[ He's busy folding sheets now, fingers working fast with steady precision. His tremors are gone along with the pain in his muscles and skin - instead, for the past two days, he's had cravings. Massive, beastly cravings. The mere thought is enough to make him glance towards the mantle and the old Persian slipper. There's an ampoule in the very tip, tucked in with old newspaper and he keeps thinking he should at least... move it out of immediate sight. Except, then he'll have to touch it.

He definitely shouldn't do that.

John's left the flat three hours ago. They'd had a... bit of a tiff, basically, with Sherlock yelling at him for the umpteenth time about something that didn't matter even slightly. What was it, his phone having been relocated from one horizontal surface to another? He can't even properly remember. There's been a lot of that ever since he finally got out of bed - fighting, yelling. And this, too, trying to make it up somehow, in this case actually doing the washing that's accumulated over the past three days. He did leave some of it downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, basically pushing it into her arms and running away before she could properly protest.

He's been airing out the flat as well, just to take out the smell of sick and sweat. All in all, he thinks as he glances towards the mantle again, they are recalibrating. Whether that's good or terrible he can't quite decide - after all, a return to normalcy (such as it is) means a return to thinking with nothing to think about. ]