The sun was setting, inviting the darkness in, by the time his dropping body temperature's signal finally reached his occupied mind. He shivered and made his way back for a final nightly conversation – possibly the last for many weeks.
Watson was awake, propped up upon several pillows against the headboard, his hands folded neatly on the coverlet as a nurse finished taking his respiration and then left with a warning glare which Holmes knew he fully deserved.
"Good-evening, old fellow," he said softly, taking his accustomed seat beside the bed. "Did you sleep well?"
He received a (all things considered) cheerful nod, and a now-familiar twitch of moustache – Watson had not yet learnt to smile again, but it was obvious he was trying. Holmes clung to the small victory each time it happened, hoping that someday the real expression would manifest itself and bring the light back into his shadowed world.
A few minutes of uneasy silence – such a silence! – fell over the room. He picked nervously at a small leaf that had clung to his coat, shredding it accidentally and then clenching his fingers to prevent another nervous twitch.
Finally, acutely aware of a pair of worried eyes, he sighed. "Has your physician told you the results of this morning's tests?" His voice was carefully controlled, his expression painfully blank.
