"You mus'n'…blame yourself," greeted him kindly from the darkness.
He sighed, and hesitantly felt in the dark until he reached an icy hand to return his trembling clasp. "You never were fooled by me, were you?" he asked with melancholic fondness. "You knew I wasn't getting through."
"I knew," the Doctor whispered, clinging tightly to his hand. "I – I didn' realise…about the air, though…'t-til a few minutes…ago."
"I – I was hoping you would just fall asleep, Doctor," he managed through a fast-melting shell of ice, constructed in fragile fragments around his composure. "Watson, I…" he swallowed, and felt the grip on his hand tighten with a surprising strength, given the circumstances.
"I know, Holmes…I know."
He nodded dumbly, forgetting Watson could not see it, and curled up in a miserably long-legged huddle with his head on the extra flour-sack, his free arm curled beneath it.
A faint cough. His friend's grip tightened painfully until it passed. "It'll be…all righ', Holmes," he heard, and for once he was not the one telling falsehoods.
Both their hands were shaking. "Are you cold, old fellow?"
"I'm…f-freezing, actually…" was the faint confession.
He tried to tuck the quilt in tighter, for all the good it would do now. "I am so very sorry, Watson," he whispered, and did not mean for the lack of blankets.