"You're flushed," John noted.
Another week later, Sherlock was sitting over his microscope examining dirt samples that John had picked up for him from a crime scene.
"It's warm in here," he muttered, not looking up.
John shook his head. "No, it's really not."
Sherlock ignored him, hoping he would go away.
He did, only to return with a thermometer.
"Open," he demanded.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but allowed John to stick the thermometer under his tongue and waited until it beeped.
"You have a fever," John noted. "That's bad. Very bad."
Sherlock sighed. "Well, it'd hardly be good."
"Shirt," John ordered, getting to his feet. "And go sit on the couch."
Sherlock sighed again, more dramatically this time, but shrugged his shirt off like John had ordered him to and slouched on the couch.
"You should probably go to the hospital, even if it's just to get some labs done, but I doubt you'll go for that."
Sherlock grunted in response.
John shook his head, returning with one of the bags Mycroft had left. It had stayed in the corner up until now, John not needing it. If only it could stay that way.
He began attaching the sticky pads to Sherlock's chest and connected them to wires.
"Really John?" Sherlock sighed.
"Yes. Shut up and put this on," he ordered, throwing a finger clip at him.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and thought about protesting, but knew he would only end up in the same place, and one of those options had a far grumpier John.
"Your sats are good, and your heart rhythm is normal, if a little bit accelerated," John noted. "Take some paracetamol and a nap."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really?"
John stared him down. "You can't afford to get sick. Your heart is already working harder than it should be, and you don't need to stress it out further."
Sherlock sighed, but swallowed the pills John threw at him, and reluctantly curled up on the couch.
"Tell Lestrade none of them are a match," he murmured.
John smiled. "Sure."