Sherlock closed the door quietly behind him. He shut his eyes momentarily and brought up the mental map he kept of Harry's flat. He didn't know why he hadn't deleted the information, but he found that he kept quite a lot of information about Harry. He'd once wondered if it was because he generally liked her or if it was because she was John's only relative. He'd decided it did not matter.
He walked down the small hallway past the kitchen and into the living room. It was a fairly large flat, but only one bedroom so he knew that one of them would be on the couch. Under normal circumstances John would insist that it be him, but he knew without closely examining the figure in the dark that it was not John on the couch. The body was not shaped correctly under the blanket and the breathing was wrong. Every aspect of John's sleeping was burned into Sherlock's memory.
He backed away slowly and went down the other short hallway towards the bedroom. He knew the bathroom was on the left and that it had connecting doors to both the hallway and the bedroom. He'd never been into the bedroom though and was unfamiliar with the layout. He was somewhat concerned that John was sleeping in there. If Harry had been able to convince him to take the bed, then he was either truly exhausted or truly injured. Neither option sat very well with Sherlock.
He put his hand on the door and turned the knob slowly. He was glad that it was quiet and that the door made no noise at all as he pushed it open. Immediately, he recognised the breathing pattern and closed his eyes, letting the warmth and familiarity wash over him. For the first time in the last 6 hours he was calm. He'd been worried - panicked - after John stormed out of Bart's. He'd never seen that look on his husband's face before, the anger, almost hatred, and the pain. It was the look of pain that made Sherlock's chest ache. He hated when John was in pain, any kind of pain.
He took the few steps to the bed and examined his husband's sleeping form. The moon coming through the window provided more than enough light for Sherlock to see him clearly. John was on his back, his head tilted slightly to the side, the uninjured side Sherlock deduced. He could see that John did indeed have a black eye, and it would be swollen. Sherlock didn't think it would be swollen closed though. John had obviously been punched. Sherlock didn't see how John could have been punched and not been directly involved with the pub brawl. Perhaps Harry had just been lying about that.
This was only confirmed by the bruises appearing on John's left knuckles. Clearly he'd punched someone. Sherlock didn't have the whole story and he didn't like that. He needed to know who John had punched and who had punched John. Not knowing was unacceptable.
John had a hand curled in up by his head and Sherlock traced a finger over the wrist and into the palm. The fingers closed reflexively and Sherlock pulled his hand away. He then traced along John's nose, and over his lip to dip below his chin. John's head turned toward the contact and Sherlock was relieved.
John was here and he was safe. That was the most important thing, in fact the only thing that really mattered. Everything else could be explained, Sherlock knew he could make John understand. He knew that he could make John forgive. It was what John did.
Sherlock squatted and rested his chin on the edge of the bed. He watched the sleeping form some more, deliberately matching his breathing to John's. It was something that Sherlock often did when John was asleep and he was not. It helped him to find sleep and ease. It made him feel closer to John.
He was choosing to ignore the fact that John was sleeping in some unknown man's clothes. He assumed that Harry had either borrowed them or that she had had them around the flat. The former was much more likely as he doubted Harry spent much time with males.
He sat there a long time, secretly hoping that John would wake up. He wouldn't push it though. John needed to sleep. He needed to heal.
Sherlock stood and his legs ached from squatting in one position too long but he barely noticed. It was inconsequential. He quietly let himself out of the room and left the door cracked. He needed to be able to hear if there was any drastic change in John's breathing or if there was a nightmare. Upset and violence tended to bring out nightmares.
Sherlock helped himself to a small glass of water, not bothering to rinse the cup afterwards. Then he settled in a chair near Harry's sleeping form. He knew that she'd be awake in a few hours, she had to go to work after all. He could wait here and not disturb John.
John needed his sleep.
Harry stood on the other side of the pull out couch from him. She was angry. She looked very like John when she was angry.
Interesting, he thought as her nostrils flared and she pointed at him. She had been whispering loudly at him but he wasn't paying attention. Her cheeks were turning red, just like John's did when yelled.
"You WILL NOT wake him up." She emphasized her point by jamming her finger in his general direction. He noticed the movement because she had a spot of dried blood on the cuff of the shirt she was sleeping in. He disliked the thought that it might be John's blood.
He nodded and looked at her curiously. "I have no intention of doing anything that will be detrimental to John. I will not wake him. I will be here when he wakes up."
"I told you he was fine," she said to him and he cocked his head to one side, confused.
"He stormed out of Bart's, was involved in some sort of fight at a pub, called you instead of me when he was injured, and slept in your bed last night instead of ours. All of these are indicators that he is anything but fine."
She studied him for a moment and threw her hands up in the air. "Broke into my fucking flat," she said to know one in particular and then looked back to Sherlock.
"I'm taking a shower, please continue to make yourself at home." She stormed away and Sherlock brought his steepled fingers up until the index fingers were once again resting against his lips.
