Watson's hair smells good -- certainly better than his own sickness, and he nuzzles until he buries his nose in it. He breathes in deep and slides an arm around Watson, wanting him warm and comforting and pressed close to him. The moment seems very fragile, far too fragile for him to comprehend fully right now, and he holds Watson tighter until it seems safe to speak again, or safer, anyway.

"I'll eat with you," he says quietly, because the thought of doing anything without Watson right now is wholly unappealing. And that includes more than simply eating.

Perhaps it's the illness; perhaps it's seeing Watson crying beside him, but right now Holmes feels his love for Watson so intensely that he fears his chest will collapse under the pressure. It's probably the sickness, he tells himself, but he presses closer anyway, aware that he's more or less clinging to Watson.