It was only when John got outside that he realised that he actually hadn't any idea where he was. Mycroft had organised their transfers to the private hospital and, in John's weakened state, he'd paid little attention.
The adrenaline pumping through his body had kept him walking for nearly an hour. Blood rushed through his ears, and he was almost oblivious to his surroundings.
Sherlock didn't remember him? No, wait. That wasn't right. Doctor Whatley had said that Sherlock had asked for him so... what then? He remembered him, but he didn't recognise him? How did that make any sense? Sherlock had panicked, thinking that John was some sort of imposter; he actually looked afraid of him. What did that mean? Was this just a passing phase in his recovery? Would he get better? And what if he didn't? John didn't think he could handle Sherlock not knowing who he was...
...And when did it get dark? John frowned as he realised he must have been walking longer than he thought. It was dark, the streets were becoming quieter and he still had no idea where he was.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him awake from his reverie.
Please stay where you are, Doctor Watson. A car will be with you in 5 minutes. - MH
Of course it will, John thought, rolling his eyes. Bloody Mycroft and his eyes everywhere. As John sat down on a nearby bench to wait, his brain started on overdrive. Maybe he didn't want Mycroft to come and rescue him. Maybe he didn't need rescuing. True, he didn't really know where he was but it wouldn't take a Holmes to work it out (merely Google Maps!), and John was more than capable of looking after himself. He needed some time out. Time out from this craziness.
He stood again and starting walking, more quickly this time, as he unlocked his phone and opened up his maps. Zooming out from his pinpointed location, he frowned as he slowly recognised his position. How on earth had he ended up back here? He was almost right back at Sherlock's Camden flat, and it suddenly occurred to him that it was pretty much the last place in the world that he wanted to be right now. Unless it wasn't?
He slowed his pace as gradually he began to recognise some of the places he had been less than a week previously. If he thought really hard, perhaps he could remember the route Billy had taken him. The route to the block where it'd all gone so horribly wrong: where John was too little, too late.
As his well-trained senses kicked into action, he became acutely aware of his surroundings. Dark, gloomy alleys; groups of youths drinking; a huddled junkie in a doorway. Suddenly, John felt very out of place; vulnerable and naked without his weapon. He heard whispers and movement and, for a split second, he thought he recognised a voice until he was thrown to the floor, and everything went black...