The weather was cold and damp, and the wind cut through your clothes not so much like a sharp knife as like a battle axe. John kept his hands in his pockets while Sherlock kneeled on top of a grave, tracing his fingers along the cold stone. John didn't know what he was searching for, but he assumed it had something to do with the frequency of visitors to this gravesite. He wished they would leave. Not only was it bitter cold, but there was something about Sherlock kneeling on top of a grave that felt so very wrong. Plus, he'd spent entirely too much time associating Sherlock with tombstones and simply didn't want to do it anymore.

"Did you find whatever it is you're looking for? Can we go?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes. It was his wife. Definitely."

"Good. I mean, not good. But, let's go, okay?"

"John, one would think you're afraid of ghosts."

"No, it's just, it's a bit disrespectful. Standing on top of someone's body."

"Mmmm. I don't think he minds. Especially in the service of justice, for his own death."

Sherlock moved to the side, though, and continued to examine the stone.

"Haven't seen ye round these parts before! Did ye know Michael McNally?"

John turned abruptly and stared at the priest, scrambling for words. Sherlock spoke.

"I was told we might be related. Website suggested some ancestors of mine might be buried in this cemetery. Looking for birth and death dates, to do some further research." John tried not to look surprised. Sherlock's voice sounded infinitely more...accessible. He wondered who he was going to have to be. He didn't mind this, it was kind if fun, actually, but thinking on his feet was not his forte. Sherlock continued. "Never expected to be in Ireland, but since we're here for a medical conference, which, coincidently, put me within an hour of this village, I thought I'd drop by. William Vernet. Pleased to meet you, Father." Sherlock smiled amiably (John recognised it as Amiable Smile Number Three) and shook hands with the elderly man. "I never knew this part of my family. Was told they scattered after the Revolution. Ended up in England, Ireland, Scotland...seems there are some people I won't have the chance to get to know. He died young! Does he has any living relatives? Maybe I won't be too late to meet them." He looked hopeful. "Did they attend services here? His family?"

"No. Been far too long since Michael stepped into a church, I dare say. Saw quite a bit of his dad, though. Sometimes saw the wife and kids, too. Less and less over time."

"Shame."

"'Tis. Come in. I'll get you some tea. Weather's brutal today."

"Do you mind, John?"

John relaxed a bit, hearing his name. He was to be Dr. John Watson, medical conference attendee. That's good. That works.

"No. I could stand a good warming up."

"Well then, do come in, both of ye."

Sherlock followed the priest into the church. He looked around, awkwardly.

"Been far too long for ye as well, I see. When was your last confession?"

"Far too long."

"I'll put the kettle on. You two might want to make use of those booths over there. Warm the body and the soul. Wouldn't want that soul to get too warm, now, though, eh?" He winked. "Father Brian is in there right now."

The priest disappeared, and Sherlock spoke rapidly and quietly. "One of us needs to be coming out of there when he gets back. It is imperative he sees it. Go in there and confess something."

"What?"

"You heard me. Make something up. I don't care. Just do it."

John glared, but still found himself walking into the booth.

After a short while, he walked back out again. It was Sherlock's turn to glare. The priest had not returned with the tea. Clearly he was giving them both time to make a confession. Sherlock sighed and entered the booth.

John sat in the pew and waited. Sherlock was taking longer than he had expected. The priest came over with tea, handed one to John, then glanced towards the booth. "I'll wait a bit for your friend," he said, then ducked into another room. Shortly after that, John thought he heard Sherlock's voice, still muffled within the confines of the booth, but clearly agitated.

Oh God. Sherlock was arguing with a priest.