When Sherlock left England, nobody took any notice. There was nobody to wave him goodbye. The driver was a dutiful civil servant who had taken in Sherlock's limp, the whiff of bleach and dye, and the awkward way in which the man had eased himself down into the backseat and thought, drunk. To hell, Sherlock had thought back and ignored the man. The backseat of the car held a rucksack with all things necessary. Sherlock rummaged for a while, conscious of the curious glances the driver was shooting him in the mirror. Money. Credit cards. Toothbrush. Plane tickets. Train tickets. Keys. Change of clothes. Guidebook. Mobile phone (shabby, ill-used). Sunglasses. Dictionary. Rental agreement. Residence permit. Driving licence. Passport. A new identity.
Huffing, he pocketed the money and identification in his leather jacket. It had obviously had a previous owner (twenty-something, student of Literature, amateur actor), but it was warm and comfortingly reminding him of John. Just like the faded sweater and jeans did. Or the boots. But maybe he had just to get used to the new look as much as he had to the new name. He gave the driver a dark stare before Sherlock Holmes became bespectacled, blond Julian Barnes.
The place was just as he had imagined it: a white house with a red roof. Very Mediterranean. In the big front room he found a library. Mycroft had had it fitted in. He had had one armchair and a sofa placed in the centre of the room and a desk by the window. Sherlock shrugged off his jacket and settled on the sofa kicking off his shoes. On instinct he reached out for a soft Union Jack pillow similar to the one that John had liked so much. John. His throat felt dry and he gulped. He should have told John. Should have left an address, but he had been afraid. Of seeing John? Or of John seeing him like this? After all, he was dead. He hugged the cushion and sank onto the sofa. The velvet fabric smelled of John. Or so he imagined. Sherlock curled up into a ball and cried.
Only much later did Sherlock explore the rest of his new home. Breathing as flat as he could to not send his lungs into a struggle he made his way into the cellar and back up the stairs. Lacking his usual lightness, he held on to the handrail and dragged himself upstairs and into his bedroom and luxury bath. Breathing heavily, his vision blurring and temples throbbing in renunciation, Sherlock fell against the doorway. He felt totally exhausted and cursed his body for denying its service. He knew, of course, he had to take things slowly. He felt defeated, though. Here he was now. Young. Smart. Exceptional. So many problems solved. And yet he felt stranded. Tired. Used. Hollow. Alone. He gulped. He hadn't felt so alone since before John. John who had been invalided home from Afghanistan. And here he was, Sherlock Holmes, invalided out of his home. A useless cripple. Aged 32.
On his bed he found a note from Mycroft: "Hope this little retreat will suit your needs. There's a contact number on your mobile. Good luck. Don't be a stranger. BTW I had this made. Might cheer you up." Sherlock looked at a photograph. He remembered the occasion and smirked. The past year's Holmesian Christmas dinner had been dull. Until John had suggested party games. Mycroft had taken their picture when he was balancing John on his knees during Musical Chairs, the pair of them laughing happily. Mycroft had made fun of him with this photo before. This time, he meant well. He had even had Sherlock's outer appearance adjusted to the unusual circumstances. The tall man in the photograph had fair hair and was wearing glasses. Big tears rolled down his flushed cheeks and Sherlock was confused. Must be the shock. He felt ashamed because he never cried, and at the same time he was indifferent to breaking the rule because it felt good to cry. Right. To let go of the desperate heartache that clawed at him. He sat down on the bed and stared at the photo.
Despite the silent tears, Sherlock settled in well. To the villagers, he was either a mysterious millionaire or a very young scholar studying History of the Arts. Or both. He entertained his housekeeper, who was an excellent cook, by pointing out obvious facts and he spend lots of evenings at the Caffé Quattro on the piazza. As the months passed, he grew to like his new look, the robust jeans, the warm polo necks, and the heavy boots. He did not miss his old life.
When his mobile sounded, he had to look for it. He did not bother too much with it. After all, he did not know that many people. When Sherlock found the phone, it was Mycroft who had texted, "You're on the 6:15 flight to Delhi. Auburn. Giuseppe is taking you to Milan. Take care. MH"
Sherlock's blood ran cold. But he obeyed. He dyed his hair and put on his jacket and the old scarf John had given him for a Christmas past and he waited for Giuseppe to fetch him.
Again nobody took any notice and there was nobody to wave him goodbye. Giuseppe was a simple-minded but friendly, round Italian who drank too much coffee and who talked too much. Sherlock ignored him. The backseat of the car held another rucksack to meet his needs. Sherlock noted the difference in baggage and rummaged for a while. Money. More credit cards. Toothbrush. Maps. Hiking boots. Sleeping bag. Guidebooks. Mobile phone (even shabbier than the other one, and more ill-used). Sunglasses. Woollen hat. Gloves. Dictionary. Plane tickets. Milan-Delhi. Delhi-Kathmandu. Kathmandu-Gongkar. Coach tickets for Lhasa. Passport.
Huffing, Sherlock pocketed the money and identification in his leather jacket. So he was no longer Julian Barnes, but became bearded Lars Sigerson.
And Lars Sigerson spent the next two years travelling Tibet and Persia.