This chapter follows the events of the original Pilot episode, to some extent. Thanks for reading!
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"Taxi!"
Sherlock raised his right hand as his other gripped his coat closed. The cab passed by without hesitation and Sherlock huffed in frustration. He supposed he had about twenty minutes, if he was lucky, before the rain finally made it from the dark clouds to the dark streets, and he'd have nowhere to escape it. He'd left Mike some time ago since the man had needed to get home. Sherlock didn't voice his need for a place to stay—the thought made him wince and reminded him of Mycroft's drunken rants against him. Lazy git, need a real job, Don't you have any friends to inflict yourself upon? Mycroft was a miserable man but a man with a spare, rent-free room for him.
Sherlock padded down the road, head down, hiding his face from the chilled wind.
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John slid his phone shut with a snap, an unhappy man indeed. Molly was being quite unhelpful, an unusual occurrence. She probably was on a blind date—just the sort of scheme she would fall for, when she wasn't busy falling over her own feet or simply air itself. The reply text had been short and regretful-toned, not a Mollyesque text, so her friends were likely again pressuring her to stay away from him because he was "a grumpy bastard." Well, they would all be in unhappy marriages at forty and being tormented by children and their children's nasty friends. He was fine with that knowledge and amused that he alone had that insight. Either way, he would have to go to Angelo's alone.
John used his cane to bring his body up to a standing position and made his way to the door and out of it. He didn't bother to say anything to Mrs. Hudson. She'd been short with him after he'd yelled for ages to get her to send that text. He didn't require anything else from her and she would probably rather be left alone.
The walk was slow and annoying and he had very little to occupy himself with during it, save for his wonderings about the serial suicide murderer. It wasn't much.
He found himself seated at the window, watching and waiting, eyes and mind sharper than the blade of a sword.
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The rain had started to thunder down with only a small rumble of thunder for a split-second warning.
Sherlock tucked into his coat more and ducked into the first place he saw that looked warm. Problem was, he had enough for either a short cab ride to the nearest shelter or else something very small at the restaurant he now found himself in. That was unfortunate. He needed to make a split-second decision. Cab meant waiting in the rain for one and then staying again in the cramped space that wasn't guaranteed to have any spare beds available, even. It was not likely to have any, he realized belatedly, what with the rain and storm. Sherlock sighed agitatedly and ruffled his hair with annoyance. Well, he might as well have a drink before he called Mycroft for a ride. Or maybe he would just sleep in the street or something, Sherlock groused to himself.
He was directed to a seat that faced the door, a bit back from the entrance. He asked for a glass of white wine and a very small salad. His stomach rumbled quietly at the prospect of food so he looked around for something to distract himself with. His eyes ran over the various couples seated around him. The place was small but seemed to fit a good amount of diners nonetheless.
Sherlock found himself studying a pretty woman who was sat with someone else a large enough distance away to discretely admire the curl of her hair as it touched her shoulder on one side. He realized that he was staring after a moment. Well, she was a pretty girl. His eyes ran over her face then, away from her flowing hair, and he mentally backed off a bit, disliking the serious look that she wore. She did not look fun at all. That kind of ruined it for him a bit. Seriousness in large quantities was dull. The man sitting with her looked equally serious, and he couldn't stop the thought Better you than me.
"Angelo, a glass of white wine! Now, hurry!"
Sherlock's eyes darted automatically over to the direction of the shouting man. His voice was familiar and he recognized him immediately, having met him only hours before. He felt a sense of fascination instead of the residual indignation he should be feeling. His fascination only grew when the man tossed the wine into his own face and hobbled quickly to the exit. Dr. Watson was even more bizarre than he'd originally thought.
Sherlock's salad had yet to arrive, so he wasted no time in grabbing his glass and moving to the seat that Dr. Watson had just vacated by the window. Looking out, he spotted Dr. Watson after a moment; the man was obnoxiously weaving through people and cars. It might seem pointless, except Sherlock spotted a cab right in the direction the bizarre man was heading. Why all the show of drunkenness? And the cab's light was off. The man was acting, obviously, but to what end? Sherlock glanced down a second while thinking and noticed his salad sitting there. Oh, he hadn't even noticed someone bringing it to him. That was ruder than he tended to be. He picked up his fork and stabbed blindly while his eyes drifted up to watch the scene Dr. Watson was making. The man could barely walk as it was; it was difficult for Sherlock to pick up which hobbles were real and which were acting.
Sherlock's back straightened unconsciously when Dr. Watson tapped on the window of the man's cab. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up a little. Something wasn't right about this scene, though he couldn't explain what about it worried him. The cabbie must have refused the man, he looked annoyed and tried asking again and just kept bugging the man. Sherlock's fork was suspended over his bowl, forgotten completely. What is he doing? He's going to get his foot run over when that cabbie has had enough. But then Dr. Watson gave up, walking away a few steps and fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his phone. Sherlock relaxed and finally finished getting the salad on his fork to his mouth. He chewed and glanced away, uninterested since he'd obviously misjudged the situation and worried for no reason.
"Sher—Sher—lo—ck!"
Glancing up again quickly, just about to eat another bite, Sherlock's eyes found the scene once more. Dr. Watson was being stuffed into the back of the cab by a short man in a hat. Dr. Watson gave almost no fight, like he wanted to be stuffed into the back of the cab. Sherlock was going to leave him to it except he saw the doctor's hand grip the side of the cab and he gave a kick to the cabbie he was wrestling with. The man bent over only for a second before finally getting the doctor into the back and slamming the door closed. The man got in the cab and they sped away. As they did, Dr. Watson's cane fell over, forgotten where it had been leaning against the back of the cab.
Sherlock's fork clattered against the bowl and he fumbled with is money to get it on the table. He fled the restaurant. He grabbed the cane and ran after the cab but lost them two streets later.
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A/N: The more comments I recieve, the better I can make the story (with your feedback). So, the more I get, the longer I'll make the chapters. Happy reading.