Author's note: Quite frankly, I had an idea at the end of my last fic – Lestrade leaving his ID at Sherlock's grave – and was angry that I had never written a Post-Reichenbach story about it. And there can never be enough of them, so I did.
Enjoy!
No one ever knew who had set the first piece, who had started "the shrine", as the media called it, but the friends of Sherlock Holmes. This proved not only that everyone was an idiot, as Sherlock had been fond of saying, since it could be easily deduced which item had to have been lying on his grave the longest, but also that those who had cared about the consulting detective knew to keep silent.
They never talked about it amongst themselves, either.
It had been an impulsive decision really, taken in the spur of a moment when Greg had all but stormed out of another meeting with the Chief Superintendent and had only realized where he was going when he had parked his car near the cemetery.
He hadn't been at his grave since the funeral three months ago, and the flowers had wilted and been taken away, and it was November, and the grass hadn't had a chance to grow yet, and it was just so empty.
Sherlock deserved better than a black headstone in front of a patch of dirt.
He could feel his ID heavy in his pocket. When Sherlock had been alive, he hadn't had to carry it. He had stolen it so often that eventually, he didn't bother to check if it was there, simply introduced himself and hoped that the witness would accept his attempt to question them.
Now it was always there, and he could always feel it, loaded with the guilt he'd brought upon himself when he had allowed Sherlock out of his sight. If he'd been in a cell he couldn't have jumped. He couldn't have destroyed this brilliant mind.
He couldn't take it any longer, could no longer wear the ID he had once been so proud of.
He left it on his grave.
He made do without, like he had before, and felt better for it. It was a strange method of coping, but it worked.
And he returned to the grave. John wasn't answering his calls, and when he had gone to the doctor's new flat, no one had opened even though he'd known someone was there.
The grass had still not grown, but the grave was no longer empty.
Next to his ID lay a pair of glasses.
He knelt down and studied them. They were just an ordinary pair of glasses. They must have been left by one of Sherlock's friends. But Mrs. Hudson never really used hers. And it would feel wrong to leave something unimportant here. Something that would have meant nothing to Sherlock.
Suddenly, he saw before him a round smiling face and knew.
Mike Stamford. This was exactly the type of glasses he wore. They looked worn, the paint of the frame chipped of at places, one of the glasses slightly scratched.
The pair he wore when he first met Sherlock.
Greg smiled and left.
He felt better without being able to say why.
The next time he visited, two weeks after that, there was not only a small teacup sitting next to the glasses, but someone had erected a small tent over the items, just big enough that Sherlock's name was still readable above it.
He didn't even have to think about it. Mrs. Hudson. There was no one else it could have been.
He visited her the next day. They didn't talk about it. They spoke about Sherlock, shared memories of him, but they never touched his death or his grave.
They knew and it was enough.
New items continued to show up. He visited the grave often enough to know the precise order, and he couldn't say anymore whether he came to check for Sherlock or for himself.
A test tube. He wouldn't have expected anything different from Molly.
A picture of a man in his forties and a boy on a moor. Henry Knight must have been in town.
He first thought this was it – Sherlock didn't have many friends, and all (except John, but he wouldn't, couldn't think of the doctor who had simply fallen silent and showed no interest to communicate with any of them), as far as he could tell, had left something on his grave.
But still every time he went to the cemetery, there was something new.
A spray can, empty and battered.
A breitling watch, casually left as if it wasn't worth anything. Greg was sure he would have to save up for months before he could afford one.
A fifty pound note, folded away behind the tea cup, as if whoever left it didn't want people to see.
A pen with the initials "AD" carved on it.
A small teddy bear.
And that was only the beginning.
One young reporter had apparently been sent to write a follow-up story and had visited the cemetery to find that he could very well make news of Sherlock's Holmes' grave.
Greg watched the news that evening and was surprised to see Sherlock's headstone. He could just make out his badge under all the other things that had slowly amassed over the last six months, and for the first time since he had heard of his death, he felt something like peace.
John called him the next day. He wanted to meet him for a pint, and Greg hastened to accept his invitation.
John said nothing about the news story. He said nothing about the grave that was no longer empty.
But they were both aware of the real reason that John had called for the first time in nine months.
After the report, more articles were published, and soon more people left their possessions on the grave.
At first, Greg had feared that some might use it to make fun of Sherlock or spread the lie that he had invented all the crimes; but instead, all the strangers who suddenly visited a grave of a man they had never known proclaimed their belief in him.
Small scraps of papers with the words "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" filled up the tent Mrs. Hudson had erected and spilled over the grave, until one day Greg came to find a display case next to the headstone, containing everything that had been left as a token of remembrance.
Mycroft Holmes had always cared more for his brother than he allowed himself to show.
The case was open, as a small sign pointed out. And people still left more; more signs, more cards, more books.
Eventually, someone sprayed "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" on the base of the display case and Greg looked at the old spray can and smiled.
No one ever removed it.
Sherlock Holmes was never forgotten. Over time, the flow of new items trickled down, but it never really stopped. Still someone would occasionally remember. And it was enough.
Exactly one year after Sherlock's death, Greg entered the cemetery already suspecting that something new had been brought to the grave.
He hadn't expected a cane leaning against the case, or John standing in front of the grave, his head bowed.
He came to stand beside him and they grieved together until it was time to leave.
They never said anything.
But they all knew.