That his hands were shaking, had been for hours from a severe attack of chills as the temperature dropped in the draughty room, was no excuse for such clumsiness. The chain confining his wrists to the bedstead measured only six inches, and the lock-pick had fallen far from the bed.
Spent and shivering, he slumped downward onto the thin pillow, arms above his head, wincing as the restraints chafed at already-raw skin.
Ever since Holmes had mentioned casually that he always carried a razor-blade hidden in his cuff, he had out of pure whim decided to carry a lock-pick around with him, thinking that between that and Holmes's tools, they should be able to get out of anything.
Holmes would have gotten free by now, he reflected miserably. Actually, he never would have stupidly got himself captured in the first place.
To make things worse, the last words he had had with his friend had been rude and unthinking.
He curled up miserably into as tight a ball as possible to conserve heat, and hoped desperately that the young man (who had obviously gotten in over his head in this gang's mess) he'd treated a week ago for an infection from a nearly-healed bullet-wound had succeeded in his promise – to see that his wallet got to Holmes or the closest bobby.