[ The alarm is starting to get louder in the back of his mind, even as his body resolutely refuses to gear up in response. There's something he ought to do right now, actually right now but instead, he simply stays on his back, letting John grab his arm and push his fingers against his wrist. Counting. That'll take him a while, won't it? Lips twitching, he watches the other man for a moment, inputs coming in too slowly (glassy eyes, slight sheen of sweat on his brow). As soon as he's gathered enough data to form a tentative hypothesis, naturally he has to reach out and touch the other man's forehead with his fingers, just a very brief, fleeting touch (but slow, so - so - slow). When he speaks, his words are slightly slurred: ]

You have a fever, John. You should go to bed.

[ It's mostly facts, really, though he's also thinking about John being tied to a chair, blood tickling down the side of his head. It's so nice that he can't feel any traces of fear or murderous anger right now, the mental image just... passes by, untouched. It's there, though. The understanding of it, of what could have happened if he'd been a little bit too slow (like the case a few days ago; one man comatose, his ten-year-old shot dead on the scene of the crime), if he'd been sloppy. Consequently, he'd rather like John to go to bed and he'd also rather like him to stop touching because touching means gathering data (pot, kettle) and that means -

With something that could have been a startle if he hadn't been so fucking high, Sherlock pulls back and rolls to his feet, straightening up and managing by some miracle not to topple over in the process. ]