As a soldier, he had learnt to sleep anywhere, but illness and discomfort prevented more than a light doze, out of which he started fitfully when the door-lock rattled, signifying his last chance for escaping.
He had refused, for it could do no good but rather harm to his morale, to dwell on the fact that the gang had nearly finished their moving preparations and were scheduled to leave this very morning. Their leader had taken a deal of ridiculous pleasure in detailing to him just what they were going to do with – or to – him before they left, so that when Holmes found him he would be too busy looking after him for pursuit.
If Holmes did find him, he had finished the thought in his head rather than giving the man the satisfaction of reacting. Not that he doubted his friend's willingness to destroy heaven and earth and hell too, if necessary, to find him – but they were simply running out of time.
He stifled a weak cough and drew breath hoarsely, giving the semblance of deep sleep. If he feigned ill unconsciousness, his jailor might draw near enough to be grabbed, kicked unconscious, and searched for a gun with which to blow apart the handcuffs.
Either way, he was certainly not going to go down without a battle.