Seeing Holmes discover his ruined shoulder, to actually see the result of a well-aimed jezail bullet with his own eyes, brought a terrible sinking feeling to Watson's stomach. To be laid out like this, to be undressed, by so handsome an individual and then have them discover your disfiguring injuries in full, the ones that all but crippled you when the weather was cold and damp... it was a special variety of sharp, agonizing dual emotions.

Suddenly tense, Watson made a small sound of what was not exactly protest, but a sort of confused gratitude, of deeply humbled awe that Holmes should pay attention to this most ugly part of him like this. He had been with no one since he'd been wounded, too ill or too ashamed, too secretly interested in his fellow-lodger and trying to deny it. No one had ever kissed it, no one had ever treated it so tenderly. There was a good deal he wanted to express in that moment, and no words at all for it, so he had to settle for that one small, confused sound.

Watson ran his fingers over the back of Holmes's neck, very tenderly, very grateful.