It was time. I couldn't take the utter desolation associated with self-imposed solidarity. I was going insane without a case to solve. I knew leaving my run-down motel room would be risky with the whole of London firmly believing that I had taken my own life. That in mind, I set the timer on my watch, allowing myself one hour.

In a city as big as London, the amount of people that would see me over the course of an hour was enormous. Luckily, they all were so egocentric these days, stuck in their little worlds and tweeting every minute detail of their lives as if anyone gives a damn what they had for lunch. They're all too busy filling their heads with such meaningless nonsense as to which celebrity did this or said that or started dating whomever as of late. I knew I could slip by practically unnoticed. Even those that did notice me, I knew, wouldn't dare approach but would rather begin to doubt their own sanity or maybe their eyeglass prescription. They'd rather believe their own senses had lied to them rather than their precious, all-knowing tabloids. One hour would be safe, I was sure of it.

As soon as I opened the door I had already began to feel better. The cool air cleared my head of all the devious thoughts that had been occupying it. The sweet city air. The grey skies threatened rain but I paid no attention to them. You get used to the constant overcast weather when you've spent your whole life here. I took one more deep breath, taking in the freedom of the outside world, before working up the courage to step out of the doorframe and sever the connection between me and the room that had become my home over the past few weeks. I finally cut the tie between us as I slammed the door shut.

I liked this motel much more than many of the others I had stayed in since I had allegedly killed myself. No maids came until you checked out, which meant I could stay there for ages without the risk of anyone noticing me. The rooms were also cheap enough for me to be able to pay up front in cash. Dead men can't use credit cards, after all. My checkout date was in a few days, and while I would have been more than happy with spending a few more nights at this motel, I knew I had to keep moving, lest someone find me.

And yes, I knew for a fact there were people out there looking for me. Molly, for one. She knew I was still alive, as she'd helped me conduct the entire act. But I couldn't tell her where I was for I knew she would eventually take pity and end up telling John. The police were definitely looking for me as well. Well not actively looking, I was as dead to them as any of the bodies they were investigating, but they would certainly be keeping a watchful eye out for me, as they probably needed my help, as usual.

Then there was Moriarty. He was looking for me. Or maybe he already knew where I was. He was smart, genius, really. And that sort of intelligence is dangerous, especially when you're not mentally stable. He was out there, somewhere, plotting my next fall. He wouldn't be satisfied, I knew. Not with unfinished business such as myself. So he would be looking for me, and I had to remain in the city's shadows.

I started walking down the street. It was unusually empty. I supposed most people were either visiting warmer areas this time of year or at home with their families still celebrating the holidays. I made my way towards a main road. I needed some form of public transport.

I couldn't do a taxi. With the two of us shoved into a car together, the driver wouldn't be able to stop himself from noticing my face, which had made the cover of almost every magazine and newspaper in London, if not most of England. I needed a large amount of people in one area. I needed a place where people were in a hurry. A bus was far too open as well. A stranger might happen to notice me, try to sit next to me, talk to me. No I needed something better. I needed something louder and more crowded. I needed a place that people wanted to actively block out the world around them. I needed the Tube.

The nearest station was just a few blocks away. I quickened my pace as I reminded myself that I only had one hour to roam the city before I needed to shut myself away in my dark room once again. When I reached the station, I joined the small stream of people filing down the steps underground. Not paying much attention to my manners, I pushed people out of my way, put my Underground card in the slot, and proceeded as quickly as possible through the masses.

When I reached the platform, I didn't pay much attention to which railway line I was taking and simply boarded the first train that I saw. I found a pole to clutch relatively out of sight near the back. As the car jolted forward, it occurred to me that it didn't really matter where I was going as long as I could get out of that hellish confinement of an apartment. I needed to move about. I needed my old freedom. I knew it wasn't safe, exactly, to be out in public like this. But I suppose I needed that rush as well. It was the kind of on edge feeling I used to get when a new case would arrive, a real puzzle aching to be solved. I would collect my coat and we would head to the door, telling Mrs. Hudson we'd be back late, and then we would head off to the scene of the crime, me and-

I shifted my left arm around the pole as my right hand shuffled through my pockets trying to find my phone, the source of the growingly irritating rings. Very few people knew the number of my recently purchased disposable phone. But of course Molly did. And that's why I saw St. Bart's Hospital's number displayed across the front of my ringing phone. I never answered her calls, which is why it was so strange for me to feel such a nagging sensation to do so right then. After weighing the options in my mind, I picked up the phone. After all, maybe she did have some case I could solve from the privacy of my room.

"Yes?" I picked up, not one for formalities.

"Okay I know you don't want me knowing where you are and that's fine but – wait. Sherlock?" she sounded surprised.

"Yes?" I repeated.

"Sorry, it's just you never answer your phone when I call."

"Molly if you could make it quick."

"Right, sorry. I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday, I guess. That's, you know, why I called," I could hear she was nervous.

I hadn't even realized it was my birthday. Then again I never paid much attention to parties for such mundane occasions anyway. I waited in silence to see if she had anything else to add, like maybe a new case. But she said nothing, and so neither did I.

"Right, well, I guess that's all," she sighed.

"Goodbye Molly," I droned, about to click away the conversation.

"Wait! Sherlock, just, wait. I know you don't want people to know where you're hiding out, but John and Mrs. Hudson – "

"Can get by on their own. They're much safer without me anyway," I interrupted.

"But don't you at least miss them?"

"I'm fine on my own, Molly," I insisted. I knew they definitely needed me more than I needed them. People were so quick to become attached to others that they could so easily lose. They were only setting themselves up for heartbreak and loneliness. I didn't need them. I had worked for years on my own without them. They were just my old flat mates. Nothing special.

I hung up this time without a goodbye. I had spent too much time talking to her already. I looked around me, just to make sure there was no one on board that might recognize me from having worked with them. Nobody looked familiar. I had been correct. They would all simply be caught up in their boring little lives.

I got off at the next station, not quite sure how long I had been on the train. Judging by how long I had been talking to Molly plus the time I had spent watching the trains other inhabitants, I must have been on for at least seven stops, and no more than ten. I emerged from the Underground and began walking down whatever street I was on. It had started raining. Pouring really, and here I was left without an umbrella. I let myself become absorbed in my own thoughts, now that I could finally think outside of that hellish room. I kept my head down, strictly watching the soaked pavement. I let my feet guide themselves, letting them go where they pleased on the puddle soaked pavement. I went wherever my body took me as I stayed within the comfort of my own mind.

Then something shook me. It was horrifying, and brought me back to the surface of my conscious mind once again. A sob. A screaming cry. That was it! A lovely murder must be taking place. I would have to let the killer go, of course, so I could solve the puzzle and figure out who it was on my own.

The cry sounded muffled. So it must be indoors. It was definitely close enough to a nearby window for it to permeate well enough for me to hear it. Judging by the lower tones of the vocal cords the victim was definitely a female over the age of fifty. The fact that the sobs had tapered off, though she might still be crying softer, suggest that it was not a quick kill, but something more torturous. She was probably slowly bleeding to death in one of these rooms.

I scanned all the nearest windows. Nothing, nothing, man watching television, nothing, family dinner, nothing, nothing, nothing. Then I saw it. Then I realized where I was. Baker Street. And the cry had been no other than that of Mrs. Hudson, who was now clinging to John in the window of our old flat. They were pressed together, supporting one another as they both fell apart.

Cause of death: heart torn out.

Perpetrator: Sherlock Holmes.