CHAPTER 1
"I wish you could have had a chance to know your mummy," John whispered to the infant in his arms.
He gazed remorsefully at the black slab that stood before him.
Mary Elizabeth Morstan Watson
December 12th, 1976 – January 3rd, 2015
Beloved wife, mother, and friend.
R.I.P.
How he wished the headstone weren't so bland. A simple black, marble headstone with an epitaph such as what he read blended in too easily with the other meaningless headstones that dotted the rest of the cemetery. One could simply walk on by without even glancing at it. It even had a secluded spot that no man could ever find without proper direction. If any man were looking that hard, which John, fortunately, had been.
John heard the baby in his arms start to cry, and he slowly rocked her back and forth, shushing her with all the tenderness that a father should possess.
"Shhhhh. It's all right, love. Daddy's here."
John kissed the few silken hairs that lay atop the child's head, feeling the warmth beneath his lips, heaving a sigh as he remembered feeling the exact opposite feeling when he last kissed his wife's forehead as she lay on a cold hospital bed, deceased.
John noticed the abrupt silence from the bundle in his arms, and smiled a watery smile as he saw that she had fallen asleep.
He faced the grave again, pressing his lips into a thin line as he read the epitaph once more.
Beloved wife, mother, and friend.
"Dull, isn't it?" a voice from behind him stated.
He closed his eyes tightly as he tried to block out the painful obviousness of the statement.
"I wish I could've come up with something a bit cleverer than what is written there, but I'm afraid my mind had all but imploded from the recent case I had been working on, therefore impeding my ability to request an accurate and touching epitaph to be engraved."
John took a deep breath.
"I just need a moment, Sherlock," the good doctor said in response to the inconveniently placed detective.
Sherlock strode up beside him.
"You could've."
John looked over at him, a grim expression on his face.
"Could've what?"
Sherlock returned the look.
"Chosen what was to be said on the headstone."
John looked away and shook his head, careful not to disturb the child resting peacefully in his arms.
"I couldn't. Not then. I just… I didn't want to."
"Why?" Sherlock asked with the utmost sincerity.
John chuckled half-heartedly.
"You really don't get it, do you?"
"I would like to. Do share."
John sighed.
"I didn't know what to say."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"Please elaborate."
John swallowed a lump in his throat.
"Do you remember your grave, Sherlock?" John asked.
Sherlock nodded.
"Of course. How could I forget it?"
"Do you remember what it said?"
Sherlock pondered for a moment.
"'Sherlock Holmes.'"
"Was there anything else?"
Sherlock slowly shook his head 'no'.
"Do you know why?" John continued.
Again, Sherlock shook his head, more hesitantly this time 'round.
"There was so much to say. Too much, in fact, that a summary, I thought, was insulting."
"Is that your reasoning for choosing not to be a part of Mary's headstone arrangement?" Sherlock asked, quietly.
John nodded.
"Ah."
The two stood in silence for a while, staring at the boring slab, one mourning the body buried beneath it, the other attempting to process the extremely foreign concept of sentimentality.
Sentiment. Boring.
According to John, sentiment was in fact not boring at all.
And Sherlock was willing to accept the fact.
Thunder boomed nearby, and John felt a plop of rain hit the tip of his nose.
"I suppose we ought to head home. I don't want Charlotte catching pneumonia," John said, sighing away the remnants of a restrained sob.
Sherlock quickly guided John out of the cemetery, his hand on the doctor's back, and with his free hand, hailed a cab. As he, John, and the baby settled in, the detective immediately ordered the cabbie:
"221B Baker Street."
John shot Sherlock a confused look.
"Sherlock-"
"I'm no expert in the field of comfort, but I do believe that spending a night alone in an empty house after heavily grieving is not the quintessence of consolation. You are obviously in need of company."
"I have Charlotte," John said, gesturing to the still-sleeping child.
Sherlock scoffed.
"I should hardly be expected to believe that a being with hardly-developed linguistic and ambulatory skills is company enough to relieve a grieving heart."
John straightened his shoulders a bit.
"That 'being' is my daughter, Sherlock!"
Sherlock waved his hand.
"But a being nonetheless."
John sighed an exasperated sigh as the cab drove off towards Baker Street.