"AHHH-CHOOOOO!"
A loud sneeze echoed through the penthouse apartment. Mr. Peabody, who had been deep into rewiring the WABAC Machine, jumped at the sudden noise and smacked his head on the control panel. Rubbing his pounding head, he rushed toward the sound just in time to see Sherman step out of the elevator and sniffle noisily. Mr. Peabody frowned, his green eyes clouding over slightly, and watched as his son shuffled over to the couch and all but collapse upon it.
"Sherman, my boy, are you feeling all right?" Mr. Peabody asked.
"Dohh," said Sherman. "I feel terrible, Bister Peabody. By head hurts and by nose is plugged and by throat feels like sandpaper..."
Mr. Peabody put one paw to his son's forehead. "You have a fever, too, my boy."
Sherman sighed miserably and closed his eyes. Mr. Peabody nudged him awake, however, and held out a paw. "Let's get you into bed, Sherman. You are far too big for me to carry."
He took his father's paw quietly because he was too ill to complain. Or say much in general.
In Sherman's bedroom, Mr. Peabody helped him into bed and pulled up his blankets. As he was walking out a few minutes later, Sherman lifted his head and said, "Sing the Beautiful song?"
And because his father was really just a big softy, he smiled and said, "Of course, my boy."
Sherman laid against the pillows as his father sang him off to sleep. Once he was sleeping, Mr. Peabody left his son's room, murmuring, "Feel better, my boy."