Sherlock is sleeping, and it's a relief from his complaining. Bed rest was never going to suit him, not even with bruised ribs. He's lucky that they didn't end up broken, with the crowbar he took to the chest. It could be worse, John assures himself, settling onto the couch with the television on low. He'll hear if Sherlock calls him, but there's no need to stay in the room. And Mrs Hudson has been fussing around with tea so he may as well drink it and catch up on Agent Carter, God knows when he'll get such a chance again.
(He'd thought the lung damage would be worse, especially when Sherlock started coughing up blood as he stumbled to the ground, in too much pain to get back up, the adrenaline wearing off. A whirl of scenarios had raced through his head in the few seconds it took to kneel beside him, each worse than the last. And John shudders now at the memory, the tea stale in his mouth. Christ, he was lucky. They both were.)
The painkillers help, he knows, but still the pain must be awful if Sherlock's whimpers every time he tries to move are anything to go by. Of course the man has a high tolerance for analgesics - all part and parcel of a history of drug use. And Sherlock can't smoke now either – if he starts coughing it will only make the pain worse.
Bed rest. Is such a thing possible for Sherlock Holmes? They'd hardly gotten back to Baker Street when he started complaining about John's refusal to let him play the violin. He'll go mad long before the week of forced idleness is up.
They'll all go mad.
John sighs, and abandons the television. He's too tired for this, and Sherlock's bed is warm. Not to mention he can at least ensure then that the detective doesn't leave it.