Sherlock awakens to most of his body feeling varying degrees of pain, which is no longer unusual. What is unusual is the softness of the pillow under his head and the warmth of the body next to him. He shifts - drawing an agonized grunt from his own throat in the process - and turns his face enough to see John's fawn-brown eyes open and watching him.
"How are you feeling?" John asks quietly.
"Terrible." No sense in trying to prevaricate.
John's gaze flicks to the digital clock on Sherlock's nightstand. "It's just past six in the morning - you've been asleep for almost twelve hours. I should check how your burns are doing."
Sherlock manages - with more help from John than he really wants to admit - to roll onto his stomach so John can peel back the dressings. The sheet falls down to drape over the top of his hips, but neither he nor John call attention to the fact that he's naked under it. John makes no sound, just gently brushes the unburned sections of skin with his fingertips and then replaces the gauze with fresh squares pulled from sterile packaging he must have already had at the ready. Which indicates he has been awake for a while, watching Sherlock doze. The thought is comforting.
"They're better, aren't they." Not a question.
John hums noncommittally. "Going to be a while before you can lie on your back, and you'll have some scarring. But yes."
John is the type of friend who would lie through his teeth rather than tell Sherlock a painful truth, so Sherlock tries not to place too much stock in his words. Although he can't help allowing a small bit of hope.
"I should . . . check over the rest of you. Wrist first?"
John's examination is slow and thorough, and not at all awkward for all they're lying in Sherlock's bed together. The sheets are no longer quite white, instead stained with small rust-colored spots where blood seeped through some of the bandages. The effect screams "hospital" rather than anything untoward. Sherlock hates hospitals, but he can tolerate this. For John's sake.
The only moment of true discomfort is when John finally removes the sheet from the bed entirely and Sherlock is left completely without barriers between his nakedness and John's examination. Sherlock is uncomfortably aware of both his unclothed state and the obvious marks left on his body. John's touch is professional, though, gently working antiseptic ointment into Sherlock's injured skin over the myriad of places it is needed. Neither of them speak.
"Now that you're as patched up as you can get at the moment," John says with false brightness, "what do you want next? I can help you to the loo, I can bring you breakfast, I can fill you in on everything that's been happening while we searched for you, or I can just let you get some more sleep."
Sherlock stifles an unauthorized yawn. He ought to need the loo, he knows, but he's severely dehydrated and his body isn't producing urine in any significant quantity. The idea of jumping back into The Work, even to catch his own kidnappers, is . . . not appealing. And he's already slept more than he can possibly stand in one stretch.
"Food, I suppose. And something liquid."
John nods solemnly. "Did you - how much were you allowed to eat?"
It's the closest he's come so far to asking Sherlock what happened. Sherlock appreciates his reticence, because he's not really ready to talk about it anyway, but his diet seems a neutral enough introduction to the topic.
"My perception of time eventually began to distort, but I believe I was given an average of one meal a day, at varying times. Smallish but adequate to sustain life." He swallows against the dryness in his throat at the memory. "I'd rather save the analyzing for later."
"That's - that's fine." John nods again, putting on a fine show of nonchalance. "Just wanted to know if there's anything you particularly want - or want to avoid. Should probably stay away from greasy and fatty foods until your body has had time to adjust back to normal."
Even the idea of something greasy has Sherlock's stomach clenching. "Please."
"Right then. You going to be okay with me being in the kitchen? I can keep talking, if you like."
Sherlock nods, barely a movement at all, but as far as he can with making his neck hurt more. "Can you sing?" he asks.
John bites his lip, but smiles a bit. "Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling . . ."
Danny Boy - both verses, then repeated - lasts through the mechanical ding of the toaster ejecting its prey. When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again lasts through the rest of John's preparations. He softens the last line as he re-enters the bedroom, carrying two plates with toast, sliced tomatoes, breakfast tea, and a scrambled egg apiece.
"You realize both of those songs are about soldiers finally coming back home," Sherlock observes.
John ducks his head, looking a bit sheepish. "Didn't really think about it."
"No, it's . . . fine. Just thought them an interesting choice."
"Because I was a soldier?"
Sherlock locks gazes with him. "No - because I'm back." Did you expect a triumphant return, or a lament? Because you got neither.
"Ah." No further commentary.
They eat their breakfast side-by-side on the bed, John cutting Sherlock's tomatoes for him like he's a small child, because Sherlock only has the use of one hand. Sherlock hates the sensation of being an invalid, but John doesn't call attention to it so they both just ignore how Sherlock winces every time he chews, and how he shifts position every few minutes because there's no comfortable way to sit upright. His feet are worse, though, angry red welts from the captors' whip, so he won't be doing much except sitting for quite a while.
Breakfast finished, Sherlock curls back up on his side and closes his eyes. John settled in next to him, laptop on lap, and starts composing an accurate but stern email to Mycroft.