"Do you have to breathe so loudly?" Sherlock complained from his vantage point on the sofa, the blankets drawn close to his shoulders.

"I'm breathing like a normal human being," John replied patiently, paging through a magazine absently.

"Well, don't," Sherlock muttered.

Sherlock, as the morning wore on to afternoon, started to feel a bit better. Enough so that he had been able to coax his transport out of bed and stumble to the sitting room where he had flopped, lazily, onto the sofa with his blankets and sheet.

"Sorry," John said, without sounding sorry.

"I want more tea."

"Fix it yourself," John muttered.

"But I'm sick!"

"And you are still capable. Just as you are proving by continuously complaining at me..."

"I'm not complaining at you. I'm complaining to you."

"At me, Sherlock. You are complaining at me."

"Fine. Tea?"

"No."

"But I'm cold and my throat hurts!"

"Have a throat lozenge," John suggested.

"Where are they?" Sherlock said, looking again at John.

"Bathroom."

Sherlock sighed, drawing the blankets closer. He stretched out across the sofa, groaning slightly. He closed his eyes and buried his face into the blankets, shivering. He felt eyes on him and smirked to himself as he knew that John was looking at him.

He exhaled shakily, drawing his knees up to his chest yet again.

He heard John sigh before standing.

"I'll get you a throat lozenge," John said. "And after that, I'll make you some tea. Do you want another blanket?

Sherlock smiled, not looking up. "That sounds good."

"Do you always turn into a consulting five year old when you're sick...?" John muttered as he turned and traipsed towards the bathroom.

"What do you want for lunch?"

"Tomato soup," Sherlock replied immediately.

"With grilled cheese?" John asked.

"And Finz," Sherlock added.

"Alright."

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa now, his blankets drawn up to his chin and over his shoulders. His gaze was directed at the telly, where some musical programme was playing.

"John..."

"What, Sherlock?"

"This programme is stupid," he said, over a rendition of yet another song being sung on the movie. "The doctor is terribly angst-ridden and the women he pines after is ridiculously naive. Do they know nothing about the real world?"

"It's a movie, Sherlock."

"Yes, but it's stupid! He's a terrible villain! He's too nice to be a villain! And why is there so much singing?!"

The television suddenly flickered off.

Sherlock looked towards John, finding him holding the remote to the telly.

"Are you happy now?" John asked, throwing the remote onto the chair.

"Not really..." Sherlock muttered, curling a bit more under the blankets. "When will the soup be done?"

"I just put it on the stove, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed heavily, coughing. He sniffed afterwards, rubbing his nose. "Where are my tissues?"

"Did you leave them in the bedroom?"

"I'm not sure..."

"I'll check," John said, placing the bread for the grilled cheese in the frying pan. "Just give me a second."

"You should say 'minute'. You aren't going to walk to my room, pick up my tissues, and walk back to the sitting room in one 'second'..." Sherlock mumbled.

John sighed as he walked back to Sherlock's bedroom. He returned after a moment. "You are literally driving me insane, do you know that?" he asked, handing Sherlock the box of tissues.

"Figuratively, you mean..." Sherlock mumbled, taking a tissue.

"Whatever you say."

"Just don't burn my grilled cheese, John."

John sighed (again) as he walked back to the kitchen.

First half of this chapter inspired by Storylover18, who probably doesn't remember even suggesting the idea to me because it was awhile ago. =p Kudos to those who can guess what Sherlock was watching on the telly. Hint: It's not Sherlock Holmes related.

I do not own Sherlock. I also do not own the vaguely non-name mentioned movie Sherlock was watching. Thank you!