It wasn't until after midnight that I dared venture deeper into the damp cellar where Holmes had been imprisoned, leaving the lantern behind me. He was calmer, or more exhausted, by then, and had grown accustomed enough to dim light to keep his eyes open for minutes at a time. They glittered at me as I crept closer, inch by careful inch, waiting again and again for the tension to leave his shoulders.
I talked softly the whole time, although I can not vouch for what I said. Lestrade swears I was reduced to nursery rhymes by three in the morning, when at long last Holmes allowed me to settle beside him and gather his cold, half-starved body to my own. For a moment he stiffened, and I held my breath, wondering if he would take another fit, but instead he rested his head against my chest, as if listening for my heart. "Watson," he whispered, and I felt the fear running out of him, felt the sleep he so needed overwhelm his last defenses. I kissed the top of his head, too glad to hear his voice to think twice about the gesture.
"Yes, Holmes," I said. "I'm here."
inspired by a picture by Delirium