Sherlock trudged through the mossy ground of the graveyard. He was uncharacteristically silent and following John through the early morning mist. At points, he'd thought he'd lost his flatmate in the gloom but always spotted him just a few paces in front. Sighing, he ran a long fingered hand through his inky raven curls and looked around with his silver eyes. John was standing, head bowed, by a giant stone cross. As soon as Sherlock was at his side, the ex solider laid a wreath of poppies at the foot of the monument. The medic straightened and traced the carved words in the stone.

'To the Brave Soldiers who Fought and Died During The First and Second World War.'

John's and Sherlock eyes of tawny brown and liquid silver flickered down to a name; both different. John's name read 'L.T David John Watson'. His grandfather. 'Captain Sherrinford Scott Holmes' had been Sherlock's great-great Uncle and the only Holmes ever to be killed in combat. John shivered as the horrors of Afghanistan flooded back, sharp and correct to the last detail. His leg ached and he ran a shaking hand through his fluffy blond hair. Sherlock slipped off his long black coat and wrapped it around his best friend's shoulders. They stood in silence, each lost in thought.

"Happy V.E Day, John."