Though aware that Holmes had been involved in some case recently, Watson wasn't sure what it had been or what it had involved. He was aware, too that things had not gone well, for Holmes was now in this sulk on the sofa. There was no sense in rushing him out of it, but that didn't make it any easier to bear.

Coming inside from the weather, Watson ascended the stairs, and hung his coat and hat on the rack just in the door. A quick glance confirmed that Holmes was -- distressingly, depressingly, unsurprisingly -- still lounging lethargically about their rooms. He was torn between annoyance and grief at this; he wasn't quite sure how much longer he was supposed to put up with it.

Sighing, he wandered over to Holmes, trying to judge if he was truly asleep, and wondering if he ought to wake him up anyway. "Have you eaten at all?" he asked, loudly, with a bit of a sigh in his voice. As he drew near he observed the sheen of sweat, the flush of his skin, and that alarmed all his professional instincts. He laid his hand alongside Holmes's face, and his heart seized in his chest at the feel of fever burning there.

"Holmes, talk to me."