John paces back and forth while on the phone, his face creased into a concerned frown that grows deeper each time he looks at Sherlock and takes in his ragged appearance. He can smell the booze on him of course. Everybody can. It doesn't bother him though; he's grown accustomed to the scent after wasting half of his adult life dealing with Harry's various binges. It's the whiff of chlorine that turns his stomach and makes his heart flutter in anxiety.

Absently, he touches his neck and takes a deep, calming breath. It was a few days ago but he was still bothered by his own nightmare in the dreamscape. Fortunately, the officer's return offers a distraction and John takes his Sherlock's things while he signs the forms. By the time they are sorted out, John is finished on the phone and says thank you to the officer.

"Cab should be here in fifteen minutes." He tells Sherlock, sitting down next to him and tossing his ridiculous belstaff coat on the next seat over. He links his hands together and sits there for a moment in complete silence. Sherlock is refusing to look at him. He purses his lips, looking at the wall ahead and finally decides to break the silence.

"Soooo. That happened." He starts casually, hoping it will prompt Sherlock to talk to him. He's never been very good at conversations like this.