The restaurant was just as dodgy as Holmes had implied, and talk of seafood aside there wasn't much on the menu he did trust. He was, however, ravenously hungry, so he ate a little light supper, and he waited.

Good Lord, how he waited.

He could only think of the multitude of things he hadn't asked. Where had he been? What had he done? He was regretting his show of temper and his anger, now, or at least somewhat. If this evening was really going to be dangerous, he hated their last private conversation to have been so violent.

But no one would die tonight, not if Watson had anything to do about it. And he was actually going to be here tonight, and not decoyed away.

He sipped his glass of beer, waiting, growing more and more anxious about Holmes's continued absence.