When John wakes up an hour before his alarm, he knows its going to be a bad day. The air smells heavy with humidity and the promise of an oncoming storm. Wearily stumbling out of bed he trips and falls when his leg refuses to cooperate.
Gritting his teeth he picks himself up off the floor and hobbles over to the dresser pulling out the first jumper and trousers he finds.
He readies for the day with brief and lukewarm but ultimately ill-fated attempt to ease aching muscles.
Pulling on his cloths with difficulty he retreats downstairs where Sherlock lies peacefully on the couch having fallen asleep sometime before dawn. John can't help but feel more than a little jealous at the ease of his rest.
When he returns from work John strips his outerwear, climbs the stairs and collapses on the mattress face down in the pillow, simply glad to be back home. The door creaks softly as Sherlock peers into the room. John feels the bed dip down beside him as the long dexterous fingers of a musician trace over the mangled skin of his shoulder. He hisses when they dig into seizing muscles but the pain quickly turns into a sigh of relief, before long John finds himself drifting off and Sherlock tucking him into bed.