He had fallen asleep just after Holmes squeezed his shoulder gently and then bolted from the room, leaving Mrs. Hudson to play nurse, and so remained blissfully ignorant of the tense drama that unfolded in his bedroom in the long hours of that night.
Head trauma and fevers did not go well together, so he knew, but he had hardly thought it necessary to point the fact out. It was not that bad; he had certainly had worse. Yes, he was incredibly weak – weaker than he had let on to Holmes, naturally – from malnutrition, and in rather a lot of pain, but that was no reason to have in a physician. Holmes was worrying himself too much already, but he unfortunately no longer had the strength to protest against his friend's dashing about in a rainstorm after a police physician. He was too tired, and his head hurt. Quite a lot, actually…and the atmosphere of the room was growing warmer every minute, except for the small moments where the temperature would plummet and leave him coughing and shivering under the blankets…
He did not realise until his eyes flickered open two days later to see an even paler and more shaken Sherlock Holmes huddled in the chair beside his bed, eyes shadowed and face care-worn, exactly how bad it had been.