Thankfully Watson always could read between his blurred lines.
"When…have I ever…" he tightened his grip, as if by sheer willpower keeping the inevitable at bay, "refused to…f-forgive you?"
"Never." Then, after a painful swallow, "Thank you, my friend." Cold fingers tightened weakly around his, then ghostly silence.
Finally, "You never…c-came back to…th' long version."
He so wished to pierce darkness for one last look, but conjured up a smile. "No, I did not. What, pray, is the long version?"
Watson was smiling, he could tell. "You…" he breathed shallowly, "you…helped me…to forget."
He blinked. "The War, you mean?"
"That…and th' fact…that I w-was crippled…had no job, or p-prospects…or family…f-frien's, for that matter…" He could feel Watson was shivering worse now, and he clenched his jaw hard enough it ached more than his heart. "You…helped…more than…you'll ever know, Holmes."
He attempted answering, but found that the remainder of his composure had melted completely.
"Twenty-five years…" Watson murmured. "A man can be…s-satisfied…with that, I think. Thank you…Holmes."
A full minute died before his spasming throat resumed the power of speech. When it did, he discovered his friend had finally fallen asleep; breathing but unconscious, hand limp.
He would not wake him now.
"Thank you, my dear Watson," he echoed quietly, reverently, and wished he had possessed the courage to say it before.