"Is that necessary?" he complains, writhing under Watson's hands. "That isn't actually helping the pain. They're swollen; take my word for it." His eyelids feel hot and heavy, and it's good to close them; he wishes he could smell Watson better, but mostly all he can smell through his nose is the same smell of sickness that he tastes, that he feels crawling over his skin.

"On the bright side, I feel able to sleep," he mumbles, and he sighs, laying his hand on Watson's arm, which seems somehow cold, so horribly wrong, against his palm. He whines in his throat because he's sick and his Watson shouldn't feel wrong, and he should smell like Watson, and it's not fair that he doesn't.