sight.

John doesn’t wake until the bedroom is shrouded in midnight, shadows eating away at the walls, managing to obscure everything down to the honestly awful periodic table hanging opposite the bed. Just to orientate himself, he looks around once, his mind feeling incredibly slow still, then he finally rolls off of Sherlock, every single movement a protest of screaming muscles. Even though he knows the man sleeps like the dead, he is careful with how much noise he produces in the process, just in case Sherlock should wake up.

Let him sleep, right? It’s honestly well-deserved rest. Very well-deserved, indeed.