Author's Note: Many apologies for having this story out a day late x.x And thank you for reviewing/favoriting/subscribing to my drabble if you have :) *gives out virtual cookies*
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
The doctor's leg smarted with every step while he treaded through the snowy path leading to the bench.
"Marvelous day we're having, isn't it," he said, sitting down and admiring the expanse of the park.
A wisp of frosty air bit at his skin.
"You're right. Too cold."
He placed his walking stick on the bench and dusted the snow off of his coat.
"Mary sends her regards, as always."
Another blast of air rattles the trees, along with the flowers grasped in Watson's hand.
The doctor sighed, and rises from his bench.
"You would have called me sentimental for doing this, but," Watson laid the flowers next to the headstone.
"Happy Birthday, Holmes."
