Tomorrow, John decides, as Sherlock adjusts him like one might a child or an elderly man, he will apologize. Technically, he supposes, drifting off with a pounding in his head and a sourness to his stomach, it's all ready tomorrow but there will be more to discuss when his entire body is absolutely protesting any and everything happening to it at the moment.

John isn't sure if he feels foolish now or comforted. It's likely a good mixture of both and the heaviness of his head in the cool pillow ought to be left at the bookmarker for that evening.

Sleep comes easily. Dreams, unfortunately, do too. It's been a long time since he's had nightmares over Sherlock's death, elaborate and horrible as the trickery had been, and those he knows it all now to be a ruse, just after ten in the morning John comes to with a startled, muted cry and the worst headache he's had in his life.

At least he's not ruined his sheets with vomit.