"Professional," John rolled his eyes sarcastically. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's leave his nibs to his crime scene and paperwork."
"Yes, heaven forbid we get under his feet with so much work ahead of him. We'll get Chinese. I know a wonderful place nearby that serves the best spring rolls in the county."
"Of course you do."
Flu season had started a week ago, and Sherlock was cultivating a cold because John had forced him to get a damned inoculation. Consequently, he refused to look at or speak to his flatmate for several days. John, used to such petulance, ignored Sherlock's 'misery' for all of six hours before he finally left the flat in search of cold medicine. He wandered the medicine isle with a practiced eye, before selecting a daytime and a nighttime pair of pill packets and a bag of natural, mentholated throat drops.
Upon his return, John swiftly made his way to the kettle, where he performed his tea-making ritual without sparing a moment to actually look in on his flatmate. Sweetening the beverage with a more than liberal amount of honey, the doctor snapped a pair of daytime pills from their pack and walked his way into the living room. He found his resident annoyance flopped on the floor in front of the sofa like a dead fish.
"Oh for the love of," John bit off his irritated statement with a grunt and placed Sherlock's mug onto the table before hauling the detective back onto the sofa. He shoved the tea mug into his friend's hands, then gently stuffed a warm afghan around the detective's skinny frame. "Here are two, non-drowsy, over-the-counter strength pills. Drink them with your bloody tea, and stop acting like you're dying."
"We're all dying, John." the detective groaned theatrically.
"My God you are the biggest bloody drama queen I have ever seen in my life."
"I'm glad my slow, miserable death is amusing to you."
Rolling his eyes, the doctor shook his head and took up his own mug of tea before dropping tiredly into his chair. "It will be over in a few days, Sherlock."
"You know, your bedside manner leaves something to be desired." Sherlock waited a whole six minutes before announcing, "I'm bored."
John hid himself behind his newspaper.
"Entertain me. Read me the paper. Aloud." The detective waited two minutes for John to comply before sighing, "Even prisoners are granted a last request, doctor."
"I'm not reading you the bloody paper." The flat was silent again, except for a loud thump and a sigh of gusty ennui. John let his head fall back with a growl of frustration, "You've rolled off onto the floor again, haven't you?"
A muffled whine came from somewhere behind the coffee table. Refolding the paper, John dragged himself up and slowly made his way into the kitchen again. "If I make you some damned soup and put in one of the Planet Earth DVD's, will you at least try to rest?"
This statement was followed by a contemplative pause, and then, "Can we watch the penguins?"
"Yes we can watch the bloody penguins."
Some people, John thought to himself as bent down to fetch a large pot from beneath the counter, would find it hard to believe Sherlock Holmes was really just a big child. Some of the simplest things could make the detective behave like a five-year-old on Christmas morning. Bracing a hand on his knee, John dragged himself back upright and swayed where he stood.
With the same efficiency he used to diagnose his patients (and occasionally his flatmate), John took stock of his suddenly aching joints, the cough that forced its way out of his lungs, and the floating sort of feeling that overtook his mind for a moment. As his diagnosis solidified, John sighed in a defeated way and mumbled, "Damn it."