John pulled the pillow over his face and buried himself deeper under the duvet. "Sod off, Sherlock," he croaked out in a scratchy voice. He felt like death warmed over. No, he didn't even feel that well. He felt like a three day old corpse.
The figure stood in the bedroom doorway didn't offer to go away. Instead, Sherlock moved silently into his friend's room. "It's half four and I haven't seen you all day."
"That's because I feel like shit, Sherlock." John's throat burned and his eyes were scratchy. His mouth was dry, but he was too tired to get up and do something about it.
"Mrs. Hudson warned me that doctors make horrible patients." Sherlock turned on his heel and disappeared, much to the doctor's relief. John could get back to the business of feigning death in peace.
An eternity later, or possibly only moments later, the doctor groaned as he heard Sherlock climbing the steps to his room again. "I said, sod off."
"Impossible. As I ascertained upon my last visit to your room, you've had exactly one glass of water and twelve crackers today. Unlike me, you require regular sustenance. I have therefore brought you some tea, soup and paracetamol. All of which will be gone before I leave your room again."
John pushed his pillow back, risking exposing one eye to the light in the room. The detective really had made him tea and soup. The paracetamol would be welcome too. He would have taken some hours ago if it hadn't required moving. "Thank you."
Sherlock snorted. "Don't thank me. Your continued illness is an annoyance. I simply wish for you to return to full capacity so you can help me on cases."
"Right." John hid his smile and sat up in bed, taking the tray and setting it across his lap. "Sentiment has nothing to do with it."
"Nothing at all," Sherlock agreed and if he smiled just a bit, well, there was only John to see.