Though he had dozed off a little, Watson was too light a sleeper to continue long with Holmes moaning. As he woke, he fixed his gaze on Holmes, and he felt the blood drain from his face. No, no, no. He knew this too well, both from living it and treating it, and seeing Holmes like this now was horrifying behond all words. It wasn't fair, not nearly; he loved this man, and he wasn't ashamed of it -- not really, not honestly -- and to lose him now would be the worst sort of sin against the natura of love.

He pressed his hand lightly against Holmes's chest, feeling the fresh flush of fever. "Holmes? Holmes, can you hear me?" He didn't hold out much hope for that, but he had to ask. He felt positively ill with terror, wished vaguely that he could take himself off somewhere and vomit away the fear.

He didn't know what to say. "I love you" ad infinitum seemed woefully inaccurate.