London
1886

John Watson woke trussed and weak. Upon regaining consciousness he retched until he could hardly breathe. Blasted chloroform always affected him so. His arms were so tightly pinioned behind his back it caused his bad shoulder to throb.

For hours he lay there, cold from the damp stone floor seeping into his very being. His weak calls for help remained unanswered.

Suddenly there was an inquisitive snuffling in the room.

A cold, wet nose and a whiskery muzzle nudged him insistently. A warm tongue washed his face.

Good old Toby! If he were here, Holmes could not be far behind.


Author's Notes: Another response for the prompt: Kitten (or another equally fuzzy animal) and apologies to those who did not appreciate the fuzzy animal in the previous chapter (A Tail of the Trenches).

This can be read this as a conclusion to the situation which began in Chapter 2 (Miasma).