When we got back to where I'd left them, the Doctor was asleep (or unconscious, but I hoped the former), and Mr. Holmes looked to be nodding himself over the Doctor's head.
He looked up as we entered, blinked twice; then apparently realizing he had forgotten to keep up that patently false pretense of energy, he forced a smile onto his face and began to carefully maneuver the Doctor's head off his arm.
I shook my head, knowing voicing my thoughts would only receive a firm and biting denial, and took the Doctor's legs. We reached the cab with no difficulty, and I had Cummings remain behind to deal with reporters and fill out preliminary paperwork; good practice for him.
By the time we reached Baker Street, I was secretly eyeing Mr. Holmes in case he was stupid enough to keep up at this rate.
Thankfully, the physician Cummings had summoned was of the same opinion as I, and banished the detective for a change of clothes, saying he could return once he'd eaten and shaved, and bring something light for the Doctor as well.
Mr. Holmes swore up a storm and kicked the banister on his way down (to my and his good landlady's amusement), shot me a curt word of thanks, and vanished with a huff into his bedroom.