He felt like he was walking straight into the unknown, taking that one step from the flat, hearing the resounding bang of the door knocker thudding, as the door swung shut behind him. He was torn, itching to walk back inside, John's hugs and the sad, misty expression he'd worn before Richard had departed were preying on Richard's mind. John had so much to deal with- he needed Richard there. He couldn't go back now. It would be seen as weakness.
The streets were busy, he thought they'd be emptier in the evening but there were throngs of people, commuters, tourists, the homeless, so many different people but all pink-cheeked from the cold, and all studiously avoiding everyone else. Ah, London. He grinned, running his hand along a brick wall, breathing in cold, clean air, and weaving in and out of the crowd. He felt like he was swimming, cutting through the waves, being buffeted this way and that, only the tide was composed of shopping bags and bodies, and the salty tang of the sea was so far away from the smell of cigarettes and exhaust fumes. But he loved it all. He felt like he belonged here, in a way he didn't back at Baker Street. The Thames was running through his veins and he loved it. If somebody had told him that he hadn't lived in London before the accident, he'd call them a liar.
He skipped through the streets, earning suspicious side glances and swear words but he didn't care. He realised now how suffocating he'd felt back in the hospital, when with John. It was fine that he didn't know any of these people, because none of the, knew him. And here, nobody cared. Nobody was asking about his memories and his health. He was just another loon, running and laughing through London. He was no one.
When the initial excitement of being outside wore off, it was replaced with despair and anxiety. He couldn't for the life of him remember John's address. The skies had darkened considerably, hours had passed and now, without a coat, Richard was becoming cold, goose bumps prickling on his arms, his face dry and stinging. He was an idiot, a useless, blundering idiot. Why had he thought he'd be able to do this, so soon? He'd only just toddled out of hospital, for Pete's sake!
He couldn't find a familiar face and although he asked the odd passer-by for help, they ignored him and he gave up. He patted his pockets as he leaned against a brick wall, advertising a comedy show on a peeling poster. He checked his pockets again but he knew he didn't have any money. He'd been so intent on getting away from John that he'd just rushed out, without even thinking. Was John out looking for him, was he worried? Richard doubted it, he'd behaved like a fool to his only friend in the world and now he was paying for it.
He knew he should stop at one of the shops he was passing, but there weren't many open and the pubs and clubs he saw had rowdy crowds of men jostling each other and shouting abuse. He just had to find a reputable place, somewhere that would have a telephone they'd let him use- ah.
Richard's eyes lit up. A restaurant was still open, even in this late hour. The yellow light issuing from within, pouring out of the open door was a beacon and he stepped inside, nervously scanning the restaurant for someone in charge. He gasped, the place was completely empty. It was well-lit with the radiators on and he shivered, his body adjusting to the sudden change of temperature. He hugged himself, walking forward. This made him uneasy, this empty, quiet eatery and he was about to turn back and try elsewhere, but he heard a reedy laugh ringing out, a male's voice that sounded strangely familiar and he drew closer.
There was on table occupied, and Richard caught a glimpse of two men seated, having a heated debate, but before he could look closer, he felt an arm wrap around him from behind and before he could scream, a callused, sweaty hand clamped down on his mouth. Richard was dragged, thrashing madly, from the restaurant and nobody heard him, not the owner, who was removing a candle off the dining table at his private customers' behest, nor the two gentlemen dining.
When Richard had long gone, one of the gentleman rose and retrieved his umbrella from the coat and hat stand.
"Thank you, the meal was exquisite but I would have much preferred it if I paid."
Angelo smiled kindly at the man, smoothing down his apron. "Not at all, Mycroft, any friend of Sherlock's…"
"Quite. Well, I must leave the comfort of your lovely restaurant and venture outside. Duty calls, you understand. I have to check on John Watson. You remember him?"
Angelo's eyes crinkled in concern. "First met him right here. He's ok, isn't he?"
"That's what I wish to find out. Call it a favour to a friend." Mycroft's eyes drifted back to the occupied table, where his companion was finishing a glass of water. "Call it a favour to a friend."
Mycroft excused himself after a final thank you for Angelo's hospitality, and left the restaurant.
