"Jesus, how the hell is he so heavy?" Lestrade grunted, as he and John dragged a semi-conscious Sherlock Holmes up the steps of 221B.
"Damned if I know," John grumbled. "Lanky sod hardly eats."
Sherlock muttered something unintelligible and tried to shoot John a dirty look, although his eyes didn't quite focus.
"Quiet, you," the doctor snorted. He fumbled for his keys and unlocked the door.
The three men couldn't go through the door of 221B simultaneously, so John edged in first, dragging Sherlock's right side, and Lestrade followed, pushing Sherlock's left side. The consulting detective groaned in protest, but the DI and the doctor ignored him.
"Where's his bedroom?" Greg panted.
"Upstairs," John groaned.
Lestrade cursed under his breath, and the men made for the second flight of stairs. As they took the first step, Sherlock grumbled, "Mmm fine… c'n walk…"
"Like hell you can," John scoffed. "Irene gave you either GHB or rohypnol; you'll be out for at least two more hours."
"Need... need woman…" Sherlock slurred as they reached the top of the stairs.
Lestrade chuckled, "That's something I never thought I'd hear him say."
John grinned before opening Sherlock's bedroom door. He and Lestrade chucked the detective onto his bed as if he were a sack of old clothes going into a charity donation pile. Sherlock landed on the bed face-first and mumbling into the mattress.
The DI turned to John with an impish look on his face. "You mind if I film this?"
"Be my guest," John said with a snicker.
Lestrade opened the video camera on his phone and began recording just as Sherlock made the world's clumsiest attempt to sit up. He tried to push himself up with his arms, but then his hands slipped on the satin duvet and he wound up face first on the covers again. Then he tried to roll to one side and nearly rolled off the bed. After several minutes of flopping around like a fish, he managed to throw himself onto his back and then clumsily rolled into a sitting position, legs splayed out ungraciously in front of him.
Lestrade continued to film as John struggled to remove Sherlock's shoes. Sherlock insisted he needed to keep them on, as the woman might come back at any moment. After a few minutes, John gave up, rolled Sherlock onto his side and shut off the light.
"Get some sleep," he instructed. "I'll be back to check on you shortly."
Lestrade teased, "Aren't you worried he'll get your sheets dirty with those shoes?"
John rolled his eyes. "For God's sake, we're not a couple!"
"Right," Lestrade said, entirely unconvinced. "I'll catch the two of you later. Let me know if he gives you any trouble."
After the DI saw himself out, John returned to Sherlock's room and cracked the door. Aspiration was a significant danger for people in Sherlock's condition, he knew, and it was best that he keep an eye on Sherlock for a short while to ensure the man didn't start vomiting. (Has he eaten anything today?) He sat on the floor about a meter away from Sherlock's bed, back against the wall, and checked e-mail on his phone while the detective slumbered. (Still snoring like an obese pensioner with a broken nose, so he can't be too bad off.) After thirty minutes, he was satisfied that his friend was not going to emulate Bon Scott, and went downstairs.
A/N: Bon Scott was the original lead singer of AC/DC, who died after passing out drunk and choking on his own vomit. Alcohol is bad, m'kay?