He's fallen into bed without bothering to undress. His shirt is undone, nervous fingers still ineffectually twitching at the buttons. His skin is so pale Watson can barely tell where the sheets end and his friend begins. There doesn't seem to be any variance in the cast of his skin. It's like marble, or ivory. It doesn't look alive. In that moment, he looks like a a Michelangelo statue, cheekbones too prominent, eyes too peacefully closed. The effect is ruined, though, by those emaciated hands, tendons far more prominent than they should be, spastically clutching the coverlet.
"Can't sleep, Watson?"