[ He wakes up a bit abruptly, though not in any unpleasant way - rather, his system simply says, go. Activated, as it were, by John who draws away from the sofa just as Sherlock turns his head towards him, his entire body feeling wrecked, still. His head, even more so. It's been what, six hours worth of cleaning, sorting, putting things in order, throwing things out (surely the worst aspect of the entire thing) and John watching him all throughout, correcting him, telling him... how he wants it.

Just as he's doing now. Shower? He sniffs experimentally, smelling his own sweat, dust, labour. Even if he hadn't been inclined to do exactly as John says, he would have seen some sense in cleaning off. He rolls to his feet a bit awkwardly, limbs still sleep-ridden and ungainly, before looking over at John. He doesn't seem quite as angry anymore, though they obviously aren't done, either. Cringing, he nods, then says, voice rough: ]

You'd better not make me clean anything else in this flat, John, or I swear I'll burn it down.

[ Spoken with an edge born mostly from exhaustion, still. His mind can't quite comprehend what he's subjected it to today; so many things. So much... stuff. He blinks, padding slowly towards the bathroom. ]