Oh. Oh. She's sure coming out and saying, dear, it doesn't bother me one way or the other if you two are homosexuals, is really going to do any good, and anyway, she doesn't think she's that bohemian so as to say it right out loud. Instead, she gathers Watson into her arms and hugs him to her, firmly. It's not a brief hug; they aren't strangers, not in her book, and she doesn't want him to think for one second that they aren't friends.

"I expect you will," she says softly as she pulls away, and she squeezes his upper arms. "I'll be downstairs if you've need of me. No matter what time of night." He knows that, she expects, but it feels good to say it anyway, because the idea of having to sit downstairs while all of this transpires is a little... nerve wracking. At least Watson can tend to him; she can only futz around and make tea and knit.