The feel of damp cold on his forehead was what finally banished the disturbing dream, and despite the abrupt awakening he was grateful. For one terrifying moment he was afraid it had all been a dream, that he was still a prisoner – but then he successfully moved his arm and remembered the truth.
The gas was low, and the sun setting; orange light glowed at the edges of the curtains. A hand caught his as it shifted, and he blinked into focus the same face that had hovered protectively round the edges of his fever-dreams for the last few hours.
"Easy, Watson," Holmes said quietly, tucking in the twisted blankets. "Your fever's up again. How do you feel otherwise?"
He blinked, thinking about it. "A little thirsty," he admitted, vaguely remembering being given sips of water but not certain if that had been reality. He turned his head as the familiar coughing rose in his throat, and then slumped miserably back to the pillows (magically stacked up behind him) after the fit had passed, trying to catch his breath.
"You need to eat something as well, if you feel able," Holmes said earnestly, handing him a cup half-filled with lukewarm tea.
He sipped it gratefully and nodded. "I'd like that."
He could have laughed as his obviously worried friend fairly beamed.