He bit his lip in vexation but made certain to hide his mounting concern by inspecting a fast-swelling bruise.
Watson hissed through clenched teeth despite his gentleness, and he removed his arm from behind the Doctor's head, settling him back with all possible care.
"Holmes…" Watson breathed shallowly. "You'd better…jus' worry about…getting us out 'f here."
"Watson, I –"
Unfocused eyes sharpened insistently. "Even if…you c-could diagnose accurately…wouldn't help any." He reached clumsily to clench an unsteady hand upon Holmes's flour-dusted sleeve.
Holmes could not argue with that logic, but that did not require him to easily accept it. "But – "
"Holmes…'s all right." A faint smile. "Look, I – I can move, see? 'S just…not qu-quite right somehow…"
Lips pursed, he finally nodded and moved Watson's limp hand back under the quilt, tucking it securely. The Doctor's eyes slid closed, and his breathing deepened into a shuddering sigh.
"Stay awake," he cautioned again, and received a ready nod. "Good. I found a saw-blade, Doctor, and perhaps I can cut through those planks that bar the outside of that trapdoor; we shall see, at any rate."
"Good luck," Watson whispered.
"Just hold on, old fellow," he replied softly.
His last sight before extinguishing the lantern was that endearing, trusting smile which had fascinated him from the moment they met, twenty-five years before.