I saw only a fleeting glimpse pass in the shadows. SH himself had taught me gait analysis and I was stunned. Hadn't I seen him fall at Reichmodator Falls on that dark day of English mid-summer? I followed immediately, expecting the shambling figure to stop at one of the many opium dens in Deadwood's dockland. In one bound he was aboard a steamer heaving away from an old broken jetty and I raced to join him hoping my special senior citizen footware would cushion me when I hit the deck. My knees were still issuing severe pain messages to my brain as Heretic whispered 'have you got your revolver Watson, the game's afoot'. It later transpired that Moriarty had slipped to his doom at Reichmodator owing to his criminal failure to wear the stout, cushion-soled brogues all grumpy old crimefighters have as standard issue. Seizing on the moment, Heretic had removed the Professor's brothel creepers and gone undercover as a night-soil operative in Deadwood's tenderloin. We were now on the trail of a vicious gang of Chinese talcum powder smugglers ...
Welcome back Allan.
