"I've got the –hic!- hiccups, if that wasn't perfectly obvious already." Sherlock says irritably, clamping his mouth shut as another convulsion shakes his body.
John allows himself a very small, very private smirk. His reaction has evidently already been completely mapped out in Sherlock's head as his flatmate whirls around in a flurry of expensive coat to glare at him accusingly.
"You're a doctor, you –hic!- fix people. Fix me!"
"There isn't a cure," John tells him, manfully keeping as straight a face as he can muster, "You'll just have to wait it out."
Sherlock rakes his hands through his unruly hair in impotent frustration. "How am I supposed to –hic!- think with this –hic!- racket going on, John!"
Told you they'd be short and unfinished!