The bowl sat untouched on the coffee-table, sending up little tendrils of velvety steam that swirled toward the ceiling, losing themselves halfway up and vanishing into nothingness.

A silence hung in the air for several minutes, while John sat on the edge of the sofa, partway between annoyed and cross, and Sherlock remained hidden in his blanket cave.

To fuss or not to fuss?

To push or to quit?

John's gaze went from the bowl, to the mound of the blanket-detective, and back again.

It didn't look like it would be much use, honestly.

But the man had to eat.

After another minute or so Sherlock began shoving the blankets off himself, apparently overheating again, and probably running out of fresh air beneath them. He glanced up, raising an eyebrow at finding John still sitting there.

Surely he knew what the doctor was thinking about.

John shot him a look, and Sherlock merely sighed. He resettled himself in a more comfortable position, regarding John with as much of a deep, musing air as he could muster. When at last he spoke it was slowly, as if considering how to put it.

"...I've been ill before, you know."

John nodded, brow furrowed questioningly. "Honestly, I'd be surprised if you hadn't."

"When I was young, I mean. Twelve, or so. Mycroft had left for university, and I was sick all by myself."

"What about your parents?"

Sherlock only shrugged. "They were overseas on business at the time. They left a lot."

John suddenly found himself picturing that-an empty house, quiet for days, while a young Sherlock moped about, probably failing miserably to care for himself while the sickness took its course.

And he couldn't help but find it a little sad.

"The only thing I had the energy to prepare then was a pitiful tin of chicken soup." Sherlock was looking at him expectantly. "You see where I'm going with this?"

"I'm... not really sure I do."

John would just pretend he hadn't seen that impatient little roll of the eyes...

"It was mediocre, to say the least. But shortly thereafter I became sicker than I'd been for two days, and... suffice it to say I can't even bring myself to look at the stuff anymore."

"Oh..." That would make sense... In more ways than one. "So... it brings back bad memories, then?"

"Exactly. I won't go into detail, but at one point I was nearly certain that I was dead."

The corner of John's lips almost turned up in vague amusement-almost. "I don't suppose I'd want to remember being sick alone, either."

"No. You certainly wouldn't. It's highly unpleasant."

"I mean... being alone..."

"Exactly. It makes it twice as hard to do anything yourself."

"...Yeah. For days at a time. Alone."

Sherlock gave him a funny look, tilting his head slightly, as if wondering why on earth John was repeating himself.

Maybe he didn't get it.

Maybe he didn't want to.