The Graveyard
He hadn't visited Sherlock's grave since the day Mrs. Hudson made him come with her to bring flowers. But today, the sun shining down and the sky devoid of clouds, he thought he could face it. Maybe sitting in a graveyard for a while would help him figure out his thoughts. He walked across the uneven ground, and sat down in the grass under the tree.
"I'm not convinced, you know," he said conversationally to the silent black headstone that adorned the grave of Sherlock Holmes. The supposed grave, that is. "I know you, and I know you're an idiotic prat that wouldn't give a second thought to faking your own death."
The headstone—predictably—said nothing.
John sighed, and leaned back on his hands, staring up through the leaves of the tree that hung over the grave. "I'd just… I'd just like to know for sure, you know?" A sparrow leaped from branch to branch above him, and he watched it flit about. It reminded him of Molly, and her fluttery, shy sweetness.
Molly.
John sat bolt upright, startling the bird into sudden flight. Of all people, Molly might be the only one who could tell him what he wanted to know. She worked in the hospital, she knew Sherlock and—more importantly—Sherlock trusted her.
Next stop: St. Barts.