Watson's expression faltered a little; that had been precisely what he'd wanted, desperately, to hear. He was silent for a long moment, trying to work out exactly what to say, how to say it, trying to make himself believe completely.

At last, he shifted the blanket a little, extending a hand towards Holmes. "The sofa can't be very comfortable," he murmured. His expression was a little haunted, a little sad, a little relieved. "Would you... would you come to bed?"

Sex was the last thing on his mind, but he needed some degree of closeness which he'd missed terribly.