When John at last climbed the steps and opened the door to 221B his arms were laden with grocery bags, and he was quick to drop them off on the kitchen counter.
Only after that did he turn his attention to the consulting detective seated on the edge of the sofa, eyes shut and head down, quite still.
He seemed to be focussing on breathing.
"Sherlock...? Are you alright?" John crossed the living room and approached him, with the intent to feel his forehead to see if he was still feverish. But as he raised his hand the still statue of a detective spoke, as if he could predict John's movements without looking.
"Don't."
John frowned, pausing. "What?"
"Don't... touch me... or I'll vomit."
He took a step back preemptively. "...Are you warning me, or threatening?"
Sherlock didn't open his eyes, but he did arch his brows and set his jaw, which John took to mean 'a little of both.'
"Er... I'll get you a bowl, just in case." He backed away a little more and retreated to the kitchen. "But earlier you said you hadn't eaten in almost two days-I doubt there's really much to come up."
He waited in vain for a reply as he set an empty bowl on the coffee table before Sherlock. "...I did get you some medicine to help with the nausea, though. I want you to take some of that, and if it's any better in an hour I'll get you some soup, yeah?"
Sherlock feigned a slight dry heave at the mere mention of soup. At least, John hoped it was feigned.
Doctor or not, vomit never did get fun.
"I said... I didn't want any soup."
"I know. But you're sick. Chicken soup is the best thing for it, aside from plenty of rest, fluids, and any necessary medication. Something about the proteins in it or whatnot. I don't know."
Sherlock just scowled sullenly and stayed exactly where he was.
He even took a deep breath, as if to reiterate his prior threat.
Maybe 'I don't know' wasn't good enough?
Well dammit, it would have to be.