Sherlock is worse than useless when he’s ill, but John never minds. He gently nods along with the moaning, and when Sherlock declares that he is most certainly dying, John reminds him gently that he’s doctor, and in his professional opinion, Sherlock is most certainly not dying.

He fluffs pillows, he gathers extra blankets. He tends the fire, and he makes tea. He washes out a cool rag and puts it against Sherlock’s warm forehead.

And once the miserable wretch is as comfortable as John can make him, he sits beside him and reads to him until he falls asleep.