Sherlock had been up and about for two weeks and was already throwing himself full-tilt into his work. From the moment John had given him the ok to contact Lestrade, he'd been a blur of motion; running around London after all manner of criminals and getting up to as much trouble as ever. John was pleased to see that he didn't appear to be suffering from any residual pain, and the limp had disappeared. He still wasn't eating properly, but John had long ago learned to force high-nutrition and heavy portioned meals into Sherlock where he could. It wasn't really what he'd call a healthy diet, but it kept the man functional, and that was at least something.
John was sitting on the end of the sofa, typing up a blog entry for the two cases they'd solved over the last few days. He was debating whether he ought to write up two separate posts or just lump them together, when Sherlock dropped down next to him, apparently deep in thought.

"How's the leg?"
"Fine."
"Good." There was a comfortable silence between them for a few minutes.

He was just about to ask what Sherlock was so engrossed in when he felt the sudden weight of the man's head droppping onto his shoulder. The gesture was almost timid, as if asking for permission. Curly hair tickled his neck. The grey eyes were searching him for a reaction.
He smiled, amused and slightly touched. Sherlock never asked. He simply did. That he wanted permission was a definite change. He reached out and pulled Sherlock close into his side. He heard the soft whuff of held breath being released and he felt the man beside him relax considerably. He could have sworn Sherlock was almost purring...
"Comfortable?"
"Very."
"Good."
John resumed his post, typing awkwardly with one hand, the other resting on Sherlock's hip.
"Really, John, your titles are getting worse every-"
"Leave it or you sit alone."
"... Fine." Sherlock's face nestled into the base of his neck, and John soon found himself humming contentedly. Somehow it had never felt quite this nice when he'd sat side by side with a girlfriend. He hadn't known then what he was missing.
He submitted the post and closed the computer, uncertain if Sherlock was asleep or just dredging out his mind-palace. He found he didn't much care. They were close and comfortable, and that was all that mattered. He spent the rest of the evening there, doing absolutely nothing but enjoying the warm, contented feeling of Sherlock Homles pressed up against his side. As far as John Watson was concerned, sitting there, curled up with the man he loved, life could not possibly be better.