It would have been Sherlock's birthday. John planned to have a quiet drink with friends to mark the date. He escorted Mrs Hudson to the local where they met up with Greg and Molly.
They sat at a corner booth, as far from curious eyes as possible. It hadn't been so long since the fall that they weren't all still a bit notorious, and four together, well, that was asking to be recognised. At least the bartender was still friendly.
"Aberlour 18 year for me," said John. Today was worth the splurge. The others ordered: "Sherry, please, dear." "Pint of bitter." "Black and tan."
The bartender returned with their orders and they raised their glasses in a silent toast.
"He'd have mocked us for this, you know," said Greg.
"But he'd've loved being the centre of attention," Mrs Hudson replied.
No one argued with either of them.
"What's that, Molly?" John asked, nodding at the little bunch of flowers she'd laid on the table.
"A posy. For Sherlock," she answered. "I know it seems awfully sentimental, but it's not. You see, some of the flowers are edible and some are poisonous. The trick is knowing which are which. I thought he'd like that."
John smiled. "You're right." It was just the sort of thing that would have amused Sherlock. "It's beautiful."