Being reassured by Holmes's presence, he fell asleep again immediately and did not awaken until Mrs. Hudson entered with what smelled like chamomile tea and buttered toast, if his senses did not deceive. He had expected to see the good lady at some point, vaguely remembering her hovering worriedly somewhere before Holmes had returned with that physician.
What he had not expected to see, was that Holmes had apparently decided (or probably had gallantly fought but lost the battle) to collapse half-across his bed, half-curled in the chair, snoring softly. He tried for a moment to figure out how to maneuver his arm out from under the detective's limp head without waking him, and finally decided against trying; he looked so very exhausted.
"Should be, too, considering the fright you gave us all, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson scolded softly as she set down the tray.
He smiled down fondly at his unconscious friend. "I do apologise, Mrs. Hudson."
"Tut, 'twas not your fault, Doctor," the good lady replied, patting his shoulder (stepping carefully around Holmes's long legs). "Let me help you sit up a bit."
"Don't wake him," Watson whispered back, carefully raising himself and then settling back with a sigh as Mrs. Hudson plumped the pillows behind him.
"I shan't," she sniffed. "Anyway, he doesn't appreciate a good solid breakfast."