The medicine seemed to work.
For the nausea, at least.
It did not, however, stop Sherlock from moping about in the armchair, moaning over how terribly ill he was. He remained wrapped up in blankets, bare feet pulled up onto the seat of the chair, curly hair unkempt and his pale cheeks flushed. The very picture of unhappiness.
But it would pass in a few days.
That was what he continued to remind the consulting detective of as John busied himself a few feet away in the kitchen, preparing the soup he knew Sherlock didn't want but ultimately, probably, needed.
Not eating wasn't any good for a sick man.
Of course, it still wasn't any better when he was well, but that was a different matter.
John would deal with that later.
For now, getting him better was the main objective.
"Here. Eat it while it's hot, it's better that way." John held out the steaming bowl of chicken soup-carefully homemade, using a recipe John had found online from the BBC-but Sherlock only turned his head away.
"Don't want it."
"Oh come on..." John pursed his lips. "I made it 'specially for you."
"Nope."
The doctor shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the heat of the bowl becoming uncomfortable against his fingers. "Please?"
"No."
"It'll help. Make you feel a little better." John held out the bowl again, but Sherlock pulled the blankets up to his eyes, glaring up at him over the rumpled fabric.
"What part of 'no' don't you understand?"
John heaved a heavy sigh. "The part where you're ill and haven't eaten in two days. Humour me?"
The detective regarded him for a long moment through narrowed eyes.
The fever had come back again.
37.4 Celsius.
Almost a match for his hot temper.
"...Humour you?" Sherlock pulled the blankets completely over himself, disappearing under a mountain of duvets and muffled voice. "...No."