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John’s hair has gone completely grey. He dislikes admitting that even after a good night’s sleep, stiffness in his knees and hips takes longer to ease each morning.
Last night was not one of those nights. Sleep eluded him as thoroughly as warmth eludes a Scottish winter morning; he surrendered at three in the morning. By seven, he was ready to leave.
He takes the train to London dressed in black, mouth set straight, fists clenching and unclenching. It is an old habit. He is an old man. Neither will change now.
He walks from the station to the cemetery. The day is fair, though he would prefer rain. Humidity troubles his shoulder, and he holds himself rigidly, but at least he no longer limps. He has not limped since that first night at Angelo’s.
John stops before his best friend’s grave, the man he loved from the moment he chose to pull a trigger for him. His fingertips trace the carved name.
“You sacrificed so much for me,” he says. “I’ll never forget it.”
“I know,” Sherlock answers, embracing him from behind. “I’d do it again.”
John covers Sherlock’s hands with both of his own. They remain there in silence while the pale sun slowly rises, their wedding bands glinting together above the grave where John had once mourned him.