"Yes," John says immediately before he leans forward, nearly bumps his head on Sherlock's chest and wretches miserably on the floor between them. At the very least, he's missed every article of worn clothing. His floor is not so lucky. When he comes completely to, he's going to have a hell of a mess to clean up.

For now, though, he's just going to catch himself a break and thumb back towards his bed before he slowly shuffles there. Enough talking. Enough emotions. His stomach is still queasy and laying down? Well that seems like the best option now that they've managed to talk it out that Sherlock is not to leave John at home when it can be helped.

He ought to have reiterated that the blue and white striped mug is for tea only, but they'll get there eventually.

For now, he's going to curl up and die.