I gently opened the door. Jackson had lowered the gas, casting a feeble glow onto the pale figure struggling to breathe.
I sat on the edge of the bed, laying an unsteady hand on Watson's forehead. He shifted slightly, moaning, but made no other move to acknowledge me. He was still burning, unconsciously coughing.
I picked up the cool cloth from the table, placed it on his forehead, then sat to wait.
And to think.
And my thoughts were nowhere near pleasant.
How could I have been so blind? I would never have forgiven myself had he not passed the crisis – I had dragged him all about London in an ice storm, not realising he was ill!
What kind of a friend was I? Watson always protected my back; I never had to fear anything. I was supposed to do the same for him.
And I had failed miserably. Completely. Utterly.
I was without doubt the lowest form of –
"Holmes?"
A hoarse whisper disintegrated my thoughts; I glanced up to see him looking at me with clouded eyes. I sat beside him and took his hand gently.
"Sorry – for s-scaring you," he murmured weakly.
No reproach for my atrocious conduct, only self-effacing consideration for my feelings.
I bowed my head over his hand, not wanting him to see my too-rapid blinking.