Watson considered for a moment, debating the wisdom of this. "You ought to have a drink," he advised, but he reached over to the bedside table, lit a cigarette, and passed it to Holmes. He didn't much feel like one himself, not now.

"Did the paracetamol help any?" he asked, hardly daring to hope that it had. "Perhaps a cool bath might make you more comfortable."

He was fussing, just a little. He knew he was. He couldn't help it. He was frightened -- and he was not a coward, very little in the world honestly frightened John Watson -- and he would have given his own right arm, his own life to ensure Holmes's well-being, just now.