Watson hadn't seen my face, and I didn't want him to see it. He kept his eyes on as my brother spoke, and when Mycroft had made his excuses, he was still watching me warily.
I slowly met his gaze, reluctant to reveal the turmoil that must have reflected on my features.
For a moment, I simply concentrated on his eyes. I saw the years of age in a tree-trunk. Years and years, too many to count. Years of being a doctor. Years of knowing trouble when he saw it. Years of knowing me.
But as I stared, I was simply intimidated by his brutal gentleness, relentless understanding. I turned away.
My feet traced the bricks as I walked slowly further up the station, the smoke and steam swallowing me. I ignored the first, hesitant step behind me. It stopped. I couldn't hear my friend's sigh, I felt it. I kept walking. I didn't want to be followed.
As I approached the steps down to the opposite side of the platform, I heard him half call my name.
"Go home, Watson. I'll see you then." My voice was thin. Scrapey, like a violin.
I walked as fast as I could down the steps before I broke into a run.
My shadow ran, too. The noise span around the tunnel, rolled over and over. The sustain pedal on the piano. I stopped and waited for the note to fade.
My shadow put his hand on my shoulder. I can't get rid of him.