It was nice to be home. It was nice to be sitting in his own bed, in his own house drinking his favourite tea from his favourite cup while reading one of his favourite books. The only thing that would have made things better is if his favourite husband was home.
It was the third week that Sherlock had come home late. He knew that he wasn't working on a case, calls to both Greg and Mycroft had assured him of that and a check of e-mails and Sherlock's website told John that there were no private cases either. It left John unable to explain why his husband wasn't home when he had all but bullied the dotors and nurses in allowing John to come home.
Had he done it for John, who had been counting down the days until he was able to come home? Or had he actually wanted John back in their apartment, in which case why wasn't he home?
The sound of the door opening came not long after John switched off the bedside lamp and slid under the covers. Through the darkness, he watched as Sherlock changed into his pyjama's. It took another five minutes before Sherlock climbed under the sheets but instead of wrapping himself around John he stayed on his side of the bed.