He was lying on the couch, his head leaning on top of one folded arm. He was in his dressing gown, completely oblivious to the world. He looked so angelic when he was sleeping. Innocent and young. John's lips tilted until the formed a full smile. It was rare to catch him sleeping. He was usually all movement, energy incarnate. He must have exhausted himself this time. John crept past him, placing his work on the desk.
He was still as pale as ever. John noticed as he looked closer, slight bruises on one of his cheeks and the side of his neck. He'd been out and attacked. Idiot, did he think John wouldn't notice? They'd talked about this. When he got hurt, he'd go to John. They both knew how much he hated the hospital. Well hated wasn't really a strong enough word. John sighed and headed towards his room before catching a shiver from the prone form on the couch. Cold, the idiot was cold. John's lips twitched again and he brought his detective a blanket from his room, carefully placing it on his body and tucking him in, before heading to bed himself.
Sherlock opened one slight eye, just enough to catch John leaving. He wasn't cold now, his doctor had given him a blanket. Sherlock smiled. What would I do without you John?