Summary: A conversation in a graveyard. Comment!fic written for capt_spork.
Unseen in the high cedars, the crows were a squabbling backdrop of sound that drifted over the crumbling stone memorials. Lestrade walked slowly between the ranks of the dead, gravel path crunching beneath his shoes. It felt unseemly to hurry, and he suppressed the flicker of emotion that crept through him as soon as he caught sight of Sherlock's lonely figure at the end of a row. He'd never admit this, to anyone - least of all the man himself - but whenever he was in Sherlock's company it always seemed that the rest of the world became a little more faded in comparison.
Sherlock was sitting on an old slate box tomb, knees drawn up under his chin, coat flared out over the side. He looked up as Lestrade approached, and gave a brief quirk of the lips.
Lestrade cleared his throat, thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. It was cold, autumn advancing daily now in falling golden leaves and sudden squalls of rain. For the moment it was bright though, the low sun throwing shadows between the gravestones that seemed all the darker for it.
"Isn't that a bit - sacrilegious?" he asked after a brief pause, needing to fill the silence. Nodding at Sherlock's chosen seat.
"If the occupant objects, I'll get off," Sherlock replied, fixing him with an amused but piercing gaze.
Lestrade shrugged. "Why did we have to meet in a cemetery anyway? Every time I think you can't get any more peculiar..."
"I like it here." Sherlock's tone was unusually soft. "It's peaceful. Nobody comes here. No-one famous is buried here, it's not used for burials any more. It's full of the forgotten. All once as warm and quick as you or I, all convinced of their own immortality. All fleeting, in the end. Nothing lasts, Lestrade."
"Well thank you, Mr. Depressing." Lestrade kicked a loose stone from the path into the grass, and stretched his shoulders. "Not much danger of you being forgotten anyway. They'll be banging on about you long after you're pushing up daisies."
"You think I'll be famous?" Sherlock put his head on one side curiously, and Lestrade pursed his lips.
"I was thinking more infamous..."
Sherlock snorted, and jumped down from the tomb, started striding away up the path. "Come on then!" he called back over his shoulder impatiently.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade rolled his eyes and started walking after the rapidly disappearing figure. "Where are we going?" he yelled.
"Infamy awaits!" came the reply. "And a corpse in Limehouse that's getting cold while you're wasting time contemplating mortality."
Lestrade shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. Hastened after Sherlock despite himself.