Watson curled his fingers into the hair on the back of Holmes's head, holding him near. Holmes was still alive, he had to remember that fact and hold onto it. He inhaled deeply, smelling illness, but also smelling everything that was intrinsically Holmes: his tobacco, his soap, the underlying scent that was simply himself. While there was life, there was hope.

"I should hold you to that," he said softly, "but that involves both of us letting each other go so I can go fetch it." He ran his thumb along the curve of Holmes's ear. "You must fight this. You must not ever give in to it. Promise me."