[ He doesn't care if Sherlock is warm or cold or anything else. He's there and real; that's more than enough for him.
He wishes he could heal. He wishes he could do more than destroy things, like some ugly, bad part of him says good for destruction and nothing else.
But he can't. Nothing can change that. Nothing can change the way he's made.
Eventually, he withdraws, but he seems reluctant to let go of him entirely. He rubs his eyes in a feeble attempt to make the tears stop.
Wordlessly, he tugs Sherlock in the direction of the infirmary instead. If he can't help him, he can at least make sure he goes somewhere that he can get help. ]
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He wishes he could heal. He wishes he could do more than destroy things, like some ugly, bad part of him says good for destruction and nothing else.
But he can't. Nothing can change that. Nothing can change the way he's made.
Eventually, he withdraws, but he seems reluctant to let go of him entirely. He rubs his eyes in a feeble attempt to make the tears stop.
Wordlessly, he tugs Sherlock in the direction of the infirmary instead. If he can't help him, he can at least make sure he goes somewhere that he can get help. ]