He was so used to speed, noise, contact, the busy lives of the populace of London, that constant roar of buses, cars, trains, people living their lives, that noise that he always blocked out when he was thinking. That to be without, to pause, and to stop was making him feeling like he was going insane.

But it wasn't entirely gone, he was always thinking, he couldn't stop. It was just incredibly difficult to think of what to do now, what to think now? He could not stay in London, it was far too dangerous but where could he go? He had to go away from John because right now he couldn't stop himself watching John and that in itself was too dangerous.

So it had to stop, for John's safety and his sanity he had to go, he had to leave Molly's spare room and go somewhere. That was part of the plan, lay low till after the funeral, and then go away.

But where?

He could travel, he supposed, he could go abroad, travel abroad, become invisible and he could travel the world nobody would ever know. Except the borders were closed, Moriaty may be dead but his many contacts were not. Even in death Moriaty was still moving the chess pieces.

He would not beg "The Woman's" help either, she was all fire and crackle, like a the powder in a firework, far to noticeable and not the salve he needed to heal his wounds.

He had to disappear, for him to do that successfully shaking off any person would follow him, perhaps he himself would not even know where he was going.

Were these the thoughts of an insane man, plotting his disappearance from a city he loved, watching his best friend weep over his supposed grave?

But then again sane, normal, ordinary- how that word had haunted him since the rooftop of St Bart's- none of these words had been associated with Sherlock Holmes ever before.

Lost was always going to be a new one as well, he had lost his best friend, his flat, his community, his work, his entire life. He was lost from the society he had never quite fitted in but he was bereft and being lost from that entire he knew.

How could he answer a question when he didn't even know the answer himself, he looked at Molly whose eyes were filled with sadness and Sherlock imagined the familiarity in those eyes and imagined himself back in the morgue, when he was solving a case.

What he would not give to not be back there again, before he had lost everything, before the final problem and this so called solution.

Molly was staring at his one rucksack, all that he was taking with him, he had tried to smile, to reassure her, but Molly knew he wasn't entirely sure why he was smiling and neither did she.

She knew this day was bound to come, but wasn't quite sure why he had to go, foolishly she wanted him to stay and yet at the same time she knew he had to go. There would be no relief in him going, would he be safe? Would he? Course he was, he was Sherlock Holmes, he was unbeatable, Molly bit her lip, he was unbeatable until so recently.

Did he know her thoughts were everywhere? Probably. Did he know that she thought of him constantly, especially the past few week, when he had relied on her, did he realise he made her feel like her heart was going to burst? Probably not.

But that was Sherlock, she knew he had heart somewhere and knew that the past few weeks had proven that he could feel. But she knew that her love was unrequited because he didn't know how to love, real love. He was incapable of such sentiment, but that wouldn't stop her loving him.

Sherlock could sense that Molly was getting emotional, the signs were all there, elevated heart rate, watery eyes looking at the wall instead of him, her laboured breathing. He knew why but could not understand, but he would not put her through anymore. Throwing his rucksack over his shoulder, he smiled at her, awkwardly kissing her on the cheek. How would he ever pay her back for all she had done for him?

"Where will you go?" she asked her voice quavering.

"I don't know"

Such a foreign sentence for Sherlock Holmes to admit that he did not know. But this whole experience was new to him; he was going to have to live without everything that he had taken for granted.

The only thing Sherlock had to do now was disappear.

To become lost.