Carry You Home

Carry You Home

John has had a whopping total of eight and a half hours of sleep this week. Sherlock has had next to none. He'll close his eyes for five, ten minutes, just enough to keep them from drying out and popping right out of his head. John urges him to "for God's sake just take a nap" but this case is far too interesting.
For an entire week, they have been in pursuit of an extremely valuable gem, that since it was stolen from an elderly aristocrat, has been leaving death and destruction in its wake. It has entered five different hands and in turn produced five different corpses when the owner became boastful and the rival became jealous. The thing has taken them clear across London twice and they are always just a step behind. Sherlock is having a ball.
When finally, at the end of the seventh day, they recover the jewel from the neck of a young girl's teddy bear gifted to her by her shifty uncle for safe keeping, John is ready to drop. But not as literally as Sherlock. After the police set to their arresting and paperwork, Sherlock and John begin their trek home. It's the early hours of the morning and they are having no luck with cabs and John is about to suggest the tube when he notices that Sherlock has gone very quiet. When he turns to see what the matter is, he sees that Sherlock is standing still, his eyes shut and his chin drooping to his chest.
"…Sherlock?" No response. "Sherlock," John says louder, and shakes the man's shoulder.
The force makes Sherlock sway, his knees buckling underneath him and John just manages to catch him before he falls face forward onto the pavement. "Sherlock!" he shouts, truly concerned now as Sherlock's body slumps forward onto John's chest. And then he ears it. Snoring. Muffled by the fabric of John's shirt but definite snoring nonetheless.
Sherlock Holmes is apparently capable of falling asleep standing up. John learns something new everyday.
"Come on," John says, jostling him around but Sherlock displays no signs of waking. John looks around desperately for a cab but no dice. With the most put upon sigh he can muster, John shakes his head and he can't believe he is actually about to do this.
He turns around carefully, Sherlock now supported by John's back, and bends forward while moving backward. He reaches back and grabs one of Sherlock's arms and hauls him up as he moves back, pulling him higher onto his back. He leans down and lets gravity do the rest until he is able to reach one of Sherlock's legs with his other hand. He grabs the underside of his thigh and with some tricky maneuvering, he has it locked in his arm and pinned against his hip. Very quickly, he does the same with the other and slowly straightens up.
John takes a moment to catch his breath and bounce Sherlock higher up his back, grunting with the effort. He's not as heavy as he could be but dead weight is always difficult to carry. With one last, pleading look around, John begins to walk. Luckily there aren't many people out at three-thirty in the morning and most that are out are drunk and won't care. Hatefully, John can't spot a single cab to save his life so he keeps walking. He avoids the tube because that would be embarrassing as hell for everyone involved (save Sherlock) and when he does happen to, finally, see a cab, the driver takes one look at the situation and keeps going.
John swears loudly after him and he stops to have a breather. Slowly, John becomes aware that the patch of shirt just under Sherlock's mouth is very warm indeed and comes to the conclusion that yes, Sherlock Holmes is in fact, drooling on his back. Fantastic.
"You had better do everything I say for at least a month," John grumbles on deaf ears and trudges on, knowing that if he keeps a steady pace he can be home in half an hour.
After a while, his shoulder really starts to ache and his thighs burn but Sherlock occasionally makes little sighing sounds in his sleep and somehow that kind of makes up for it. Come to think of it, John has never seen Sherlock this vulnerable before. If not for John, he would have just passed out in the street back there and then Lord knows what could have happened to him. John tugs him a little closer.
By the time John can see the awning of SPEEDY'S, he thinks he could cry with relief. He feels very proud of himself for getting the door open while not dropping Sherlock…until he sees the stairs. He had forgotten about the stairs. John curses under his breath, takes one step up and comes to the fast decision that this just can't happen. He considers going to Mrs. Hudson's door and asking if Sherlock can sleep on the sofa for the night but then remembers that she has gone to her sister's for the weekend.
Just for a moment, just so he can think, John steps back down to ground level, slowly lowers himself to the floor and lets Sherlock slide off his back. John stretches his neck and back as he looks down at him, still dead to the world and he gets an idea. It's worth a shot. He pull Sherlock round so his head is facing the stairs, stands over him, and hooks his hands under Sherlock's arms and pulls as he begins to walk backwards.
Sherlock's feet hit each step with an unsettling 'thunk' but his head hangs loosely and he remains solidly asleep. When they reach the top, John lets go and sinks to the floor, lying flat on his back with Sherlock on his legs and takes a moment to breathe. After the pounding in his head subsides, John wriggles out from under Sherlock, raises himself onto a knee and slides his arms under him, one around his back and the other under his knees. With soldierly strength and determination, John gives a groan and a mighty heave he stands, pulling Sherlock up and against his chest.
Carrying the detective bridal style, John makes his way through the kitchen and down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom. He nudges the door open with his foot and staggers to the bed. He leans forward with the intention of gently laying him down but his back hitches painfully and Sherlock is dropped. Not that he wakes up anyway. John kneads at his tight muscles with a hiss of pain but he can't help feeling a weird sense of accomplishment.
He smiles fondly at the look of utter peace on Sherlock's face and sets about removing his shoes out of common decency. He pulls the bed sheet up over him as best he can and whispers a soft "night" before brushing a hand through unruly curls. He'll decide Sherlock's punishment in the morning.