200 steps.
He started down the stairs, his mind full of Moriarty. A professor, easily traced, teaching near enough London that the chalk dust hadn't had time to be brushed away before the rendezvous with Irene Adler.
150 steps.
She had no doubt extracted herself from the cuffs by now. She'd find a way to cross the river. Vanish. Leave him.
100 steps.
He knew the ache in his chest had nothing to do with her.
50 steps.
The tap of the cane on the metal steps slowed.
25 steps.
He couldn't avoid the truth much longer.
Ground level.
Watson.
