Sherlock Holmes was officially on the run.
With Mycroft's help, he had managed to secure a fake identity and passport. It wasn't enough to fool anyone that might be looking for him, such as a suspicious member of Moriarty's inner ring, but it was enough to get him on a plane out of the country. He landed in Boston, Massachusetts in the early hours of the morning. Then, with a very large to-go coffee in his hands, he rented a car with American money his brother had given him and drove west for two hours. He needed to get out of the city, and quickly. Once he found a decent place to stay, he could perfect his new identity and get on with his new life.
This was going to be harder than it looked.
"If only John could see me now," Sherlock muttered. "Alone again, running through a foreign country with a few dollars to my name. And it's not even my name. Not anymore. Not really."
He looked in the rearview mirror and examined his appearance. He would need a haircut at least. The curls and the cheekbones were too recognizable, even if he was in another country. As an internet sensation, he knew there was always a chance he would be recognized no matter where he went.
"Curse you, John," he said aloud, but couldn't help but smile sadly at the memory of his best friend. He knew he would be checking John's blog daily, looking for updates, keeping an eye on how the good doctor was doing.
Angrily, he wiped tears away from his eyes. He was Sherlock Holmes, the machine, as John had called him recently. He couldn't let his emotions cloud his thinking. He had work to do. Serious work. And he couldn't get that done if he was worried about John every minute of every day.
He remembered his last instructions to Molly before he had disappeared from Bart's disguised as a janitor with a limp. "Keep an eye on John for me, will you? This is going to be hard for him. If there's a problem, let Mycroft know. He'll know how to contact me." Molly had nodded solemnly, understanding how important it was to Sherlock that she do what he asked. With a firm handshake, Sherlock had turned to leave, only to turn right back around and say: "Oh, and maybe introduce him to a girl. I'm afraid I've ruined quite a few of his past relationships. He might have a decent shot now that I'm gone."
That had made Molly laugh. They both knew it was all too true. She promised to do everything he said, and he had felt a rush of relief sweep over him. John was in good, capable hands. Molly was clever, cleverer than anyone, including Moriarty, had realized. And to Sherlock, that was enough.
Mentally shaking himself to regain his focus, he glanced at the GPS resting on the car's dashboard. He was only forty-five minutes away from his destination. A small town of no consequence to anyone that he had found in a guide to rural New England.
Nothing ever happened there. No murders, no robberies. According to the guidebook, it had one of the lowest crime rates in the area. It sounded tedious and hateful, like the last place on earth the great Sherlock Holmes would ever want to settle.
Which is why he was going to do just that.