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“I’m not sick. Being sick is boring and tedious and I've got work to do.”
Sherlock was pouting because his throat hurt and he had a fever, but he had work to do. There were currently three open cases, with one even being an 8.
“Jesus Sherlock, you can’t just turn off being sick. You have to allow your body to get its rest lest it get worst. Now give me those.” John snatched up the folders that were on the kitchen table in front of the detective.
“My god, John. Will you stop being childish? Give those back, I was working on them.” Slight irritation showing in his typical bored stare. “The one with the hotel room is proving to be rather amusing.”
“No, you've got to allow yourself recovery. I am saying this as your doctor and as the man you love.” Adopting a stern eye and firmly putting his foot down, he gave the brunette a look that showed him how serious he was. Sherlock walked off towards the couch in a huff. “Fine, doctor. He gathered the comforter that was crumpled over the arm of the couch, wrapping it around him. “What now?”
Going to the cabinet marked ‘non-experimental ingredients only’ he grabbed various things, went to the fridge and grabbed the milk, and set everything on the counter before putting on the kettle. “You’re going to let me take care of you, okay? So just relax. Take a break from your own bloody mind.”
“My intellect is not a tap you can simply turn on and off.”
"Neither is being sick, Sherlock."
After a few minutes of rattling around with the dishes, getting flour all over himself, and putting something in the oven, he grabbed the kettle and brought two teacups over to the couch. There was honey in Sherlock’s to help ease the pain he was trying so hard to conceal, even though John could hear the rasp in his deep voice. The blanket was now draped over Sherlock’s head as well, and he looked like a child getting ready to watch a movie. “Why is it so cold in here, doctor?” He pondered, deciding he liked the pet name.
“Because you’re sick.”
“Preposterous.”
“Oh, hush. Now come here.”
After a little while of leaning Sherlock’s fussy head against his neck, and having his arm loosely draped over the man’s shoulder, John got up to head back into the kitchen. As a second thought, he grabbed his empty tea cup and Sherlock’s, now cold, half-full one. At least Sherlock drank some of it, which was more than he normally took. With a baking pan in John's hands, he headed back, plopped down on the couch, then picked something up and handed it to his detective.
“Here you go, love.”
“You made cookies?” The finicky creature stared at it for a moment, and John almost got scared that he wouldn't like them, but when Sherlock bit into it, the tall man had a look of pure, unhinged enjoyment.
“I love sugar cookies, John. I didn’t know you could bake. You made these from scratch?” Looking down at the small tray of the pastries, each of which was adorned with a little heart, he was deeply touched and thought it was the most precious thing that John had made him cookies. “Thank you, my dear.” He kissed John’s now reddening cheek.
The blonde, imitating Sherlock’s usual vernacular, responded with a smile now gracing his features. “Don’t expect it very often, I find baking just a bit tedious.”