Sherlock slumped down onto the nearest seat, breathing in short fast pants, chest aching from the exertion of his rapid escape. He allowed himself precisely four minutes of recovery - the time taken to get between two tube stations in Central London.
Almost groaning with the effort, he forced himself to his feet at Euston, and switched to the other branch of the Northern Line to get to Warren Street. His only aim after that was to confuse the hell out of Mycroft's men and make sure that anybody who had managed to track him down would lose him again equally fast.
From Euston, he travelled down to Tottenham Court Road, took the Central Line to Bond Street, then changed to the Jubilee Line as far as Baker Street. From there, he took the Bakerloo Line to Paddington, then the District and Circle down to Notting Hill Gate. He had memorised the entire tube map as a child and he was grateful for it now. He couldn't have said where he was going, or where his final destination would be. All he could think about was getting lost and staying lost. He changed his appearances as best he could as he traveled, stuffing his coat into his rucksack, substituting it for a second hoodie, taking off his hat, carrying his rucksack in his hand to make it less noticeable on the CCTV cameras that peppered every station.
He had intended to change again at Earl's Court, heading back towards Central London and the Southbank. Sometimes the best place to get lost was in a crowd, and there were more homeless people on the Southbank than in any other area of London. Besides, he could score what he needed there - lorazepam, nitrazepam, and maybe even some more of the oramorph which was proving so useful at keeping his cough at bay. Satisfied with his plan, he took another swig, noticing as he did so that his first bottle was almost empty.
He allowed his eyes to close just for a moment, as the warmth and swaying of the train took him to his destination. Two minutes, he promised himself, just two minutes of rest before the next change.
...
He woke with a start to find an empty carriage and a cleaner glaring at him as she threw plastic bottles and empty sandwich packets into a black bin bag. He scrambled up and off the train, mumbling his apologies. He was too drowsy to even be able to focus on the station signs, his head pounding as he could think only of getting out of the tube and into the fresh air.
He walked up the steps, patting his pockets for his tube ticket he had bought at Covent Garden and feeding it into the barrier, praying to a God he didn't believe in that they would open, that the ticket that he had bought that morning covered whichever tube zone he now found himself in. The seconds of the barrier's indecisions seemed to stretch beyond all that was possible as he struggled to stay on his feet. He couldn't remember when he had needed sleep more. Eventually, after what seemed like hours, the barrier clicked opened and he walked gratefully walked through, blinking in the sunlight. He looked back at the station sign almost as an afterthought. Richmond, he was in Richmond. He had quite literally reached the end of the line. Random as if might be, it had the benefit of being one of the last places that Mycroft would think to look for him, and he was too tired and felt too unusual to contemplate continuing his journey further.
He headed down Richmond Hill, unsure where he was going, all of his previous optimism gone. He could think only of finding a place to lie down, to sleep. Once he had slept he could work out what he was going to do next. The voices in his head were whispering, telling him that he was a failure, telling him that it was pointless running, that he might as well give up now. He walked past two policemen close to the station, and averted his face, convinced they would be looking for him. He kept walking until the shops ran out and he found himself at the main gate to Richmond Park. The light was failing and the park was almost deserted apart from a few hardy dog walkers and set off down the track. His mother used to bring him here, years ago to see the deer, vestige of Henry the Eighth's hunting days. He headed for Sidmouth Wood, shivering now and not just with the cold of the day. He felt dizzy and his legs felt strangely disconnected from him. He needed to find somewhere, anywhere to lie down, and he thought he knew just the place.
As he made his way into the woods, the trees blotted out the last of the light. He followed the path through to the centre of the wood, then took the left hand fork, tripping over tree branches on numb feet until he reached the log store, just as it had been when he had a child, and to the side, just as he remembered, the gardener's hut, with its window obscured by the green mould that had crept across from the wooden walls. He walked round the back of the hut to find the door - padlocked, of course it was. Setting his rucksack down on a fallen tree branch, he pulled off his glove with his teeth and rummaged into the bottom of his bag to find something, anything, to pick the lock with.
He had learned to throw nothing away on the streets and he was grateful for it now. He found a wire tie, used to secure a bag of sandwiches from the shelter and stripped the plastic coating off, but it proved too soft to trigger the locking mechanism. Pushing back his frustration he rummaged again in the bag and then in the pockets of his coat with increasing agitation until his fingers closed on a badge that had adorned the coat when he had brought it in the charity shop. Shoved into his pocket and forgotten it was going to be worth its weight in gold.
It took him less than a minute to trigger the mechanism of the padlock with the badge pin. The door spun open to reveal a rudimentary tool shed, with a small Primus stove and a kettle for tea, and a pile of hessian sacks in the corner. It was still cold inside, but at least it was insulated from the wind and he was too tired to care. He stumbled towards the pile of sacks and curled up on them, pulling a couple of them over him as makeshift covers. He reached into the pocket of his coat and took a couple of the clonazepam to silence the voices that were still abusing him for his stupidity. Then five minutes later when they were failed to shut up, another four, the last of his stash, and almost as an afterthought washed them down with the second bottle of oramorph. He just wanted to sleep, to not have to think about what he was going to do tomorrow and for the world to go away and leave him alone.
His last thought as he drifted off to sleep was of how surprisingly warm and comfortable a pile of hessian sacks could be, and of how very pissed off Mycroft was going to be that he had given his men the slip once again. He fell asleep with a smile on his lips at the very thought of it.
Short chapter this time as events hurtle towards their conclusion. To be concluded soon!