Watson stared a moment, feeling lost and torn. His own name had never sound so beautiful and so sad, he thought. How lucid Holmes was was hard to tell.

"I'm here, old boy," he said, breathless. "Hold on for me." Reluctantly, he rose and all but ran to his medical bag, where he retrived a powder. His hands were still, miraculously not shaking, as he mixed it with a glass of water. Anything to bring the fever down, provided he could get some of it into Holmes.

At Holmes's side again, Watson slid his arm behind him. "I need you to drink this," he said, trying not to beg. "If you can."