A/N: mischiefmanaged101 gave me the probing little prompt of "Sherlock, John, and ice cream". I spent quite a while puzzling over what to do for this one.
John was sick. Sherlock didn't have a case and John was sick. It was that nasty cold virus that infected three quarters of the population of London (barring Sherlock, of course. He wasn't susceptible to such trifles as being ill) every winter.
John took a few days off from work because he was feeling "bloody miserable" and laid on the sofa curled up under a woolen blanket. Sherlock had little to engage himself at the time- a few armchair cases, as he liked to call them, but nothing serious. When he tried to talk to John, John replied in a hoarse few words and turned his face back to the sofa cushions. It was irritating, for occasionally John's conversation was stimulating and now he was just lying there unable to talk.
On the second day that John stayed home, Sherlock went out, bought a tub of ice cream, and brought it back to the flat. He walked over to the sofa and held it out to John. John raised himself up on one elbow and regarded Sherlock with obvious confusion.
"You went to the grocery?" John asked.
"Yes, I bought ice cream."
"But you went to the grocery?"
"Yes."
"Did Mrs. Hudson tell you to?"
"No."
"Is that for me?"
"Yes, John; It is my understanding that cold foods are soothing to the throat affliction you're developed. If that's wrong, I can take it-"
"No, no, it's fine. It's just…you…at the grocery. "
"I did at one point have to provide substance for myself without you."
"Yeah, I suppose you did. Can I have a spoon?"
Sherlock deposited the ice cream on John's lap and went to the kitchen to fish out a relatively clean spoon from the labyrinth of their kitchen. He handed it to John and assumed his perch in his armchair with John's laptop. John ate the ice cream, still with a mildly confused look.