Oh look, more angst.
The marble of the stone is cool and smooth against John's cheek; a sharp contrast to the hot, tight tracks of his tears. He jerks a little as he feels a solid hand on his shoulder. He didn't hear anyone come up behind him – Mycroft then, only a Holmes could sneak up on him like that.
"Not now, Mycroft. I just need to be alone today."
The elder Holmes, no, the only Holmes, John finds himself thinking, merely tightens his grip on John's shoulder.
Irritated, John wipes his face with the back of one hand and lifts himself gingerly from the ground, dusting the dirt from his knees. His joints crack and ache, and he finds himself realising how much he's aged these past few years.
He turns, ready to give Mycroft a piece of his mind, and comes face to face with the ghost who's haunted him every minute of every day. One million, five hundred and seventy-six thousand minutes, give or take. John takes a step back, his eyes roaming over that thatch of rich curls, those ethereal eyes, those damned cheekbones. He steps back, leaning against the grave for support. His knees feel like jelly.
Sherlock takes a step forward, closing the gap, and smiles. That rare, genuine, heart-breaking crooked little smile of his. "Hello, John. I'm back."