"Easy, easy," Watson soothed. He put the glass aside, and stroked a hand over Holmes's hair. "Just stay with me. I'm right here, stay with me."

He held onto that idea; so long as Holmes could stay lucid enough, perhaps everything would be okay. He had to cool him down, he knew that. This fever was becoming too worrisome to let it run its course. He wanted to weep, didn't dare to.

One-handed, he reached for the washcloth in the basin, wrung it out one-handed, placed it carefully on Holmes's forehead, watching closely.