He could hear voices outside; the calm, reassuring tones of the physician, Holmes's high-pitched exclamations, and Lestrade's atypically patient remonstrances, all jumbled together.
He'd woken up to a strange man hovering over him, but was immediately set to rest with the fellow's professional (and thankfully quick) manner. Within ten minutes the physician had finished, to his relief, and with a knowing smile and a word of precautionary instruction (he appreciated not being insulted by a list of treatments that he already was well aware of) left the room.
He shivered and curled up on his less painful side under the blankets with his bandaged head resting upon his (also bandaged) wrist, very glad indeed to have the cozy warmth; he had begun to think he should never ever get warm again, much less warm and comfortable.
So comfortable, in fact, was this limp feeling of complete safety that he did not immediately open his eyes when the door creaked and light footsteps moved softly beside him. A chair scooting. Silence. A cold hand gently examining the bandage, brushing the hair out of the way to check that the physician had done his job properly.
He smiled, pitying the poor doctor who had come up against a distraught Sherlock Holmes, and opened his eyes to see his friend sitting beside the bed.