Cold... why was it so cold... Holmes tried to turn his head, which proved a mistake, stomach lurching as the room began to spin. He could barely move, limbs tightly bound.
The detective groaned as memory returned. So stupid, he should have seen at first glance that those two 'clients' were more than they seemed... and Watson... dear God, his poor friend must be out of his mind with worry, assuming he was conscious yet!
Holmes shivered, the stone floor he lay on seeming to grow colder by the second; the coat they'd draped over his shoulders to conceal his bound hands as they escorted him out to the cab was long gone. If he didn't free himself soon... he couldn't even feel his fingers...
"Hi, none of that!" A stab of pain to the back of Holmes's hand made his eyes snap open again. What in the world...? "Just you stay awake, Mr. Holmes," a shrill little voice commanded from behind him, "and lie still till I've got you loose!"
Still too muzzy from the chloroform to argue, Holmes obeyed. In a few moments, his arms were free, and he was able to stiffly raise himself... and stared open-mouthed at the mouse in the Inverness perched on his ankle, sawing at the last ropes with a shard of broken bottle...