"What's wrong with Astrid?" Sherlock asked at breakfast that morning. "Why isn't she going to school?"
John gave him a look, almost shocked but a little too jaded for that, with just a little disappointment. "You aren't serious."
"Of course I am. Why would I ask a question if I weren't serious? She's been in good health, she hasn't got a fever, she didn't oversleep implying that her body does not need extra rest, her appetite is within the norm…Why is she not attending school today?"
John shook his head. "Sherlock, it's been one month since her mother died."
Sherlock's forehead creased in thought. "But yesterday was one month minus a day, and she was behaving normally. She attended school, seemed unchanged. I know there is some sort of general custom surrounding anniversaries of things like this, but I'd hoped she'd be a bit more logical."
John sighed- this was going to be harder than he expected. Of course Sherlock wouldn't understand this concept. It was illogical.
"Let me handle this one, John." At the look she received from both men, Astrid added, "Not eavesdropping, you two just talk quite loudly."
John sat back in his chair, ready to hear her explain to Sherlock exactly why humans grieved more on certain days.
"I understand that there's just no logic to it. I get that; I might even feel the same way about some things." That surprised John. Apparently Astrid was more Sherlock-like in her emotions than he had expected. "But here's the thing: it's harder today because humans measure their lives in intervals. Months, years, decades. We celebrate anniversaries, birthdays, all of that on certain days. Those days, they're special to us. Today it's one month since my mum died- an arbitrary measurement. Thirty days. Said like that, today should just be another day. But it's a month, and said like that, it's a reminder of all the months she'll miss. She'll never see me turn 18; I won't have her to ask for advice about boys. She won't be at my wedding, won't help me choose my dress. She'll never see me graduate from uni. There's a million things I'll never know because I never asked, and now I don't have the chance. I'll never be able to ask her what I was like as a child; she won't be there to call if my baby is acting weird and I need to know whether it's normal or not. A month out from the crash is just another reminder of all the time I'll never have with her and all the memories we'll never make, all the plans we had that we'll never fulfill. Thirty days might just be, for you, thirty days since a woman you'd not seen since university died. Just like any other person that died thirty days ago. It doesn't matter to you. But my whole world changed that day, and a month is rather a long time when you've lost every second of it that could have been spent with the person you love." With that, Astrid fell silent, seeming emotionally drained from the effort of explaining her inner turmoil to a self-confessed sociopath.
The silence seemed to stretch for an eternity; for hours, even. If anyone had looked at a clock, they'd have known it lasted three minutes and 42 seconds. Then, slowly, Sherlock stretched out a hand a placed it over Astrid's, which had been resting on the table. John started to smile. Maybe Sherlock understood more than he let on.