John was right – he loved being Sherlock Holmes.
Most of times it was just him against the rest of the world, his Belstaff coat as his only armour.
Alone was what protected him; that was the reason why he always struggled to keep his friends at arm's length, though he'd been slipping of late.
John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly – they all counted, no matter that he didn't really belong to their world. He watched them as they enjoyed dancing, finally realizing how out of place he actually was.
So he simply put on his coat and vanished into the night.