-11 November-

The streets were crowded and there was a higher ratio of police officers to civilian compared to normal due to the occasion. People wore Help For Heroes shirts and jumpers or some ex-soldiers had even pulled on their old gear. Sherlock pushed forward, eager to get closer to the Cenotaph.

He was surprised when he managed to find an empty spot right at the railing that separated the crowd from the organised military personnel. Sherlock tapped his foot impatient for the service to start.

He glanced to the left, only to see John Watson standing a couple of meters further down the railing. Immediately and without thought, he rushed over to his friend just in time for the service to begin. He pushed his way in beside him just as John and all the military personnel saluted. The Doctor was in his full uniform from Afghanistan. Sherlock was shocked but knew he shouldn't be.

The service started and the Consulting Detective focused on what was happening in front of the Cenotaph.

The last notes of the music stopped, there was a few moments of reflective silence before people began to disburse out. John stayed stock still, eyes glued to the wreath of poppies. A tear had left a glimmering trail in the stark light of the cold day. Sherlock panicked, unsure that he'd be able to live up to social convention.

He bent slightly to be at eye level with the short man, "Are you okay?"

John breathed, everything wound up within him realised slowly. He peered up at his friend, actually pleased to see him.

"Yeah, I think I-" His face crumbled as he fought to stop himself sobbing.

Sherlock, despite the awkward person he is, leant forward and pulled John close to him. He felt John wrap his arms around the detective proving it wasn't the wrong move. The doctor was crying against his shoulder but he found that he didn't mind. It was just glad to be soothing the man.

When people stared at a man sobbing into another man's arms, Sherlock shot them a murderous look that'd he'd perfected over the years. They stayed stationary for quite some time so the crowds had disbursed by the time John was finally ready to make a move from the cenotaph.

They walked in silence, both naturally gravitating closer together, as they made their way instinctively in the direction of John's flat. Their footsteps fell in time and made a rhythmic beat against the cement. John's eyes were glued to his feet while Sherlock glanced around pretending not to be completely absorbed in John.

They were nearly the whole way to the flat when John spoke out of the blue, "I'm sorry I was such a mess back there..." He kept his eyes down.

Sherlock shrugged, hoping to keep the attention off John, "It's to be expected. It's not uncommon for military personnel to find days like this particularly challenging due to all they've experienced and-"

"It's not just that..." John stopped and peered up at the detective. He steeled his nerves and admitted what he'd hidden from the man for months, "I lost someone, Sherlock. He was so close to coming home, only a few weeks." Tears formed in his grey eyes, "He got shot and they tried to help him but it wasn't much use. He died with the medic on the way back to base."

"What was his name?" Sherlock asked even though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. He took a couple of steps forward to encourage the ex-army Doctor to keep moving.

John looked surprised that he'd asked, "Richard."

"And he's Hamish's father?"

John nodded and a great sadness pulled at him. It weighed him down like sandbags, "It was only a year after I was sent home that we decided to have Hamish and I'm so grateful we did. I don't know what I would have done last year if I didn't have that monkey to keep me occupied."

For a moment Sherlock remained silent, thinking. John gave Hamish a life but Hamish also gave his father life.