"If it's unpleasant," Watson muttered, "you almost deserve it." As soon as he'd said it, he hated it, hated himself, but there was no sense in wishing it back. He was lashing out, that was all. God forgive him.

He was infinitely grateful for that touch in his hair.

"This will be some of the worst of it, I expect," he added, more gently. He hoped so. If they were very lucky, he could hope so without impunity. Somewhere past his anger and his fear was now a feeling of hurt, a resentment that Holmes had not told him this, that he had had no idea his lover had been stabbed in the leg, and some days ago by the look of it. He was a fool, possibly, for not realising sooner.