As a clock somewhere tolled one, he raised his head and listened for signs of aberrance in the routine of this place. Hearing nothing, he managed to struggle to a kneeling position on the hard cot, repressing a shiver that would have made the bed creak loudly.
His captors had not been inhumane compared to his expectations. Having his hands manacled together and chained to an iron bedstead would not be his position of choice, but it was better than not being able to recline at all. He had been fed, once a day; the worst thing was he had caught a bad cold from never changing out of his wet clothing seven days before.
But the fever and coughing were the least of his worries. He had tried to escape for days now, accomplishing nothing but draw attention to himself and slice his wrists painfully raw in the handcuffs. This was his last chance.
Holmes always joked with him about his army-born habit of keeping a handkerchief in his sleeve. His captors had not been prudent enough to check and see if he kept anything else with that handkerchief.
As he maneuvered the sliver of metal from his cuff yet again, he wondered absently how long it would be before Holmes discovered his smallest lock-pick was missing from his burglary-kit.