Sherlock groaned and rolled out of bed, a sign of weakness that he would only show when alone. His mouth was like sandpaper, his throat was on fire and his limbs ached. Even after he bushed his teeth and had a shower, he felt terrible. His reflection in the mirror revealed that he was paler than usual. He stayed in his dressing gown, just for the hugging comfort of it and made his way to the living room.
John still wasn't awake yet but it wouldn't be long until he was, at least judging by the volume of Sherlock's ticklish coughing. Sherlock sat down on the sofa, his thinking only interrupted when he coughed. He was becoming irritated with his immune system for letting him get sick in the first place. He had cases to solve – he didn't have time to laze around like he was now. He could be lazy afterwards.
Ignoring the headache that thinking seemed to be inducing, Sherlock shuffled to the kitchen. The harsh sunlight streaming through the window was doing nothing to help his head. He made himself a cup of strong tea, a last ditch attempt to ease his suffering.
When John made his first venture into the living room of the day, he found Sherlock sound asleep on the sofa, an empty mug left on the floor where it fell. His chin was resting on his chest and his head tipped forwards, so all John could see was curly hair. He was still in his dressing gown.
"Sherlock?" ventured John, tip-toeing as quietly as he could over to his flatmate. There was no response. He shook the man's shoulder. "Sherlock," he repeated, a little louder this time.
Sherlock jerked awake, shouting, "It was the toaster!" He saw John's raised eyebrow and his mouth clamped shut. "Morning," he said, hoarsely.
"Morning," John echoed. He knew a sick man when he saw one, and since it was Sherlock, he didn't beat around the bush. "You're sick." His skin was pale, he was lethargic and he kept wincing when he swallowed. It didn't take a genius, just a good doctor.
"I'm not," Sherlock insisted. Of course he did.
"Then why are you in your dressing gown?" asked John.
"I don't feel like wearing clothes today."
John rubbed the bridge of his nose and screwed up his face. "Is there any way to un-say that sentence?"
Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment. "Not that I know of."
"Okay. So you're not sick, then?" He decided that playing along with the clearly ill man would keep the peace for the moment.
"Absolutely not. Never. I don't get sick."
Sherlock coughed and tried to hide it behind a fake laugh, but it just made him cough even harder. John sighed and rubbed his back until the coughing subsided. When he was finished, Sherlock jerked away.
"Would you like some more tea?" asked John. A nod.
He went into the kitchen and waited for the kettle to boil, putting a bottle of cough medicine on the table and then, when he'd made the tea, he put the steaming mug beside the bottle.
Sherlock joined him when called and sat down at the table, giving the medicine bottle a distrustful look.
"Take the medicine and I won't ask Mrs Hudson to give it to you," said John. He knew that would work – Mrs Hudson did like to take care of 'her boys'. Once she finds out about Sherlock's cough, she'll be up and down with tea and biscuits several times a day.
He received a glare, but Sherlock dutifully took a spoonful of the foul, honey-coloured liquid.
"Just to clarify," he said, taking a sip of his tea, "I'm not sick."
"'Course not."