Had John more foresight, he might have tried to shake Sherlock's hold off. John managed for nearly forty years before him, and three years since without him. He can get up the stairs on his own and fall asleep on his own and wake up in his sick on his own. That's a bit childish, even for John in his state, so he'll scowl instead.

There's silence on the upwards journey to his room, which takes his legs a lot longer than he'd like. Sherlock's patience in this is infuriating because he's never shown much patience before. No, that's not true. He's always been patient for his loyal sounding board. He's always mapped the way for John to try and keep up with him, physically and mentally. John just wants to dismiss that for the moment, thank you.

Once in his room, John's hand presses against old wallpaper. From the tiny window, he can see only darkness spotted with the lights of lampposts over the ridge of the town homes across the way.

John wets his lips and chances a glance up at Sherlock once more. "Why did you even come back?"