-lock with his feet planted firmly on the ground. Now, he wasn't sure what to believe—rather, he didn't know what he was physically capable of believing anymore.
John was diagnosed with Posttraumatic Stress Disorder after he finally agreed to see someone. Hallucinating was not uncommon, and John was kept up at night due to reliving the event in his dreams. He'd tried to drink once, to maybe numb himself, but all it did was make matters worse. All he could see was Sherlock lying on the pavement and the pool of blood that rested under his head. He could taste the helplessness he felt when he took his pulse on that day, and he could never shake the feeling of Sherlock's cold hand and wrist which refused to give John any sort of pulse. The feeling never went away, and John was beginning to doubt that it ever would. As much as he hated to admit it, John knew that Sherlock was gone. The only thing that John felt fully aware of, was that Sherlock Holmes was a genius, and he would never believe Sherlock lived a lie. Too often he saw those flecks of emotion behind his eyes, those subtle, but tell-tale signs that Sherlock was genuine—even if he wouldn't admit it. John never did figure out why he jumped, mostly because dwelling on the topic for anytime longer than necessary usually wasn't a good idea. Visiting his grave was something he couldn't help (he often found himself standing in front of it when he had originally intended to leave the flat and return with groceries), but aside from his visits, he dwelled on Sherlock's death as little as he could. His therapist said things would get better, but John knew she was lying.
"Death never gets better, you know," John said softly to the grave. "You just learn to put it out of your mind so you can concentrate. Once you're reminded again, and remember the person you… you lost… it gets just as hard as it was before…. If not more so." John sighed.
"Everyone knows that," Sherlock thought, as if John could hear him. "They just don't like to admit that they're fragile just like everyone else. They like to pretend they're stronger than most people, if only for the sake of their friends, which is usually a wasted effort because they can tell it hurts them as much as anyone else on the planet."
John turned toward the setting sun and looked back at the grave. Flecks of pink and orange from the sky were reflected in its surface and dark trees outlined the sky over the name "Sherlock Holmes." For a moment, John thought he saw a dark figure in the reflection standing near a tree, but when he turned around, he was alone in the graveyard. It's just the lighting. John reasoned. Sherlock had a slim figure. He even looked like a tree when you looked at him straight on sometimes. Anyone would make the same mistake. John stepped forward and placed his hand lightly on the edge of the headstone.
"It's nearly been three years, Sherlock," he choked. "When are you—" John stopped, leaning against the grave. He buried his face in his arm and clenched his fists.
"Who am I kidding? You're not-…" After a while, he limped away on his cane, never completing his sentence.
The graveyard grew darker as John got further and further away. Sherlock stood up (he had been hiding behind a tree due to the scare he gave John) and brushed himself off, slowly and quietly. The sun was almost completely gone now, and streetlights started flickering on up and down the alleyways and sidewalks. Sherlock approached the spot where John once stood. It was surreal to see his own gravestone, and once or twice he had to remind himself that he still lived. Mycroft had done a good job with it. It was very convincing. Sickeningly so.
All at once, he knelt on the ground in front of his grave. A red corner of what looked like an envelope was poking out from a patch of grass that stuck out wildly in all directions. He looked around to find the rest of the graveyard empty, and then picked up the envelope. It was unlabelled, but was sealed with a wax seal, imprinted with a rose. The red envelope indicated that the sender wanted it to be noticed. Bond paper-type (made from mostly rag pulp, it appeared) envelope; indicating it was probably packaged by a business or a person with access to the paper used in their business. They felt no need to label the name of who was to receive it, meaning the recipient was obvious or, more likely, that they knew only one person would have had access to it. Red, traditional sealing wax (probably homemade with vermillion, shellac and Venice turpentine, maybe with a bit of beeswax, but it wasn't likely, as beeswax is usually only used in black sealing wax), not used for security, but for ceremony, as most use it for in modern times. It was probably stamped by somebody right-handed since the stamp was uneven with the wax, leaning toward the right (which also indicated a possible hurry). The sender was most likely a woman, judging by the rose emblem (unless it was a family crest or something similar) and also by the slightly light touch used to stamp the sealing wax, indicating the care put into the appearance of the letter.
To the man previously known as Mr Sherlock Holmes,
Meet me at The Pool at 21:00 today, April the twenty-ninth. The code to get past the guard has been included to heat things up a bit. Be prompt.
It said nothing else, and had no stipulation or contract. It didn't need to, and the sender knew it. If anyone knew who he was as of now, it was of utmost importance that he took a look. But… who could know? Mycroft was covering it up quite well. Then again, Mycroft could be fooled; he had been before.