But tonight, on this night, John leans back against the marker on Sherlock's grave and thinks of Sherlock's body underneath his body underneath the ground, and he feels it tug him down, like an anchor, like Sherlock's shoulder just touching his while they caught their breath or Sherlock reaching over to steal John's second piece of toast even though it had jam or Sherlock's toes resting on top of his bare feet in the living room at Baker Street while they drank brandy by firelight and were happy. For the first time in weeks, John lets himself settle into the extent of his body, perfectly at home inside his own bones, folded up, over Sherlock's bones, laid flat, under the earth beneath him.