With his teeth gritted against the pain -- familiar pain, whatever else it might be -- Watson watched Holmes stitch him up, his expression critical, approving. His breathing was unsteady, but deep. He felt positively sick, but he knew it to be the sort of thing worth struggling through.

"You'll do," he said hoarsely. He leaned his head back against his chair, trying to centre himself, trying to keep his head from spinning.

Swallowing hard, Watson tried to remember the next steps to take. "One more thing I need you to do," he said. "No, two. Two things. First, bandage my arm up. Second..."

He hesitated, weighing it out. "Second, a small dose of morphine would not be amiss."