"Shh. I know," Watson said, soothing. He cradled Holmes's head against his shoulder, running his fingers over his hair and neck. The feverish heat he could feel against his own skin worried him terribly. It just felt wrong, more than anything, to have him so hot and sick against him. When he was better, Watson might very well demand answers as to what had happened and why Holmes had been so... so... so stupid as to hide it, but for now, he wanted to treasure him, to keep him safe.

All the same, he moved the damp cloth to Holmes's chest. His other hand moved, seeking, from Holmes's neck, under his arms, over his clavicle, feeling for swollen, tender lymph nodes. His eyes were closed; he worked by feel.