Sherlock yawned and stretched as he woke up. God he was tired. He hadn’t slept for more than a couple of hours straight for the past year. He looked around his room for a few minutes. He had missed everything so much. John, the flat, his room, John’s room.. He sighed and frowned a bit thinking that he didn’t know if he would ever be able to refer to John’s room as their room again.
He got up and walked to the bathroom. He showered and shaved carefully, the left side of his face still bruised because of John’s punch, but the cut on his cheekbone no longer bleeding. He changed into clean pyjamas, wearing his own t-shirt, not sure if John would mind or not, if he got one of his like he used to.
On his way back to his bedroom he made coffee and breakfast for John but left the kitchen immediately after that not wanting to disturb John with his presence when he’d come downstairs.
He sat down on his bed again, placing the plate with the toast he made for himself down next to him. He grabbed his violin and smiled the tiniest bit. He had missed that as well. He started tuning it and applying rosin to the bow, slowly. He placed the violin under his chin and played a few random notes, sighing happily but he stopped abruptly when he heard John’s footsteps on the stairs.