"Do you need anything else? Tea, maybe?"
Sherlock's stomach lurched at the very thought of it, and his sore throat rebelled, making him cough again.
He didn't want anything.
He would just be sicker.
And this was already misery.
He shook his head, curling into the blanket's warm embrace and letting the comfort of it seep into his aching bones and muscles. And suddenly...
Too hot.
Way too hot.
He struggled to push it off of himself, but found to his dismay that it was much harder than he had anticipated, and he tried not to wheeze with the effort.
John had been watching him, and now leaned over and gently untangled the blankets from Sherlock's limbs. The cool air was a relief on his feverish skin, and he breathed a silent thanks to his blogger for being so patient with something as silly as this.
He ought not to be this sick.
He had a fairly strong immune system.
Didn't he?
He never got sick, usually. At least, nothing he couldn't manage with a little moping and lying about.
This was an abnormality.
An acute anomaly.
And he cursed it for lowering him to such a helpless state, when he had things to do and cases to solve.
John was watching him. "Are you sure? It might help soothe your throat."
Sherlock shook his head, in his mind zeroing in on what he really did want: a lozenge. He opened his mouth to speak-but the action set off another volley of unavoidable hacking.
That stupid itch in the back of his throat...
"Alright..." John began again. "How about some cough medicine? It'll be vile-tasting, but it should help that nasty cough you've got."
Bless John.
Bless him for knowing just what to do, for being a doctor, and a good attendant.
And fucking curse the flu.
It had been about twenty minutes since Sherlock had fallen back asleep.
In the hour before that John had fetched him water several times, as well as a bottle of cough syrup, which he'd measured out into a spoon and held out to the detective. Sherlock had eyed it warily, suddenly very put off by the hideous, sickly-sweet smell of it.
"Come on. Just take it, it'll help." John had stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while Sherlock gazed up at him with plaintive eyes and wayward curls.
"...No."
"Sherlock. Take it. One spoonful."
"No."
"Take the damn medicine, okay?"
"I'll live with the cough."
"Like hell you will. I want to be able to sleep too, you know."
Sherlock had pulled a stubborn pout, and John exhaled loudly in exasperation.
Damn him.
Damn Sherlock Holmes, the big baby.
"I'll stop getting you water."
"Then I'll drink blood."
"Wha-? Okay, fine. I'll turn the heat off."
"Then you'll be cold too."
"Sherlock, take the fucking medicine before I strangle you with my bare hands."
This had elicited a wan smirk from the detective, and he'd reached out and taken the spoon from John, swallowing the pinkish-coloured syrup in one go, and making a horrible face and nearly gagging a moment later.
"I told you it would be vile." John snipped, taking the spoon back and heading to the kitchen.
Soon enough Sherlock's ragged voice came to him from the living room.
"John..."
"What now?"
"Thanks, or something..."