Simon simply looked at you from a distance, not daring to interrupt you. It was funny, no matter how many years you had been his girlfriend already, you still felt off limits, simply because of your last name. MacTavish.

You looked beautiful in the snow, flakes caught in your hair, your footprints still fresh along the path you’d left from where you had been standing by his side to where you stayed crouched right now. He saw your lips move, but couldn't hear a thing, and it was like he was transported back to the first time he’d met you.

You cradled a red carnation in your hand, and the violet contrast with the pristine snow felt almost like a cruel joke; he had been ripped away from you too soon. You could feel Simon’s eyes on your back, remembering he still had to have his turn at talking to his best friend. You wondered if he’d still feel some sort of big brother jealousy, seeing you with him, years later.

“I’ve probably been talking too much,” you murmured, dusting a snowflake off the stone. “He’s been wanting to catch up with you, too.” You said, smiling bitterly at the engraved letters. John MacTavish. Gently, you placed the flower on the ground. Even though Simon and the boys had taken care of his ashes, you still wanted to have a place to visit him, every once in a while.

“We won’t be able to wish you tomorrow, because we’re catching a flight to Manchester this evening. You know Beth-” you chuckled. “Well, Simon can't possibly tell her no, and we’re going to meet our new nephew tomorrow!” You said with a smile, but it quickly died down. Sighing, you straightened back up, dusting yourself off. “You would love him, and I'm sure they’d love you.”

Casting one last glance at the gravestone, and the flower lying on the snow, you felt a traitorous tear roll down your cold cheek. “Merry Christmas, Johnny.”