"Shut up," he told Sherlock firmly, the dread of having to endure this without him splitting through his hasty defenses like water that had seeped through the cracks and frozen. "You are not dying on me. You're a complete and utter prick and you think absolutely nothing of drugging me for science or growing stachybotrys cultures in my favourite mug, but not even you, Sherlock Holmes, would leave me here. Now give me your goddamn hand."