Get your ticket. Sit. Wait. Get off the train. Get on a different one. Sit. Wait. Repeat.
John knew this wouldn't help. Going north to Scotland for a week wouldn't change the fact that his best friend was dead and buried in a graveyard outside London. But Ella and Mrs. Hudson had begun conspiring against him, and he could never turn his landlady down, not anymore.
The trip had been utterly unremarkable so far. Disappointing breakfast (Is there any other type of breakfast on a train?), an endless grey landscape blurring by his window, and twice he had caught people whispering and pointing at him, mouthing words like 'Holmes', 'Moriarty', and 'liar'. He'd taken two trains and was on his way to a third when he heard it, ghosting through the station.
A violin.
John froze where he stood. Ignoring the minor traffic jam he caused, John spun around and pushed his way across the platform, searching for the source of the music. He knew the piece—Beethoven something or other, it didn't matter. He had to find the source, find the musician, find him—
There.
A ratty man with a funny hat stood playing his violin, both instrument and musician looking like they had been through hell and back to reach that station. He wore a thick navy blue coat against the cold, and fingerless gloves to allow him to play.
How long John stood listening he didn't know. Beethoven drifted to a close and the man took up a different piece, one he wasn't familiar with. He must have missed his train by now, but John didn't care. If any good was going to come out of this trip it was this. The music pouring out from the balding musician comforted him more than all his sessions with Ella put together. Finally a whistle blew and John was jolted out of his thoughts. He should go. He didn't want to, not by any means. But he couldn't stay here. Eventually the last train would leave and he would be left alone. Again.
John took a deep breath and turned away towards the ticket office to buy a new pass. He would finish this pointless vacation. He would get through this. Because it was what Sherlock would have wanted him to do.
As he maneuvered back through the crowd to his train, he passed the violinist once more. A case sat open by the man's feet. Without hesitation John reached into his wallet and took out the highest bill he had, placing it gently in the man's case. Thank you, he thought.
Watching the shadow of his best friend walk away, Sherlock felt worse than he had in months.
Oh John . . .