"An infection." Watson was wringing his hands, he found, and he stopped himself. Now he hadn't any clue what to do with his hands; he took the offered brandy gladly. "He was injured, and it's become infected. He's sleeping now, thankfully."

Better that Holmes sleep through the worst of this than suffer awake, surely. Watson took a swallow of brandy, staring at his feet, his hands, his glass, anywhere but at Mrs. Hudson.

"His fever is quite high," he confessed.