When Greg came back into the living room, he was happy to see Sherlock having some biscuits to eat. He had actually expected him to refuse to eat anything, it had been quite the fight to get him to back when he had the flu. Maybe the man was too tired to protest. He certainly seemed too tired to even sit upright or hold the cup in his hands. Lestrade stepped closer and sat down next to him, sipping his own tea with an eye on Sherlock to make sure he would be able to react soon enough, should the man pass out or something. He was worryingly pale after all. 
Once Sherlock was finished with his tea and seemed to be eating no more, Greg got up, putting his cup away and relieving Sherlock of his, putting them on a table nearby. With the usual chaos present int the apartment, he didn't feel like he had to put it back in the kitchen right away. Or be tidy in any way either. Which was a strange feeling, because at his own apartment he was rather the tidy sort, if only because his ex-wife had drilled it into him. 
His eyes fell on Sherlock. "Let's get you to bed, alright?" he asked already reaching out to help the other man up. "You have to help me out a little here, I don't quite think I can carry you on my own." he added. Not that he'd tried. But while Sherlock was thin, he was rather tall and Lestrade wasn't all that young anymore.