Watson didn't speak at first. He couldn't speak, and he certainly didn't trust his voice. He pulled himself close, into the heat of Holmes's fever, the firmness of his body, the familiarity of it.

"I am sorry for my doubts," he whispered, hoarsely. "I am sorry for every fear that's ever afflicted me. It's wrong of me. It's all wrong, because I belong with you, we are meant to be together, in every sense. You cannot... you cannot..."

Inhaling shakily, Watson concluded, "If you ever do anything this damnfool stupid again, I'll kill you myself." It was simpler to channel his terror into a small burst of anger, though there was very little real fury in his voice. He was still mostly just frustrated, afraid.