Q's glasses are in his breast pocket, one arm folded, the other missing and now in possession of the guy called Sherlock. Not that he needs them, not that it's important, but sometimes they're a comfort thing.
He touches them, wonders if they'll help him work out his way home and then realises that that is a ridiculous notion. He doesn't know where he is. There's grass, damp, crispy with frost in the distance. The distance that melts into mountains. Q thinks he needs to run again, if only to keep warm. And away from the mountains. But if he goes back into the trees he won't be able to see and he'll probably impale himself. Impale himself or die of exposure out here- both seem equally nasty.
Trembling, he quickens his pace and follows the edge of the forest. It can't go on forever. Nothing can go on forever.