If I didn't know you better, I might take that as concern. [He huffs, then winces as he slowly peels off his shirt and drops it on the bed, and kicks off his shoes. The bandages on his back last applied by the nurse at the hospital are looking the worse for wear with as much as John has been running around and exerting himself.]

When you're up, I'm gonna need you to run to the drug store, pick up some ointment and bandages. Think you can manage that, Sherlock?

[He'll probably need to remind the other man, but leaves it there for now. John will disrobe the rest of the way once he's in the bathroom and only peel the bandages off in the shower when the rushing water can at least partially muffle the pained grunts he makes as he twists to remove them. The washcloth he uses comes away bloody when he'd done, as does the towel, but John tries to ignore it. He pulls his underwear and jeans back on before going to collapse face-first onto his own bed.

How many years has it been since he slept? It certainly feels at least half a dozen. He leaves the bloodied towel covering his shoulders, just in case. Best not to let that get all over the bed. Sleep comes quickly, even with thoughts of madmen, psychotic women, and bombs swirling in his head.]