John had said nothing.
When Sherlock had limped into the room clad in his pyjama bottoms and gown and curled up on the couch, he had merely raised an eyebrow.
When Sherlock had started biting his upper lip and eventually made it bleed, he had shaken his head.
When Sherlock had closed his eyes and tried to level his breathing, he had smiled to himself.
And when the detective had begun to snore gently, he had put his book away and watched him.
John had no idea.
He did not know where Sherlock had been all day.
He did not know that Mycroft had brought him home only an hour ago.
He did not know that before this had happened, Sherlock had undergone medical treatment.
He did not know that before that, the detective had been assaulted.
Brutally.
Repeatedly.