I don't have time to write a fulll length fic, so I've decided to compile all my drabbles and oneshots into one collection. If you enjoy, feel free to review. =]
Disclaimer; I do not own Sherlock Holmes.
Watson stumbled into the cluttered sitting room and sat down heavily with a sigh. Rubbing his eyes wearily, he balanced his cane against his side and laid his head against the back of the chair. The doctor's skin was pale and dark bags hung underneath his eyes, making him seem years older. Watson slowed his breathing, willing his sore and aching muscles to ease up enough to allow him to rest.
He had been working flat out with the latest bout of sickness that was sweeping through London, and tonight was the first time he had made it back to Baker Street for days. He had not slept, barely eaten and had been exposed to the wails and moans of the dying and grieving for nigh on three days straight, and his head was throbbing. However it was nothing compared to the raw pain in his leg, loudly complaining at him being on his feet so much. Walking for Watson was not a pleasure, but a necessity to get from A to B.
As tired as he was, the usually alert doctor did not stir as the door creaked open, Holmes's head poking around cautiously. 'Watson, old boy, are you awake?'
Apparently not. Holmes entered the room fully and stood with folded arms, observing his friend. Obviously Watson was suffering from severe exhaustion, and had passed out. Most unlike him too, Holmes pondered, leaning over and peering closely into Watson's face - he usually managed to at least make it to his room before collapsing in a heap. It must be his leg paining him, deduced Holmes, noting the cane lying haphazardly against Watson's leg. He really must learn to rest it up more often, tutted Holmes. Trust the doctor never to take his own advice...
Prodding Watson's cheek with his index finger, Holmes was unsettled by his friend's pale complexion and lined face. No, Watson needed lots of sleep and rehydration, and for Holmes to lock him in his room so that he could not escape to play martyr to the masses. No matter how dedicated Watson was to saving others lives, Holmes felt that keeping his friend safe and well was much more important right now.
Standing back, he sized up the situation and rubbed his hands together briskly. He was going to have to carry Watson to his bedroom himself. He couldn't possibly leave his comrade sleeping awkwardly on a chair, albeit a comfy one. Rolling up his sleeves, Holmes grabbed Watson under the knees and looped his other arm around his back and lifted him with a grunt.
He was surprised; Watson was much lighter than he had expected. For a man taller than Holmes, although a slender enough man, Watson really should weigh more. It must be the last few days taking their toll, Holmes thought, deciding to watch what Watson ate for the next few days, possibly buying him a big steak to fatten him up a bit.
Opening the door with his elbow, Holmes carried the doctor over to his bed and lay him down carefully, laying his head on the soft pillows. Grasping Watson's jacket, he gently slid him out of his, and removed the dark waistcoat underneath. Now was the tricky bit... to remove the shirt or not? He knew from past experiences of bursting into Watson's room at spontaneous times due to his delight at an experiment or as such, that Watson preferred to sleep without the constriction of clothes. He had, however, taken up wearing a long pyjama top, to ease the embarrassment when Holmes inevitably bursts into his chambers.
Choosing comfort, Holmes tenderly unbuttoned the shirt and slid it off before moving onto Watson's shoes and trousers, leaving him in his underwear. Smiling at the sight of his friend snuffling in his sleep, he pulled the warm duvet up around Watson's shoulders, allowing the doctor to curl up underneath it and settle down. Really, his Watson was an overgrown child sometimes.
Drawing the curtains, Holmes slid out of the room quietly, not wanting to wake the sleeping man. 'Goodnight Watson.'