"No, Sherlock, really—" John had set his coffee down and was ready to stand up, if need be. "Are you alright?"
Now that he really considered it, the detective did look a little rough… John had previously attributed that to just having spent too much time indoors, but maybe…
"Might've caught something earlier in the month," Sherlock offered casually, still trying to recover his usual poise.
"What, you mean like a cold, or something?"
"That… seems possible."
"Right, so… what had you been doing for it?" John unconsciously clasped his hands, the doctor in him rising to the surface.
Sherlock didn't look at him for very long before his gaze went wandering. "…doing for it…? Hm…"
"…you didn't do anything for it?" John's brow furrowed. "Not even… I don't know… tea?"
The detective scoffed out loud, rolling his eyes. "Of course I did. I made countless cups, even—oh…" He paused, apparently struck by realization. "Although I suppose they were still there later when I… ah. Right…"
"Sherlock. You're supposed to stay hydrated, especially when you're ill. Honestly—did you not know that?"
"Of course I knew that! I just… forgot."
"You… forgot."
"Yes, that's what I just said. Do keep up." Sherlock huffed, making his way over to the kitchen and putting on the kettle.
John raised an eyebrow. "Going to actually drink that one?"
"Yes, of course I am." Sherlock leaned against the counter's edge as the water began to boil, filling the kitchen with its familiar bubbly clamor. "I'm making it, aren't I?"
John just sighed quietly, shaking his head and finally going back to his coffee. "Put a bit of honey in it. Good for a sore throat."
It wasn't until shortly after John had returned that Sherlock became aware of how exhausted he really was.
For much of his flat-mates absence, sleep had seemed a pesky little nuisance that tugged at his shirtsleeve and whined at him to 'please, go to bed.' But a lot of the time he had shaken it off in favour of another nicotine patch, another sample under the microscope, another page typed out, or yet another late night violin performance for no one but himself. There had been a sort of gnawing feeling in him then—do more, don't waste time with sleep, get more done.
Now all of a sudden sleep was screaming at him.
Sleep had punched him in the face.
Sleep had given him two black eyes, and was shrieking like a banshee for him to stop, drop, and black out. And it was becoming near impossible to resist.
John's first day back on the job was relatively uneventful.
That wasn't necessarily a bad thing however, in the doctor's opinion, as there was usually no shortage of eventful situations when living with the world's only consulting detective.
A man had to have a break now and then.
On the way home John decided to pick up some take away for dinner, remembering that his flat-mate had begun to look a bit drawn and peaked, and hoping to get at least some sort of nutrition down him.
As John stepped into the flat and set the bags down, shrugging off his jacket and beginning to settle in, he was puzzled by a soft, unfamiliar sound which seemed to be originating from the living room.
He'd seen Sherlock on the sofa when he'd come in, but hadn't thought much of it, as the detective was wont to lounge about, just thinking. John had even mumbled a greeting to him, which, predictably, had gone unanswered.
But now, as John cautiously approached the sofa where Sherlock was curled with his back to the room, he realised what that sound was.
He just wasn't used to hearing the deep, even breathing of his flat-mate as he slept.
He wasn't used to Sherlock sleeping too much anyway.
John stood there for a long moment, watching his chest rise and fall steadily, and had to wonder just how long it had been since the detective had last had a good, long rest. Probably not for a while.
Muttering under his breath John turned and walked to Sherlock's bedroom, retrieving a blanket, which he brought back to his catatonic flat-mate and carefully draped it over his sleeping form.
Sherlock stirred slightly, but did not wake.
Straightening up, John crossed his arms over his chest, lips pursed. "Sherlock…" He shook his head tiredly. "You idiot…"