Watson seems to be speaking to him at the end of a tunnel, and Holmes struggles to comprehend. Drink something. It's concerning to be propped near Watson's shoulder, and now Holmes can see his leg, in the same shape. He wants to drink this thing, whatever it is, for Watson's sake; he shouldn't be too troubled when he's hurt like this.

He parts his lips and lifts a hand, but his arm is heavy; he swallows down the drink when Watson tips it into his mouth, and he's disconcerted when some of it dribbles out. He coughs, tries lifting his arm again, and manages to wipe at his face.

"Sorry," he mumbles, but his head's throbbing now from the coughing, and he groans again, reaching for a kind of oblivion to fall into.