He's tired. He really is, but pain isn't something he enjoys, despite being able to handle it well enough. And John next to him is a comfort, regardless of it. His friend is enough to keep him relatively relaxed and his eyes close as he goes into a partially meditative state. Not quite in his Mind Palace, because that would just keep him awake, but zoning out nevertheless.

The sound of footsteps in this place isn't unusual, but he doesn't like the way the door knob jerks. He opens his eyes and sits up partially, staring over toward the door.

Waiting? Why would the guard wait for John, especially? (He'd done the same thing at John's door several nights since he's been here.)

Is it Bill or someone else?

After the footsteps disappear down the corridor, Sherlock lies back down. He extends his right arm this time and lets the whole length of it rest against John as he closes his eyes again.

He's able to get a short nap in before the inevitable movements and gasps jerk him out of his own more abstract and less frightening dream.

A nightmare. For a moment, Sherlock regrets the decision of staying. He's groggy and his head hurts from a disrupted REM cycle. But this is exactly why I wanted to stay, he reminds himself. His works his arm out between them to lightly stroke at his friend's shoulder.

No violin. Maybe the touch will be enough. If it isn't, he'll probably try singing.