The key didn't fit the derbies, and unlike some people I could mention I have had considerably more important skills to learn in my life than picking locks with every hair-pin and ice-pick available. After reassuringly patting the Doctor's shoulder, I walked over to Cummings, who was eyeing Mr. Holmes with eyes as wide as meat-platters.
"Inspector –"
"Don't ask," I sighed, glancing around at the mess. Oh, lovely. "What kept you?"
"Magistrate's signature. We're loading the gang into wagons now."
A growling detective and a small yelp turned my attention back to the fiasco at hand. "You were going to WHAT?" the amateur snarled. I blinked as the petrified thug's toes left the ground momentarily, and Cummings squirmed uneasily.
"Inspector, hadn't we better –"
"Yes, Cummings, but there's a way to go about these things without getting one's self on the receiving end of that man's temper, believe me. Observe and learn, Constable. Mr. Holmes!" I barked sharply, seeing the Doctor suddenly sway unsteadily on his feet, reaching out with his shackled hands for the wall.
The amateur paused, glared demonically at me. I merely slid my glance over to the Doctor, and he followed it.
Cummings jumped when the would-be murderer was roughly tossed at our feet, as Mr. Holmes sprang across the room to catch his collapsing biographer.