"Wats--" He starts to call out a name, a bit loudly, and a very first thought when something's gone amiss, inevitably, but also a name he's learned to train himself out of (sometimes, better days) in his absence at Baker Street. Especially now would it be silly to employ. Stupid, he chides, and shudders.

The entirety of him just feels wet and utterly clammy. This will not do in the slightest. His senses are dulled - there's nothing beneath his fingers but cold-- steel? Or some sort of alloy, perhaps, but smooth, hard, certainly metal. There are faint, high-pitched pips coming from a direction or two, sounds he can't recognize, voices he can't recognize, shuffling feet, new movements and words and he doesn't understand where this floor is from.

He needs his sight - he's lost without it - but every time he opens his lids, his eyes burn and his world reels in dangerous circles around him, and consciousness is not a preference right now, but a necessity. 'And so you have twenty seconds exactly,' he allows himself, inwardly, and after a slow and even count, forces his eyes open, and, oh.

Oh, how indecent. It's not that he has an inexperience with sensory overload, but. Well, if he's taking a moment to clutch at the nearest grav bed to drunkenly drink in the sights while his dizziness subsides, that is FINE. Because for the first absolutely heart-stopping moment in Sherlock Holmes' life -

He hadn't the faintest.