Sandra came back in just as John was helping a half asleep Sherlock into bed, his hair damp, hanging in looser curls around his face due to the weight of the water still caught up in them. John ran one of those curls between his thumb and forefinger, hearing the squeak of clean hair, and Sherlock managed a tired smile.

"Well, don't you look cracking?" Sandra asked, crossing her arms over her blue nurse's scrubs and eyeing Sherlock appreciatively. John gave her a smile; he was certain Sherlock had no real idea how many of the female nurses were evaluating him approvingly when they came to check on him.

Sherlock groaned, shifting himself in the hospital bed, looking incongruous in his regular clothing against the crisp white sheets and the pale yellow blankets.

"Half cracking at best," he said, shaking his head. "Still have these bruises and the IV line and the bloody cast."

"Well you're a far sight better looking than you were an hour ago," Sandra said. "Let me hook that IV line back in. Do I need to get you any anti-nauseants?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock assured her. "And I saw you give John that questioning look. I am fine."

"Your husband is a doctor," Sandra pointed out.

"But, as he enjoys reminding me, not my doctor."

"True enough," she replied, and got him hooked back up to his IV drip while John settled the banks over him. Sherlock closed his eyes, and John smoothed a hand through his clean hair, noting the small, tired smile that tugged at his lips.

"I'm going to do another pulse and BP, so I can leave you sleep most of the night," Sandra said. She took his vitals quickly and John watched, noting the pleased but professional expression on her face. Presumably, Sherlock's heart rate had slowed – he was glad Sandra had not been able to take Sherlock's pulse early, following their snogging. She might have been alarmed, but she probably would have just snickered at them knowingly.

"Everything looks good," she said. "How do you feel?"

"Brilliant," Sherlock murmured.

"Good. I have some good news for both of you."

At this, Sherlock opened one eye, evaluating her curiously. John perched on the edge of the bed – he had spent one or two nights at home recently, but would probably stay on this night. Sleeping in the flat, and in the bed, by himself felt too strange, and it wasn't as though he were back at work yet, so it didn't so much matter if he didn't get a full night's sleep. The nights here were routinely interrupted by the nurses, and the occasional doctor making his or her rounds, but John slept better next to Sherlock, and Sherlock had always slept better next to him.

"They're springing you, the day after tomorrow. In the morning. Just got the word from Doctor Merith."

At this, Sherlock came more awake again, opening his other eye, looking suddenly pleased. John felt a wave of relief, followed by a flood of questions – what would he have to do at the flat to make it temporarily liveable for someone on crutches, what did he need to buy before Sherlock got home, what prescriptions would he have to fill, where would the outpatient physiotherapy be, and how would Sherlock get there? Then he felt a flash of desire when one of Sherlock's hands found his, their fingers lacing together, Sherlock's thumb rubbing over John's palm.

He found suddenly the questions didn't matter. There would be other, more pressing things to deal with.

"Thank you, Sandra," John said.

"Good night, boys," Sandra replied. "Get some sleep."

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes again, drifting off vaguely, and John watched the nurse go, shutting the light off as she went, the door clicking shut softly behind her.

"You must remember to ring Mrs. Turner tomorrow morning," Sherlock murmured after Sandra's footsteps had faded away down the corridor.

"Mrs. Turner?" John asked. "Mrs. Hudson's friend? What for?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, pale grey but bright despite the low lighting, which illuminated the room dimly from beyond the privacy curtain that separated them from the hallway and around the edges of the drapes covering the window that looked out over London. The expression on his face spoke volumes and John's pulse picked up again.

He felt another sharp stab of desire and wove his free hand into Sherlock's damp curls, seeing the brightness in Sherlock's eyes increase, gleaming in a way that had little to do with fatigue.

"Have her get Mrs. Hudson over that whole day for a tea and a chat. I'll not have us being interrupted and I will not," he murmured, pulling John down for a light kiss, "have you trying to be quiet."