The pain had been an old friend, as familiar as the lullabies of my childhood. It proved my existence, kept me struggling against my abductors. The morphine put an end to that, denying me any touchstone to reality as neatly as it denied me all hope of escaping from under the attic floorboards. I drifted in my wooden coffin, only vaguely aware of police whistles and the crack of gunfire.

"Watson?"

I heard my name, distantly. Had I been in possession of my body, I might have tried to answer, but as it was I could do nothing but wait.