Watson gave a hiss through his teeth as he saw the state of the wound. "Next time leave the doctoring to me," he said sternly. He laid his fingers over the bandage, feeling the heat of it, even past the heat of fever. Infection. No doubt that was it, no doubt that was why Holmes had a fever. That frightened him more than anything; he had seen too many men die of such infections, had come to close to being such a one himself. To see Holmes in this state, to possibly lose him because of this... he couldn't le thimself think it. It was too horrifying, and dwelling on that now would help nothing.

He peeled the bandage off, and could not really hide his wince. "Oh, you've done a fine job on yourself, certainly," he snapped. It was terrible bedside manner, but most patients were not... were not his friend, his partner, his lover, his almost spouse, all the very many things Holmes was to him.

Watson rose again, and slipped his arm under Holmes's shoulders, supporting him as much as he could. "Bed. Come on."