An: Ok standard apology, admittance that I'm not dead etc. Etc. A levels, National competitions and Tumblr seem to have taken over my life right now. I took thirty hours a week of assorted A level related courses.

Promise me you'll never do that to yourself (if you haven't already.)

Anyway, this chapter has no prompt but was inspired by several things:

I have to lay a wreath at Armistice parade on Sunday

I live at the back of an RAF base and an American-marked aeroplane is flying over my head as I type.

I was bored.

Have a good one and try not to shout at me about the long wait.

Lily

Today marks ninety four years since the end of the Great War.

Sixty seven since the end of the Second World War.

And I, John Hamish Watson MD, late of the fifth Northumberland Rifles, have been asked to lay a wreath on behalf of the veterans of the RAMC.

As I am currently only forty three, and the last guy who did it was pushing ninety and a Second World War veteran, I am not sure whether to be extremely honoured, or quite insulted. I think the first option, since not one in ten thousand servicemen and women will ever get a chance to lay the wreath at the cenotaph.

And, contrary to my - admittedly rather low - expectations, Sherlock is immensely proud. I have not the foggiest why to be perfectly honest, but proud he is and it warmed my heart to see him smile as he read my letter. It was him who made me do it, actually. I hadn't wanted to, the cold weather has made my leg stiff and on at least three occasions this week I have needed help to get out of bed. I didn't want to run the risk of falling over when saluting the queen. But Sherlock had decided that I should go, and Sherlock always gets what he wants.

The same look of pride and admiration was on his face at eleven o'clock today as we stood, I in line with the other veterans, he three rows back in the crowd, under the bright blue sky and paid our respects. I may not get affection from him very often but when I do, oh boy. They are some of the best memories I hold in my heart.

The ceremony itself was beautiful, moving and profound. And short. However hard I may try to show my deep respect for those that gave their lives, if the vicar is boring or the service is long I am constantly on edge in case Sherlock decides to 'entertain' himself and I am forced to stop it all kicking off.

Anyway, it was beautiful and Sherlock was quiet and attentive all the way through (I did get my miracle, you see). We observed the two minute silence and at quarter past eleven, Sherlock squeezed my hand and slipped out of st Paul's to join the crowds thronging the streets outside while I marched to Whitehall with my fellow veterans.

I laid my wreath and saluted various dignitaries without major mishap, except that the BBC coverage of the ceremony went fuzzy for ten minutes, because one of their cameras bust. All fine and good because it was nothing to do with me.

Anyway, that's not important because it's not the most interesting thing that happened today.

It's a funny day remembrance day. It affects people in a way you don't see normally. I suppose it's because people start to remember and then they start to think about things, during my tours in Afghanistan, and even when I was on the base, more than one young man, often a newly passed out soldier, has been sat weeping in my office because of bad memories that have surfaced on Armistice Day.

Now, as you may have noticed, my dear Sherlock is not a normal man. Not even close. But it seems even he is affected by the solemnity and overall respect of the occasion.

Shortly after the ceremony ended, he took me by the hand and led me away from Whitehall. With so many people thronging the streets and cluttering the pavements it was going to be hard to get a cab. We ended up walking really quite a long way before we found one.

When we were safely inside, I hastily undid the strap of my cap and tore my gloves off.

'Bloody hell, I'm glad that's over!'

Sherlock smiled distantly 'You did fine John. Hardly anyone will have been able to tell that your leg was bothering you again.'

I blushed slightly. I had thought I'd gotten good enough at hiding it from him. 'Why were you so eager for me to do this Sherlock? If I may ask of course.'

'You may. It is... an honourable thing to do.'

I huffed 'Do you think I don't pay attention to you Sherlock? There's more, I know there is.'

He gave me a pained look 'Really John, I know you try desperately hard but there really is no point. I am not willing to impart the information to you; therefore it will not be imparted. Don't even try to change my mind.'

I gritted my teeth, suddenly annoyed. Today brought peace to the world nearly a hundred years ago. It seems even that can't bring peace to my relationship 'Fine Sherlock, fine. If you don't want to talk about it, we won't talk about it, but as you know my every emotion before I do, I simply thought you might like to give me a level footing this once.'

He nodded curtly, a faint snort of annoyance leaving his throat. The rest of the ride home was spent in silence. As was the trip up the stairs into the flat. But, as I turned to the bedroom so I could go and get changed, he caught my wrist and held me in place.

Now, the trick when Sherlock is going to tell you something is not to push him. He will tell you of his own accord or not at all. So when he chooses to get my attention, I will sit or stand where I am and stay silent so he can tell me what he wants in his own time.

This time however he pushed me gently into my chair and turned to face the window. He took a deep breath and said 'You're right you know. There is something more.' I nearly fell over in pure shock, the next sentence however broke my heart. 'My father was killed in action. When I was seven. The Falklands conflict.'

I was genuinely puzzled 'But Sherlock, I've met your dad, he was...'

A soft laugh came from the window 'You met our stepfather. My mother married again after my father died. She needed someone around to justify why she never spent any time with Mycroft or I.' He made a bitter face 'He was barely cold in his grave. He was in the navy, in command of the HMS Sheffield, he went away and made Mycroft promise to look after me until he got back. Of course, he never came back. I think that's why Mycroft is still taking care of me. Waiting for Daddy to come home. Our father was the only one who ever cared about us, and I barely knew him when he died. We were left with nobody.'

I think the cool, carefully neutral tone broke my heart even more than the bitter words. 'Oh Sherlock...'

I wrapped my arms around him from behind and kissed as high up his back as I could reach before turning him round and resting my head on his shoulder 'We'll be sad together today, okay? Piece of cake.'

We stayed there gently rocking and remember people who we'd lost until the sun went down.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning.

We will remember them.

Lily