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John moved back into 221B three months ago, and he hasn't slept in his own bed yet.
Granted, the couch isn't a proper bed, and his body has been complaining about that in dozens of tiny cramps and twinges. On the other hand, it's comfortable, as couches go. More importantly, it's not in what is once again John's room.
It's not that there's anything wrong with his room. He tried to sleep there last night, but he was up at 2am, dragging his bedclothes down to the couch.
When Sherlock first returned from the dead, John spent half each night leaning on the wall outside his bedroom. They didn't discuss it, but one night, Sherlock left the door ajar. John's nightmares of bloodsoaked hair and unblinking eyes have ebbed steadily ever since.
He likes falling asleep to the sound of Sherlock plucking his violin at the window or rattling laboratory equipment in the kitchen. He likes waking up to the sight of Sherlock drinking tea in his armchair or typing at his desk. He knows it's silly to feel like a flight of stairs is still just a bit too far away, and he knows he'll get over it soon, but for right now, he needs the nightly reassurance that his best friend is safe, well, and home where he belongs.