Its been a whole month since Sherlock died and I am at a train station in Hampshire. I returned home to my mother shortly after the funeral and now I'm on the way back to London.

I board the train and sigh as I settle into my seat, my leg aching horribly.

The limp is back.

Its been back for weeks now.

I look out of the window, and I swear for a moment I see a familiarly curly haired man stood at the platform. My eyes widen and as the train pulls away, I try to get a better look, standing and walking along the train, moving faster as it picks up speed.

I see flashes of the man but by the time I can clearly see the platform he's gone and I'm on my knee's battling with myself not to have a break down in front of a train full of staring strangers.

This is the second time I've done this.

The second time I think I've seen Sherlock.

But I haven't. He's dead.

Dead.

With the help of a young man, I get on my feet and return to my own seat, my leg aching more than ever.

I hate this.

I hate being alone.

The last time I was on a train, I was with Sherlock and we were on the way to Dorset to solve the mystery of the great Hound that had stalked poor Henry Knight for all those years.

It's a painful memory.

That was the first time I'd ever really seen Sherlock feel and he was completely terrified, shaking and God I wanted to hold him. Tell him everything was going to be okay. What I would pay for him to be here to do that now.

I sigh and drink from my hip flask.

Oh. I do that now.

Drink.

It dulls the pain and I can understand why Harry turned to it. I can see the path I'm going down. I know its bad for me, that it might kill me.

Good.

Because I've got nothing left.

I sink back in my seat and watch England fly by.

I should not be here.

I should not be watching John, but I am drawn to him like a moth is to the flare of a light bulb.

John's limp is back, much worse than before and it pains me to watch him struggle onto the train with his small suitcase, no one around him even polite enough to offer the small man a hand.

I want to help him, but I cannot.

Not yet, it is too soon.

There is still much to do.

I sigh and put my hands in the pockets of my jeans, watching as the train pulls away. John spots me and my insides run cold as he gets to his feet and races down the train to catch sight of me. I panic and rush from the platform before he can catch a glimpse of me.

This is the second time he has nearly seen me.

The first time it happened, John had been returning from Tesco, undoubtedly after yet another argument with the self service check outs. He had that oh so familiar look of annoyance on his face that only came from shouting at an inanimate object. I quickly hopped onto a bus and he spotted me out of the corner of his eye.

Four blocks.

That is how far John raced after the bus, his shopping bags lying on the pavement three streets over. My heart broke as the bus pulled away, whisking me down a bus lane into the outskirts of London and away from my poor John.

I am outside the station now and there is a black car waiting for me to take me to my next location.

I feel sick and my hands tremble even though they are clamped into tight fists in my pocket. I screw my face up and sniff as I fold myself into the back of the car, tears stinging my face.

God knows when I will see John again.