He blinked for a moment before Holmes settled back, his hands clasped nervously. "How are you feeling?"
"Very tired," he whispered, swallowing on the cough that rose.
"Is there anything you need before you get some sleep?" Holmes inquired, his voice soft. "The physician said you'd been hurt."
"Well, I didn't go down without a fight, if that's what you mean," he murmured drowsily.
Holmes chuckled, an airy, relieved sound. He had not meant it as humorous, but if it would erase the worry lines from Holmes's eyes, then all the better.
"But one thing," he whispered suddenly, forcing his eyes back open to meet Holmes's, which had never left him.
"Yes, dear chap?"
"I'm…sorry." Holmes frowned, and he hurried on, feeling heat unrelated to the fever (indeed he was still shivering) spread over his face. "I was afraid those things I said…would be the last you remembered of me."
He'd no idea what he'd said that would cause the detective to lower his eyes, blinking dark, shivering lashes with abnormal rapidity, but it was a full minute before Holmes rose and pulled another blanket from his wardrobe, spreading it over him.
"No, my dear Watson," he heard finally, just before he fell asleep with Holmes's hand on his shoulder. "The last I would have remembered would be my own boorishness."