John's back hurt.

The couch hadn't been very kind to him.

But he'd pretended it hadn't bothered him, because… well, he didn't honestly know why. It wouldn't have made any difference to his date, he knew, but perhaps he was just trying to be agreeable.

After living with Sherlock for so long one learned to take the path of least resistance as often as possible.

He'd said goodbye, and thanked her for breakfast and the use of her shower, before heading out to catch a cab. The morning was bright and bitter, and he soon found that his nose and fingertips were stinging just from the short walk from cab to doorstep.

He took a moment at the top of the steps to the flat, telling himself he was resting, but all the same trying to convince himself that there wouldn't be some horrific scene to greet him as soon as he walked in the door.

Coming home was always a bit scary, now.

He just never knew.

John turned the knob and pushed the door open, letting himself inside. "Sherlock?"

No answer…

He looked around, taking stock of the living room: empty.

Hall: empty.

Bedroom: empty.

Kitchen: …Sherlock?

Sherlock didn't move from where he was seated on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets and knees drawn up, his head resting on his arms.

Could he possibly be…?

John knelt beside the detective quietly, trying to assess the situation, but Sherlock didn't stir, and all he could hear were his soft, even breaths, slightly muffled by his sleeve.

Well.

John sat back on his heels and bit back a smile.

"How can you even sleep like this…?" He murmured, glancing around the kitchen.

Sherlock's experiments still littered the table and countertops, and John tried to pretend he couldn't see the collection of previously frozen fingers.

Who knew what the hell those were supposed to be for.

He straightened up and tiptoed around Sherlock, making himself a cup of strong coffee.

It was already so hard to convince the detective to sleep regularly, and now that he was out like a light on the kitchen floor it seemed a shame to wake him.

But would it be proper to just leave him down there?

John leaned against the counter and considered this as he sipped his coffee, looking down at Sherlock's bowed head and messy curls.

How had he been doing, anyway…?

It had been a while since he'd opened up much.

He'd been a proper arse recently, in fact.

But he looked so peaceful now…

Soft, even.

"I'm worried about you, you git." John half whispered it over the rim of his mug. He knew Sherlock couldn't hear him, and that was even better, because he needed to say it even though he knew it would probably be taken as annoying, perhaps even nagging.

"You're a pain in the arse, but I wish you'd talk to me." He took another sip. "It isn't good for a human being to bottle everything up the way you do. And yes, you are a human too." He chuckled under his breath, imagining what the detective's reaction would have been, had he been awake.

But the chuckle slowly faded on his lips as reality set in on him again.

"…I read something about this, once. Something about pain. How much of it you have to be in to… do the stuff you did. I just wish you'd talk to me."

Sherlock hadn't stirred. His shoulders rose and fell gently with each breath, and John noted that even with his long legs, he occupied a surprisingly small space when curled up like he was.

Defensive.

That's what his position looked like.

John set his empty mug in the sink quietly and tried to decide whether or not he should at least get him a blanket, or just let him be and go get dressed.

A sudden mumble from the floor saved him that decision, swiftly followed by a bang as Sherlock sat up quickly and bumped his head against the cabinets behind him.

"Wha—'m not—"

He tried to stifle a snigger, and busied himself at the sink again. "Morning, Sherlock."

Sherlock squinted up at him. "…John…? I thought you weren't coming back tonight…"

"I didn't. It's morning. You fell asleep on the floor there."

He frowned, looking doubtful.

John didn't blame him.

"You must have been pretty tired. I've never seen you conk out like that before, especially not on the linoleum."

"I was… experimenting." Sherlock ran a hand through his curls, messing them up even further.

"I'm sure you were." John filled the kettle again and set it on to boil. "I'll make you tea, if you'd like. Breakfast?"

"What do you want, John?"

John couldn't help but sigh. "I don't want anything. I'm just doing this because I care, remember?"

Thank goodness that shut him up, for the moment.

The only other explanation he had was 'I feel sorry for you again,' and that likely wouldn't have been very well received.

"I don't want any tea." Sherlock pulled himself up by the edge of the counter, obviously stiff and achy from his night on the floor. He stretched and cracked his neck, looking around the room as if to reorient himself with it.

"Then I won't make you any. Eggs sound good?"

"Of course it doesn't sound good. Two, no pepper."

John rolled his eyes and tried not to grin as he set about making Sherlock's breakfast. Aside from the uncomfortable sofa and the bitter cold, this morning wasn't turning out too badly.

Sherlock wandered out into the living room, and John could hear him moving about, probably stepping right over the coffee table instead of around it on his way to the couch.

But just as he'd almost finished cooking the eggs he heard Sherlock's mobile ringing, and after a short conversation there was more movement and then Sherlock came marching past him to the door, throwing on his coat as he went.

"Forget breakfast, John. I have a case."