Notes: I am a bad, bad author. I have not written anything for this series in a long time, and to the people crazy enough to like these little odds and ends, I apologize heartily. I will admit that my confidence in writing these was somewhat shaken by constructive criticism that I received. I hope I've improved with these –this one is probably my current favourite- but if I haven't, tell me.
Disclaimer: If I owned them, I wouldn't write fan fiction of them, would I?
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It was terribly late or horrifically early, depending on your perspective, when Doctor John Watson stumbled almost drunkenly along the wide, dark way of Baker Street, occasionally stepping in a puddle of light from the streetlamps. He was returning from an absolutely nightmarish shift at the hospital that he had recently begun working at. The place had been positively swamped with people that evening, and he had been forced to run about from patient to patient because they had been short-staffed.
Finally, when the last urgent case had been looked after (a woman giving birth to triplets; he had been bloody up to the elbows), it was nearing two o'clock in the morning and, satisfied that they would be fine for the rest of the night without him, he had washed his hands, shrugged half-way into his black wool coat, collected his hat and his cane, and exited the hospital.
Which brings us back to the scene of that poor, exhausted man limping his way up Baker Street with his hat on backwards.
When he reached the door of 221B, he fumbled quickly in his coat pocket for his keys and breathed a relieved sigh when he found them, though he nearly dropped them while attempting to fit his house-key into the lock. Upon the lock giving a sharp click! He opened the door and removed his coat and hat, setting them on the banister, and then turned to lock the door once again.
That task finished, he trudged quietly up the stairs to the sitting room, intending to pour himself a night-cap and fall into a blissful, dreamless sleep and not expecting Holmes to still be awake, as he had told him not to wait up for him before he had left for the hospital.
However, when he reached the sitting room, he was greeted by the strains of violin music and the sight of Holmes standing near the mantel playing his oft-used Stradivarius. Holmes stopped playing to say quietly, 'Do sit down, my dear Watson, you're quite dead on your feet,' and place his violin back in its case.
Watson lumbered over to his armchair and sank down gratefully into its squashy comfort, breathing a contented breath.
He closed his eyes and the next thing he knew, Holmes was by his side with that much-wanted night-cap, saying 'Drink up, and let's get you to bed.' Watson obeyed, and soon found himself bundled under the covers of his bed, trying and failing to keep his eyes open while Holmes said good-night.
When the good doctor had finally succumbed to the siren call of slumber, Holmes softly placed a kiss on the sleeping man's forehead and slipped silently out of the room and into his own bed.