Author's Note: Hi there! *waves* So, this is my first story in a while and I hope you like it. This is actually the first story I've rewritten more than once, so I guess that means theoretically it should be an improvement, but you can be the judge of that X) All comments are appreciated (good or bad) and reviewer shall be rewarded with giant cookies in the afterlife. I do not own 'Sherlock', I'm just borrowing it, I swear...
Since my boyhood, the cemetery had not changed a bit.
The smell of dank earth still filled the air. The chapel still stood tall, dominating the surrounding grassland. And if one cared to look further, they would still see the greenery that had long since been dug up and stoned over to supplement the overflow of human remains.
From a tender age, this cemetery had been something of a sanctuary to me. No one bothers you in a graveyard. The gravestones facilitated me too, far more than they ever could now. I enjoyed deduction of them. I liked to figure them out like a puzzle. Or a person. Graves aren't half as fun to deduce as people, but they don't get pissed off when you get it right. It's surprising how much you can learn from a grave. First there's the mind-numbingly obvious information, like name, age, sex, date of birth, date of death, etcetera… Then there's the less obvious stuff, like what relations they had ('so-and-so was a loving husband and father') and what economic background they were from (from the expense of the gravestone). By my mid-teens I could decipher the cause of death and who had had the most influence in the family of the deceased.
The stone pavement gave way to a dirt path and eventually no path at all; just gaps between the gravestones. The foliage is thicker her and the trees more prominent. Some of the older graves are totally overrun by moss and vine. One or two of them aren't even that old, which makes you wonder no one bothers to upkeep them. I'm at the back of the yard now. Most of the newer graves ended up here. They're plainer and more clean-cut than the previous ones.
I stump out my cigarette and make my way to a plaque of black granite. My track marks itch of guilt, but I leave them hidden beneath my sleeve. I reread the inscription on the plaque, one I've seen a thousand times:
Lilith 'Lily' M'Gillan
Doting mother. Loving friend. Devoted surgeon.
I drop to my haunches, clutching a rose bouquet. Some of the petals are already wilting. Yellow turning to crispy gold. I place them to the grave with a sigh. Half hoping that next time I will have something more to give.
The cemetery received me in silent joy.