"You were wrong, you know," John murmured one day, leaning against the tomb stone. "You told me that you weren't a hero. In fact, you told me they didn't exist. But you lied. It was bothering me, what you said, and I finally figured out why."

He shifted, the cold granite digging into his back.

"You called me a war hero. That night in the cab. I don't know if you'd remember, since it was just sort of an offhanded comment, but for some reason it stuck with me."

John grinned, mostly to himself, but he hoped, somehow, Sherlock saw it too.

"You weren't wrong a lot, so it's kind of a big deal when you are, and I know you hate it when people point it out. But this is one occasion where I feel completely justified."

"And you were even more wrong, because look what you did, you stupid clot." John laughed. "You made yourself into a bloody hero, and I don't know if you can get any more wrong than that."

He brushed the dirt off himself as he stood up. He patted the tombstone affectionately.

"Which just goes to show, you weren't always right about everything."

He smiled as he walked away. But it was a sad smile.