How does one approach a sick flatmate? Mused the detective. John could possibly take offence if he tried to wake him and swing a punch. On the other hand, he looked like shit. It couldn't be doing him much good, curling into a shivering ball and sweating all over his sheets. Oh God! What if he'd been poisoned?! What if he was lying there on his bed, dying? No, no, that was ridiculous. But plausible. Fine, Sherlock decided. He'd wake up the doctor.

“John?”

“John? Can you hear me? Are you awake John?” Don't make me shake you. Or poke you.

“I bloody wish I wasn't.”

“John! Are..are you alright? You look ill.”

“No I'm just lying here in a pool of my own sweat because it sounded like such a good idea!” Ok, you're in a bad mood. Understandable. Please lower your sarcasm levels John.

“Do you need anything?” See? I am making an effort.

Wait, did he just hear correctly or did Sherlock Holmes just offer to help him? Maybe he was hallucinating. Yeah that was probably it.

“John?”

“I need you to piss off. I can deal with this myself.” I'm a bloody doctor, I can do this.

“Somehow I doubt that. Wait here, I will bring you something for your throat. It sounds hoarse.”

How had John missed that? It was his bloody throat. And Sherlock was right, as always, it was starting to become sore. But he felt hesitant in drinking anything Sherlock brewed, it probably wasn't safe. Especially when you find a severed finger next to the tea or an ear in the fridge sitting on the butter.
In fact most of their kitchen could be declared as health hazard and yet Sherlock never got so much as a sniffle, the bastard.

------

Said bastard returned several minutes later with a warm mug of something. It smelt nice. It smelt safe. John attempted to sit up, failing miserably as his head began to spin. Strong, thin arms lifted him into a better position and held his head up and let him sip the contents of the mug. It tasted like honey and lemon and soothed his throat. Who'd have thought Sherlock knew such remedies?

Sherlock rested John's head back on the pillows and placed the mug next to the full glass of water. John gave him a confused look and Sherlock found himself raising his eyebrows in response.

“What?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Isn't that what people do? Take care of sick flatmates?”

“You can't use that excuse for everything.” John rasped, a yawning taking hold of his words.

“I can and will. Besides, I suppose it is partly my...um..my...”

“Your what? Cat got your tongue?”

“What? No. Alright, it's my fault? Ok? Happy now?” I feel guilty. Me. Sherlock Holmes. What have you done to me?

“Ecstatic. Now piss off.”

Sherlock felt himself pouting. That was very rude. After all, he had tried his best to look after John and now he was pushing Sherlock away. Maybe he thought he could take better care of himself? Doctors were always rumoured to be the worst of patients and it seemed like John was proving the rumour to be true.

“No.”

“I'm sorry?”

“No. I'm not moving. You obviously think you can take care of yourself, but look at you? You couldn't even sit up without my help and no doubt your fever will take hold of you mind and render you unable to do the most menial of tasks. No I will stay here.”

"Suit yourself. Just don't do anything or say anything." John kicked the covers off his bed again.

"You're in fine insulting form this afternoon."

"Didn't I just tell you to be quiet? Course I'm in a bad mood. I'm bloody sick!" And whose fault was that?

Sherlock simply gave him a confused but curious look. John turned away and closed his eyes. Inhaling suddenly when he felt a cold, wet cloth plop onto his forehead. Oh that felt nice. Really great. Ok, Sherlock was actually trying to do the right thing and he wasn't half bad at it. That doesn't mean John was going to be nice to him when it was his fault in the first place.

If Sherlock wanted forgiveness, he was going to have to work for it.