"Nonsense. We're bohemian enough to turn up our noses at such conventions as proper opera attire," he says with a lightness that doesn't reach very far. He looks in Watson's bag again and is far too relieved to find morphine there; he'd been having terrible, dark thoughts about morphine being hidden from him, about having to go to his Moroccan case.

He readies the needle, finds a vein, and tries not to think about how obviously skilled at this he is as compared to stitching wounds. Hopefully Watson's too sick with pain to be having similar thoughts.

"There we are," he murmurs once he's done, and he rolls Watson's sleeve back down. "Would you like me to help you change into something more comfortable?"