So yeah, not sure where this came from. Enjoy!
Sherlock was tired.
Not just slightly drowsy, either. Sherlock was sway-on-your-feet, fall-asleep-in-the-middle-of-a-sentence exhausted. John could see it, Lestrade could see it, hell, even Anderson could see it. Sherlock, of course, was pretending absolutely nothing was the matter.
They'd been on the same case for 4 days, attempting to track down a Russian jewel thief who'd stolen a priceless hair clip from the museum, an incident John was calling "The Babushka and the Barrette". Sherlock had been awake the entire time and was becoming incoherent. Even though the woman had been caught and was currently being interrogated, Sherlock was refusing to leave Scotland Yard, despite John's best efforts.
"John, while your concern is touching, I suggest you take your maternal instincts elsewhere. I'm not leaving until I'm absolutely sure these idiots aren't going to muck up all my hard work."
Lestrade approached them, noticing John's sigh.
"Sherlock, I promise you, we'll take care of it. I'll text you if we have questions. Go home and get some sleep, or you're no help to us at all."
"Thank you, father, but I assure you, I'm perfectly alr-." Sherlock's snark was cut off due to the fact that he suddenly swayed and pitched forward. John caught him quickly around the waist before he could hit the pavement.
"Hey, whoa! Careful, mate."
Sherlock, who had given up on trying to appear alert, and was now just trying to keep from collapsing, stared blankly ahead.
"John, why don't you take him home before he hurts himself? I'll text if we need him." Lestrade was talking quietly, but Sherlock wasn't listening anyway.
"Yeah, ta." John started leading Sherlock over to a waiting cabbie. He kept his arm firmly around his waist, because Sherlock was still a bit wobbly.
As he strapped his friend into the cheap vinyl seat, he felt vaguely like a parent. He walked around to his side of the taxi, ignoring the looks the cabbie was giving him.
"221B Baker Street, thanks." They pulled away from the curb and John looked at Sherlock. He was mumbling softly to himself about "unnecessary" and "perfectly okay", but for the moment, he didn't look like he was going to hurt himself. John turned and watched the city roll past outside his window. All of a sudden, there was a heavy weight on his thighs. He looked down and noted with surprise that he now had a crotch full of consulting detective. Sherlock was face down in his lap, fast asleep, his mouth open in a very undignified way. John was at a loss for words. He shifted slightly, careful not to wake him. The bearded cabbie was now giving them more strange looks.
John's hands hovered for a moment, unsure of where to sit now that his lap was no longer free. He settled for setting one on the window ledge, and the other gently on the dark hair pressed against him. At the touch, Sherlock stirred slightly and burrowed his face further into John's jeans, who stiffened and turned bright red, avoiding the eyes of the driver in the rearview mirror.
He watched as Sherlock's breathing slowed again, seeing the rise and fall of his chest against the side of John's leg. He felt a warmth in his chest and smiled slightly down at his friend. He was too busy watching Sherlock sleep to notice that they'd pulled up to the flat, until the cabbie cleared his throat. John looked up, embarrassed.
"Uh, could you maybe just go around the block another time? I'll pay it, it's just, er.."
He gestured at the sleeping black lump. The cabbie grinned and pulled away from the curb again.
Guys, I'll admit, I giggled to myself a little bit when writing the line "a crotch full of consulting detective". Well, I say "a little bit".
