Prompt 3: incorporate philosophy or religion

Title: Nahala ("Inheritance")

Universe: BBC Sherlock

Rating: PG

Summary: Sherlock pries into something that's puzzled him since he saw John at his grave.

A/N: at the end of the story so as to avoid spoilers.

John felt Sherlock's eyes boring into him as he cut into his prosciutto and melon but did his best to pay no attention. Sherlock was just having one of his moods again. It was amazing how quickly he remembered his flatmate's quirks and little behaviors, even after eighteen months of separation.

"Why did you bother to convert to Judaism if you don't keep kosher?"

John's utensils froze mid-cut. It was also amazing how he never could get used to those sudden, out-of-the-blue intrusions into his private life, no matter how often they came. Deliberately he finished slicing and bit into the sweet, juicy melon and salty ham. "Because I like pork and shellfish too much. What brought this on?"

"Why didn't you tell me you were Jewish?"

"Because I'm not practicing anymore. I repeat: what brought this on?"

"And I repeat: why bother to convert to Judaism in the first place if you weren't going to practice the tenants of the faith?"

"I already answered two of your questions. It's your turn."

"Are you really resorting to grade school games?" Sherlock sneered. "I know your family is wholly Anglican with you the only exception. I know you converted to Judaism during your first year at university. I know you stopped practicing your new faith two or three years after that although you still consider yourself Jewish and that you do keep a few traditions at sporadic moments, especially those of emotional turmoil."

For the second time, John paused. "Right. So, you know all that and you can't deduce the rest?"

"No."

"O-okay."

"I don't have enough data."

"Oh." John considered that and Sherlock sat patiently, or as patiently as he ever could sit. "I dunno. It appealed to me at the time – the traditions, the history, the fact that it drove my parents only marginally less mad than when Harry came out. Which, I realize, is never a good reason to change religion, of course."

"That's why you stayed with it only a few years." It wasn't a question so John didn't bother to confirm that Sherlock was right. "But," he continued, "it made enough of an impression that you didn't completely abandon it."

That wasn't a question either, although there was a question behind it. "It's comforting, in its own way. It's order in chaos."

Sherlock's eyebrows lowered. "You like chaos. You thrive on it."

"I like danger," John corrected. "Chaos I can do without." He hesitated and then tried one last time. "Why does this matter to you?"

"Because it matters to you."

John brandished another piece of melon and prosciutto on his fork. "Yes, that's why I haven't kept kosher in years."

Sherlock shook his head. "You left a rock on my headstone. And the right cuff of your jacket was torn. Deliberately. Rent clothing. That mattered to you."

"Wait." John frowned, ignoring the track of conversation Sherlock was trying to lead him down. "How do you know I did all that?"

"I was there. In the cemetery."

Of course he had been. And of course he'd seen everything. Oh. Oh, God. He'd seen everything. Heard everything too, no doubt. John felt fire ignite in his cheeks and he kept his gazed fixed on his plate. " 'm sorry."

"For what? Grieving? Don't be stupider than you must be, John. I'm glad I know about your beliefs."

John rolled his eyes but didn't look up. "And why, dare I ask, is that?"

"Because it's important to know how to do things." Sherlock turned a faint pink as John raised a skeptical eyebrow. "That is, if I had to mourn you. I would want to do it the way you preferred."

John's head shot up and he stared straight into serious blue eyes. "You think about ways to mourn my death?"

"You've had snipers aiming at your head on at least two occasions since you met me. You like danger. I don't want to have the occasion to mourn you, ever, but if I must, then I want to do it right. Should I sit shiva too? Is that something you did for me? What about shloshim?"

"I . . ." John blinked, dazed. "Umm. I don't . . . I mean. I haven't thought about it."

"Then think about it and tell me."

John stabbed a piece of melon with far more force than necessary. "I really don't want to think about it, Sherlock."

"Then how am I supposed to know if I'm doing it right?"

John's fork thunked dully as he flatted it against the table. "There is no right or wrong way to mourn, Sherlock. Mourning is personal. It's for the people left behind. Do what you want. But I really, really do not want to think about it. It's too s – it's bad timing for me. Ask me again in a couple decades. I might be ready then."

Sherlock sat back in his chair. "So you are saying we should hear only good tidings from each other? (1)"

It took John a moment to get it. Sherlock watched him closely, smiling minutely when realization bloomed across his face. John returned the smile. "Yes. That is exactly what I'm saying."

(1) "We should hear only good tidings from each other" is a wish given to mourning families in some Jewish communities during shiva.

A/N: This was inspired by a false memory. At the end of "Reichenbach," I thought John put a small stone on the top of the headstone. I couldn't bear to watch that scene again until today to verify that my memory was right (and yes, I cried. Again.) As it turns out . . . all John does is touch the stone. And the "rip" in his cuff was nothing but a shadow. Darn it anyway!