Holmes's raised voice hurt his head; he was breathing, it was just hard to without coughing, which burned his ribs.
"Stop…shouting," he managed to croak crossly between gasps, massaging the bandage around his head with a moan.
"Sorry," Holmes's voice instantly dropped to a quaking whisper. "I'm sorry, Watson, I thought…Watson…"
His hand was pulled away, a cold – very cold – one replacing it. So welcome was the sensation (the room was unbearably hot) that he sighed, closing his eyes and turning his head toward it. But unfortunately the relief only lasted momentarily, for it left nearly as soon as it had come, accompanied by a low exclamation of alarm.
"Watson."
"Mmm?" He blinked hazily, trying to suppress another cough and only serving to make his head pulsate.
"I'm going to fetch that doctor – your fever's rising and I don't know why."
"It's called…a weakened immune system," he muttered with a faintly quirked smile that did not have the desired effect on Holmes's pale face. "Nothing…to worry about. 'S just a cold. And a headache," he added as an afterthought.
"You'll forgive me if I am not willing to gamble that your diagnosis is correct," Holmes replied, pulling down the smothering blankets and shouting for Mrs. Hudson before returning to dampen the washrag in cold water and place it on his brow.