Sherlock - Johnlock (or gen, I suppose)
“I am actively dying and you’re offering… soup?” Sherlock stuck his head out from his nest of blankets far enough to glare at the offending bowl and his unreasonable flatmate.
“You’re not dying; you’ve got a cold, Sherlock. Which is what happens when you jump into the bloody Thames in February.”
“Honestly, soup!”
John sighed. “I’m a doctor. All this calls for is fluids and rest.”
“Some doctor,” Sherlock grumbled, “tell me how many people you’ve shot versus healed lately.”
“I don’t shoot my patients, though,” John replied. Sherlock looked ready to keep arguing. “Well,” John amended, “not usually, anyway.”