Navigating the cellar was easier this time, for his instincts were adjusting to his blindness and his sense of direction remembered the worst of the obstacles. His increasing worry – while memory loss, at least temporary, was not uncommon with a concussion of any severity, it was still cause for concern – lent grace to his footing, and within ten seconds he had dropped the bag with a thump.
Evidently a cloud of flour rose when he did, for Watson coughed in annoyance and fine powder floated to stick to his clammy hands.
He murmured an apology and plumped the bag onto its side, driving his elbow into it a few times to make an indentation of sorts. "There we are," he said briskly, feeling tentatively in the dark until his fingers again brushed tweed. "You'll feel a bit better lying down, Watson, now won't you?"
A murmured acquiescence gave him the permission to ease his friend back from the wall and down to a reclining position, and he was glad to hear a lucid enough word of thanks when the feat was accomplished.
But he was blind, not deaf, and had heard the intake of painful gasps, felt the clenching of tense, icy fingers on the edge of his jacket as the Doctor had moved, and perceived the shallowness of his breathing.