He dropped the shoes in a bin.
Not sure where, really. Somewhere between Bart's and Baker Street. Barefoot when he got back to the flat.
The soles of his feet are sore, rubbed raw from trekking who-knows-how-far across cold London cement and asphalt without the protection of his usual, sensible shoes.
He had to get rid of them.
They were…defiled. No amount of scrubbing could ever wash away the…
No. Can't wash it away. It was all over the pavement, so dark. Still. So much—
Won't think there. Had to get rid of the shoes. Couldn't have brought them back to the flat—would have tracked on the floors. It was sensible. It was sensible to drop the shoes in some side-street bin.
Sensible to walk back barefoot, oblivious to the stares of the people he passed. Sensible to feel every pebble, every sliver of glass that nicked into his skin. Sensible to feel his toes go numb.
The soles of his feet throb in time with the beating of his heart, he concentrates only on that pain. That pain is physical—he can handle the Physical. The Physical can be treated, can be cured. A good wash, a bit of ointment, soft socks for a few days…That pain can be healed. Thank heaven for sore feet.
Other things will remain raw and bloody for much longer, and the trappings cannot be tossed in a bin. A raw and bloody soul is much harder to treat.