"Don't. Be. Dead. Could you do that for me? Just stop it...stop this." His eyes were full of tears as he turned away from the grave. My grave.
I want to run out of my hiding spot several yards away. I want him to see me. I don't want to have to go on living without him. But it's for the best. For his safety. I have to protect him.
I bite my lip and wipe away a few tears. Stupid tears. Damn bloody stupid tears. Stop it eyes, stop this right now. You're making me sentimental. You're making me weak. I have to be strong. Strong and clever, for my army doctor's safety. I wipe the last of the loathesome drops of water from my cheeks and turn my back on the grave. I close my eyes and inhale slowly, opening them as I exhale a quiet sigh.
I walk to a different gate than the one John just left through in case he's still nearby.
My coat isn't the same as my old coat, a bit shorter and black rather than dark grey. It's heavier and bulkier, and the buttons are on the opposite side from my old coat. The collar still turns up though, which is good for obscuring my face a bit and I bought a new scarf. It's dark-ish grey but I still have my old one with the other few belongings I've got. I'm traveling light for now until I get to Herne. It's a city in Germany near Düsseldorf. It's not too big and I'm far less likely to be recognised there than I am in London, not that people are able to recognise me without that ghastly deer-stalker anymore. I roll my eyes.
I get a cab and tell the driver to bring me to a cheap hotel room I've rented for the past few days. Today's my check-out day. I grab my case from the room and head back out. I bring my key back to the lobby.
"Thank you for staying with us Mr Smith," says the girl at the desk. Her facial expression clicks some sort of recognition. "No, no, can't be," she mutters to herself.
"What?" I ask, already knowing what she's doubting.
"Nothing, sir, you just reminded me of someone...What'd you say your first name was, again?"
"Hamish," I say, looking down at the floor so she has less opportunity to see my face. I pay in cash, which she seems to think unusual, probably because it is unusual, but she doesn't ask any more questions.
It takes me a few minutes to get a cab and it's raining. My wet hair clings to my forehead and I fumble around in my case once I get in the cab, pulling out a plane ticket. I run a hand through my wet curls and shake my head around a bit, flicking little beads of water onto the foggy window. I wipe away some of the fog and see that we're one Baker street. I stare out the window, watching the familiar buildings pass by. As we drive by 221 Baker street, I see a figure in the window. John turns away from the window just as my cab drives past it. Another tear rolls down my cheek but this time I don't protest against it. I don't even wipe it away; I just let it roll down my face, over my cheekbone. I taste the salty water droplet as it stops at the edge of my lip.
When we get to the airport, I give the cabbie a handful of cash and step back out into the rain. The tears come on again. Fortunately, they're not very noticeable in the rain. I stand out in the rain for a few minutes, smoking a cigarette. I drop it onto the ground and step on it to put it out before turning to go inside.
It's busy and crowded and uncomfortable. I wipe the rain and tears off my face, flicking beads of water onto the floor. It's all a blur of faces, looking for their terminals and parents stringing their children along. I push through the masses of people, half-dead until I somehow end up on the right aeroplane. I slump against the window, remembering the case with Irene Adler and Mycroft's flight of the dead. I smile a bit; the memory is nice anyway..
A few hours later, I'm in Düsseldorf. I find my small black case and leave, looking for a cab. The cars all speed past on the wrong side of the road and I pull out another cigarette and light it. A cloud of smoke escapes my lips with a long exhale. I close my eyes and let all of the people and sounds and smells flow around me. I'm isolated in the middle of a crowd; it's uplifting and at the same time sad.
I open my eyes and snap back into reality, putting out my cigarette.
I find a cab to take me to Herne, where I've rented a flat under the name Hamish Smith. Though somehow the landlady seems to have translated it to Hamish Scmitt even after I corrected her. The flat isn't the best and certainly isn't 221 Baker street, but there aren't any neighbours and the landlady said she would take cash.
When I arrive at the flat, I knock on the door and a large woman with blond hair and small green eyes opens the door. Nearing obesity, recently divorced judging by the tan line on her ring finger that's slightly faded. Can't have been more than two months though; the anger and contempt is still etched into her face. He must've done something bad, something to humiliate her, probably cheating on her based on her size, and overall appearance.
"Bist du Hamish Schmitt?" she asks.
"Smith," I correct her. She steps aside and nods toward the staircase, handing me a key. I walk up the steps, which are concrete, covered with stained carpeting. When I reach the top, I unlock the door and open it to a small room with burgundy walls to match the coffee table in the centre of the room and a small brown armchair beside the window. There's no television, which doesn't bother me. The hardwood floor is covered with a large white rug, stained by coffee and wine.
There's a small kitchenette which looks dirty and unused for at least five years. In fact, the whole flat appears to have been unoccupied for several years judging by the textiles used for the curtains and the worn, vacant look the entirety of the flat has. I walk though a doorway beside the armchair, noting the chipped white paint on the trim. This must be the bedroom, if you could call it that. It's a tiny room (more like a cupboard, really) with just enough space for a double bed and a small dresser with a lamp beside the bed. There aren't any sheets on the bed, which is fine because if there were I would toss them out and buy new ones anyway. In the back of the room there's another door that leads to the toilet.
I sigh and leave my case at the doorway. No sense in unpacking; there isn't anywhere I could put my belongings.
I walk back into the sitting room and look out the tall window beside the armchair. At first I think it's still raining, but then I remember I'm not in London anymore and that this is different rain. I place my hand on the window, thinking of John.
"Where are you now, John?" I whisper.
