"Watson."
He moved not a muscle, his breathing continued heavy as ever.
"Watson, wake up, old fellow," I repeated more urgently, shaking his shoulder.
He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'Go away, Holmes' but I persisted.
"Watson, wake up!" I shook him harder.
He either consciously or unconsciously rolled over, yanking the coverlet up round his neck. I pulled it back, allowing the frigid December air into the cocoon of warmth he had created, and he shivered and tried to replace it.
"No, you are not going back to sleep. Come on now, my dear fellow, Hopkins is waiting for us in the cab downstairs," I said sternly, "And he is already impatient, the case looks promising…Watson?"
His breathing, which had momentarily quickened at the cold air, had subsided back into his steady rhythm. Honestly, the man could, and had, slept through almost anything, anywhere.
"Watson, get up!" I said, annoyed now, "or I shall leave you here, and you will miss the entire case!"
Either he did not hear me or was pretending not to; I rather suspected the former. There was only one thing to do.
I took the pitcher of frigid water from the bedside table and dumped a half of it on his face.
The spluttering names he called me would have made a sailor blush.