"Where's John this morning, Matthews?" Sherlock asked as he walked in the front door.
"Still abed, I imagine, Mr. Holmes. He hasn't rung yet."
Sherlock glanced at the grandfather clock on his left. It was nearly eleven. Curious. Army habits should have woken him long before now. Months of illness and recovery, he supposed, could alter his sleep pattern.
"Have Mrs. Hudson prepare a tea tray and leave it by the door."
Sherlock peeled off his outerwear and let Matthews take his hat and coat before climbing the stairs. He wasn't confident that Lestrade's instructions would be of any use; after all, the man's wife was bedding other men. Still, despite his apparently abominable choice of spouse, the man had been married nearly ten years.
Bristling, Sherlock put his hand on John's doorknob to do as he was ordered.
Locked.
Sherlock crouched to peer in the keyhole in the door plate. The key was still inserted on the other side, obstructing his view, but a careful prod with a piece of wire from the lock picking tools quickly retrieved from his room indicated the key was half-turned to wedge in the lock. Still, it was little matter to twist the key from the outside, prod it carefully until it fell to the floor, and twist a square-bent piece of wire until the bolt disengaged.
Sherlock entered the dim, quiet room with little thought of his intrusion. He was staunchly ignored by the figure in the bed, standing in the middle of the room, lock picks still awkwardly clutched in one hand.
"John?"
No answer.
"Your pattern of breathing indicates you are awake."
Still nothing beyond another fluctuation of breath.
The fire had been allowed to die, Sherlock noticed, and the room was chilled. The curtains were drawn against the late morning sun. John's clothes were neatly hung behind his dressing screen, though clearly Matthews had not been allowed in to help him undress. John's cane was propped against the bedside table, but his robe had slipped off the foot of the bed to the floor. The lamp that had remained lit the night before was dark; the oil level was still sufficient, so John had risen at some point and extinguished the flame.
John was turned towards the far side of the bed, covers tucked up past his shoulders. Sherlock moved to the far side of the bed so John faced him.
"John, are you ill?" The thought alarmed Sherlock, even if he could see that was not the case. John's face was not flushed with fever, nor was his hair matted with sweat.
John did, however, close his eyes and twist around in bed so he was facing the other direction. When Sherlock followed, John moved to his back and stared resolutely upwards. If Sherlock wanted to look him in the eyes, he'd have to climb on top of him.
Sherlock recognized the silent treatment; he was a master of it when doling it out to Mycroft. Very well. John may not be speaking, but he wasn't deaf.
"Lestrade said I ought to thank you for your assistance last night, and apologize for what I said."
"Huzzah for Lestrade."
"Pardon?" Sherlock was relieved that John spoke, but he didn't understand the response. He had hoped that John would, at least, turn towards him.
"Go away."
An arm appeared from under the covers; it draped over John's eyes.
"But, John, I…"
"Go. Away."
Sherlock had heard that often enough in his lifetime; he was generally pleased to oblige. Somehow, though, it actually hurt when it came from John. John was so genial, so amiable, even to Sherlock. Usually.
When John hadn't spoken again and Sherlock hadn't moved after five minutes, John gave in.
"When the door is locked, Sherlock, that is usually more than a mild request for you to stay out."
"There is little more inviting than a locked door, John. Besides, if you had truly meant for me to remain outside at all costs, you would have moved the wardrobe in front of the door, or the dresser."
"I'm tired, Sherlock."
John's voice did sound weary, though it didn't have the slow cadence of sleepiness.
"Did your leg pain you in the night? Perhaps I dragged you about the city too much yesterday. The exertion must have taxed the healing muscles, and I know you're subject to cramping in the night…"
"Damn my leg!" John sat up suddenly and threw a convenient object at Sherlock with force; it might have done damage if the object had not been a pillow that simply whumped Sherlock in the face.
The outburst stunned Sherlock into silence.
"Of course you didn't think I could keep up with you running after that criminal! I couldn't! But I'm not helpless and I hate being treated as if I am! I'm tired of it, Sherlock." He slumped back on to the bed, flat now that he'd discarded his pillow. "So damn tired."
"John, I…" Sherlock wasn't sure what to say. Lestrade hadn't thought of this angle, apparently, and hadn't given Sherlock any clue as to how to deal with it. He reiterated Lestrade's advice in his head. Apologize. Thank him. Shut your gob. The first two were helpful; the last, insulting.
"I may have been wrong to instruct you to stay with the evidence. You quite possibly saved my life. I imagined he was only seeking my unconsciousness, but if he had continued after I stopped struggling, he may have succeeded in killing me."
There was no response from the bed.
"Lestrade also informed me that the remark I made about… after… was insulting to your character. I did not intend that result. I'm sorry. And mind you, I've never said those words to anyone but Mother, and I rarely meant them." Sherlock added the last statement in a rush, horrified at his own awkwardness.
Sherlock searched his mind for something to fill the suddenly very loud silence in the room. John wasn't forgiving him. John didn't want to speak to him. Sherlock failed at something so basic as giving an apology.
"You hit him, you know."
John still didn't reply, but Sherlock had the distinct impression that he was listening.
"That was quite an impressive shot. How far away were you when you fired? Fifty yards? You hit him in the chest between the fourth and fifth rib yet he barely flinched when the ball struck. He only disengaged when you continued to run closer."
"He really ran away with a lead ball in his chest?" John finally said after an excruciatingly long minute.
"Probably puncturing a lung at the very least," Sherlock verified.
"How?"
"I've no idea. It didn't seem to affect him in the least. Perhaps he wore some sort of armor or the ball had to penetrate a leather wallet and that slowed it down enough to cause very little damage. However, some of the man's fluids dripped on me, which I discovered later."
"Fluids? Like blood?"
"Very unlike blood, actually."
John sat up at this and Sherlock smiled broadly, uncontrollably.
"I've come to the conclusion that the murderer of the street boy Moss is in fact the same man dumping body parts. There must also be another criminal mind behind this, clearly. The oaf from last night is little more than a henchman. Less, perhaps."
"He seemed to be a capable enough murderer last night." John's voice turned gentle. "How is your throat feeling this morning? And the bruising?"
"It will heal."
"Open the curtain, Sherlock, and let me examine it."
Sherlock's immediate impulse was to argue, but he pulled the curtains so the weak winter light filtered in. He also opened the door to bring in the tea tray. Matthews had not left it beside the door as instructed but instead was holding it himself. Sherlock gestured the man inside to set up tea and also tend to the cold fireplace. He did so efficiently and unobtrusively. Sherlock also imagined he would report every word of his overheard conversation with John to Lord Sherrinford.
John had settled himself upright while Matthews rebuilt the fire. He patted the edge of the bed beside him. Sherlock promptly sat.
John's fingers worked at the knot of Sherlock's neck cloth, much less harried than he'd been when he'd done the same thing the night before. Sherlock had done a sloppy job retying it without a mirror when it was clear he'd be out for the rest of the night.
"Does it hurt when you swallow?"
Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed just above his high collar as he tried it out.
"A little. Nothing I can't ignore."
"Does it hurt to twist your neck?"
The knot came undone and John's nimble fingers unwound the cloth. He loosened the collar of Sherlock's shirt, gently touching Sherlock's chin to indicate he should look upwards, then side to side.
"No, it's fine."
"Good." John spent another minute lightly touching several of the bruises that ringed Sherlock's throat. "Might feel worse after you sleep, though."
"I'm sure it looks much worse than it is." Sherlock felt his face flush a little. John removed his probing fingers.
"Yes, your skin is incredibly fair. Do keep an eye on it. If the pain worsens or if there seems to be any unusual swelling, please let me know."
"Very well." Sherlock stood and straightened his collar somewhat, leaving the neck cloth draped around loosely. "If you did not sleep well, and wish to rest, I could play the violin a while. It will help me think and it may help you sleep." Sherlock felt a sudden need to stroke John's hair. Ridiculous, and certainly not an urge to be indulged. "I have an experiment to plan out. I smelled a peculiar chemical combination when I was being strangled and from the fluid residue on my coat. I shall attempt to replicate it. Perhaps then we shall know the intent of our murderer."
John appeared to give this offer much more thought than it deserved. He leaned back against the headboard, eyes flickering over his husband.
"The music would be lovely, thank you."