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Day of the Dead.
When one hears this string of words, they usually think about a post-Halloween celebration meant to placate the long-gone. This usually brings to mind images of people offering food and songs to people who aren't coming back (and, no, it isn't because of their efforts to keep the dead at bay). When you die, you die, that's it. If you're lucky, people will hold tightly to your memory, turn you into something lovely and bright, but still. When you're dead, you stay that way.
Right?
Day of the Dead is usually a (bizarrely) cheerful celebration, comprised of graveside picnics, beautifully decorated candy skulls, and colors (so many colors). It's sensory overload for an average person, let alone someone whose whole life is drawing in information. For him, it is too much, far too much, and he can barely breathe for all the colors. They're beautiful, even he must admit it, and he's been better fed in Mexico than anywhere in Europe. People, older women especially, are loath to let someone so frightfully skinny (I can count every bone in my torso, John. I'm sorry. You'll kill me if I die from this.) starve to death.
No one can starve to death during the Days for the Dead. Some steal from the altars (sacrilege) (sentiment) so they won't be faced with the mute horror of starvation. It's hardly necessary, though. Most days, people are perfectly willing to feed strangers, but on these days in particular, it is nearly impossible not to. It makes it easier, dealing with those drops of right and wrong, tempering a careless ocean. That is what keeps him from stealing food from the dead.
(I hope you're proud, John. You made me this, you made me care.)
He isn't sure how he feels about his plans coinciding with the grand holiday. On the one hand, it would be so much easier to force a bullet through two different skulls, slice right through the grey matter and watch them explode in crimson stars (so much like Moriarty. His death is everywhere. I ensured it). On the other, he is sorely tempted to simply enjoy the celebration, and the food, and the colors and music and people laughing and masks and skulls and so much, so much.
What better festival exists for a man like him than one that glorifies the dead?
He gives into his weariness and lets himself enjoy the constant ocean of information as it presses tightly against his skin and eyes and mouth and ears. Losing himself in the sensory world (keeping an eye on each and every face, tattoo, scar, and movement) is almost enough to make him feel alive again.
Almost.
The irony of it all is not lost on him. He tells Mycroft that he is enjoying today, Día de los Inocentes, Day of the Innocents. He isn't innocent any more, hasn't been for a long time.
The next day, he tells Mycroft that he's enjoying Día de los Meurtos, Day of the Dead. It's his day, after all. He's one of the dead. He can imagine John (oh, my poor friend. I am so sorry.) offering up dishes of tiramisu and Mrs Hudson's chocolate cherry biscuits, huge garlands and bouquets of marigolds, pillows, blankets, his coat and scarf. Ridiculous, really, how badly he misses those.
John would cry as he decorated his tombstone, and as he told stories over his grave.
Sherlock only hoped John told the good ones.