Sherlock's head tilted forward, his forehead bumping into the viewer of the microscope. He shook his head, trying to clear it. This was the third day of the case and he was no closer to solving it than he had been at the beginning. He had to stay awake.
A few minutes later, John laughed quietly. The detective had finally fallen asleep. It had only been a matter of time. He lay his arm across Sherlock's shoulders. "Sherlock, come on, wake up." The detective shifted, leaning his weight on John, but not waking up. There was nothing for it. He scooped Sherlock up in his arms and carried him. "Alright, I've got you."
The detective snuggled into John even as he gave a little snuffle. Smiling, the doctor carried him from the lab, through the halls and out to the pathway. He hated to do it, but he had to set Sherlock on his feet so he could hail a cab.
Sherlock's eyes came open and he looked around. How had he got out here on the pathway? Oh! John must have carried him. He gave a little shudder and his cheeks reddened. John had carried him and he had missed it!
"Oh, there you are," John said, as he waved down a cab. "You're awake."
A cab stopped and the doctor opened the door for the detective. Sherlock got in and slid across the seat. He wanted to feel John's arms holding him, carrying him, so incredibly strong. Maybe if he feigned sleep... He leaned against the doctor, resting his head on his shoulder.
Some indeterminate time later, Sherlock roused, once again being set on his feet. They were in their bedroom on Baker Street. He had fallen asleep and been carried and had missed it again. It was so unfair.
"Let's get this coat off you, Sherlock." John stripped the Belstaff off of the detective and tossed it on the chair in the corner. "You look like a tired little boy. Take off your shoes and get in bed."
Sherlock obliged, letting John slip in behind him and pull the covers over them both. It wasn't the first time they had slept fully clothed while on a case and it wouldn't be the last. In just a few hours, they would be up, searching for the solution to this frustrating mystery. For now, Sherlock allowed himself the luxury of being spooned by John, the older man's strong arm wrapped around him.
The next afternoon found them at an abandoned warehouse. It was already burning and the eight year old kidnapped boy was screaming with fright. He was bound to a beam overhead, just out of reach.
"Sherlock, give me a boost!" John figured he could climb up on the beam and untie the child before the fire got too near. The detective tried to lift John, but couldn't. "Damn!" They both looked around, trying to find another way up, something to climb on, anything.
Lestrade came running up. "I figured you'd be in here. Where's the kid?"
John pointed up at the little boy who had gone quiet, doubtless the smoke had got to him. "You can help. You and Sherlock boost me up."
The two men lifted John high enough that he could grasp the beam. He lifted himself up onto it by virtue of a chin up and throwing his legs across it. Working fast, he untied the little boy, then lowered him carefully down to Greg's waiting arms. The DI took off running. John lowered himself, hung by his fingertips for a moment, then dropped to the floor. "Come on," he shouted to a stunned and awed detective, then he, too, took off running, Sherlock close behind.
Several yards from the building where they were all quite safe, Sherlock contrived to stumble and 'twist' his ankle as he went down. John turned at the detective's evidently pained cry and rushed back to his side.
"What's hurt?" the doctor asked with concern, his hands already reaching out to help Sherlock sit up.
"My right ankle, John. I'm sure it's nothing. I'll be fine." Sherlock knew a denial of injury was the fastest way to get John's attention.
The doctor swiftly began probing at Sherlock's ankle. "I'll be the judge of that." He froze as the detective gave a mock hiss of pain. "That hurts?" John shook his head. "Nothing's broken, I'm fairly certain. Probably a bad sprain. You shouldn't walk on it." He looked around, they were a good distance from the ambulance and police cars. "I'll have to carry you." If he was expecting an argument, it didn't come.
When John lifted Sherlock in his arms, the detective almost died of rapture. He tucked his head into John's chest where he could hear the other man's heartbeat. Maybe he could get John to carry him every day.
The doctor set Sherlock down on the back of a police car when they got there. He turned his head when Greg called him over. "I'll be right back," he told the detective.
Sherlock watched the older man with wonder as he dashed off to where the paramedics were working on the boy. He had woke and was coughing as he begged for his mother. John calmed him down and convinced him to let the paramedics start him on oxygen.
Without thinking, Sherlock stood and walked over to stand with Greg and John as the little boy was loaded into the ambulance. The doctor's eyebrows shot up. "What happened to that sprain, Sherlock?"
The detective felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment at being caught out. "I, um..."
Holding up his hands, Greg backed away. "I'll leave you two to it."
When he had gone, John stepped close and whispered into Sherlock's ear, "Who's been a naughty boy?"
"John..."
"If you wanted me to carry you, all you had to do was ask." The doctor took in Sherlock's dazed expression. "Would you like that?" He laughed at the detective's frantic nod. "Good, just wait until I get you home."