Sherlock's throat was fine except for the bruising. Quite fine. Elegant. John could feel the steady pulse beneath his fingertips as he examined it. When Sherlock abruptly stood, John was disappointed but hardly surprised.
"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. 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 had not slept well, but it wasn't interference from his leg this time, at least not mostly. Instead, terrifying nightmares seared across his brain. It was as if those years at war had filled him up with horror and now the least little upset caused it to spill over. He saw Sherlock in a red uniform, suddenly a darker red because of all the blood. He saw himself cutting off pieces in a panicked attempt to save his life, but the streaming blood only got worse, deeper, rising above his ankles on the floor of the surgical tent.
Once he woke half-paralyzed to the sight of a shadowy surgeon with a dripping saw blade poised just above his knee. It took a few moments to shake himself out of the vision and realize that the agony he felt was simply cramping again.
"The music would be lovely, thank you." It might relax him enough to sleep without dreaming; no matter how exhausted John was, he couldn't bear to try and sleep when the dreams were coming incessantly. Plus, now he knew Sherlock was home and safe, not running around London in the middle of the night. That eased his mind.
"Sherlock, I wasn't really mad at you. I… felt useless. I took it out on you and I'm sorry."
Sherlock's eyes widened and he froze.
"That's… alright, John."
"No, it's not. I wasn't being honest with you. My leg pains me, yes, but when someone else treats me differently because of it, it makes me feel angry."
Sherlock nodded.
"I'm not the best with feelings, John, but I should understand motivation. I will file this away for further consideration. I cannot guarantee my behavior will improve immediately. But you should know, I asked you to get the bag because of the evidence, John, not because of your leg. Well, at least mostly."
John unexpectedly grinned.
"So what was in the bag, anyway? I assume it didn't drift away to sea."
"Three heads. Lestrade is informing the families. One of them was Dorothy Mae Hopkins, so Mrs. Evans will have her closure."
"As much closure as one can have with only a head and a hand to bury."
Sherlock's hands fidgeted.
"I made notes. They're downstairs, if you wish to look at them."
John still felt weary, perhaps even more so that his anxiety from the night had gone with Sherlock's arrival. He wished for nothing more than for Sherlock to crawl into bed with him, wrap those long arms around him, let John use him as a pillow. He couldn't ask for that, not yet. They were too far apart still; John probably wouldn't even find it relaxing with the shock in his head of it actually happening.
"Maybe later, Sherlock. I ought to try and rest a little more. If I get up now, I'll probably fall asleep on the papers."
"You'd still be handsome, even with ink on your cheek depicting a severed head. Rest, John, and join me when you feel up to it. I'll get my violin."
Sherlock fled the room. John didn't miss their matching blushes when Sherlock told him he'd still be handsome. He lay back in bed with a whole new misery: longing for the touch of Sherlock Holmes.