"Because I'm only myself," Watson sighed. With his damp, cool cloth in hand, he shed some of his own clothes and climbed into bed beside Holmes. This was definitely not appropriate physician's conduct, but these were extenuating circumstances, and there was, after all, no chance of contagion. He pressed the cool cloth against Holmes's forehead, even as he drew the blanket over the two of them.

This made things slightly better at least, slightly more bearable. Irrationally, he had the notion that this position would somehow help, as if he could draw Holmes's fever out of him by proximity, and bear it himself. He'd survived such things before, and worse.

"Most of my patients aren't so dear," he said softly.