Cases, Breakfast and Not Enough Sleep

Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own either of these two gorgeous characters however much I'd like to. As has become my custom, apologies for any brain damaged caused from reading my deplorable excuse for writing.

This was inspired by a rather cute picture I saw on Tumblr a few days ago, to which I wrote a tag fic to. I have since lost that tag fic and this knowledge is making me sad. Anyway, without further ado, I present my atrocity.

Ten o'clock in the morning and the two of them were exhausted. It had been a long week; three murders and neither of them had slept for longer than two hours at a time as they went through case notes and suspect files as Sherlock tracked down the killer. Well, killers, as it turned out; it was a petty gang revenge job. A damned clever gang job, but still a gang job.
John could barely keep his eyes open and he could literally feel the adrenaline that had been keeping him going for the past week draining out of him. Every few minutes he had to keep pinching himself so he wouldn't pass out in the middle of the café he'd dragged Sherlock into as soon as Lestrade declared the case closed. They hadn't actually eaten properly in about a week either; running all over London after elusive gang members hadn't really allowed for time to prepare meals or to sit down and eat; there just wasn't time, and they had to be ready to leave the flat at a moment's notice. The doctor looked over at Sherlock, about to ask if there was anything else he wanted to order but the sight of the consulting detective fast asleep on the table left him struck dumb. About two seconds ago, he'd been fine, maybe a little out of sorts, but now he was fast asleep with his head on the table, oblivious to the world. It would seem that as soon as he had placed his order for a coffee his eyes had simply dropped and he'd fallen flat on the table. John smiled fondly at him and was tempted to prod the taller man awake but he just looked so peaceful and John didn't have the heart to wake him. What's more, poking Sherlock required moving his arm and John wasn't sure he had the energy to even perform that small action.

As they waited for coffee, John's half asleep brain started to wander. He propped his face up with a hand, elbow on the table, and the other hand close to Sherlock's mop of hair on the table and pondered his life; he was in a café with a man who was considered a social psychopath by most, yet whom he now considered his best friend. They'd somehow come to depend on each other... Now when (and how) had that happened? All John knew for certain, at that point, was that he was bloody exhausted but he wouldn't give any of this up for the world. Also that he was dangerously close to joining Sherlock in falling asleep on the table. Thank goodness home was only about five minutes around the corner.

"Sherlock, wake up, coffee's here." He poked the detective's head and waited for a response. When none came, he poked again, slightly harder.
"John, shut up, I'm sleeping." came the slightly garbled reply.
John sighed and turned to the slightly bemused looking waiter, "Yeah, sorry, he's not going to be moving any time soon. D'you think we could take this to go?"
The waiter looked slightly uncomfortable "I'm sorry but I think that's against our policy..."
"Fine, forget the coffee; can we just have the croissants to go, please?"
The now slightly happier looking waiter walked back to the kitchens as John started to poke Sherlock repeatedly on the head.
"Wake up, wake up, wake up..." He carried on in this manner, making no real progress with Operation Wake Up The Lazy Git and eventually gave up just as the waiter reappeared carrying a bag containing two croissants.
After feeling in his pocket for his wallet, remembering that he had used the last of his notes to pay for last night's dinner, repocketing the wallet, his tired eyes looked at Sherlock and a large Cheshire Cat style grin superimposed itself on the doctor's befuddled brain. With the sensible part of his brain tied up and gagged in the back of John's mind, he slipped his hand into Sherlock's coat pocket, brought out the detective's wallet and, with it, money to pay for breakfast.
The waiter smirked at him, "Nice when boyfriends pay for breakfast, innit? How long've you two been together?"
Having got the sensible part of John's brain safely out of the way, the more insane part made the sleep deprived man reply without thinking, "About a year now. Sorry, I can't really stay and chat; got to get this lug back home. We've literally been awake for a week straight. Thanks for being so helpful."
And with that, he got up and grabbed the back of Sherlock's coat, almost dragging him to the door. He may have been in the army as a doctor but he "had bad days", and besides you had to be fit to be a soldier. Fit enough to manoeuvre a comatose person about a head taller than you, at least.

"Come on Sherlock, almost home. Juuust around the corner, let's go."
"Mzzzmfla..."
"Yes, we solved the case. Home now."
"Fmmigina?"
"Yes, you were right about the revenge. Keep walking, that's it."
"Ijglio... yrrovmium..."
"Okay, I'm not even going to try and pretend that I know what you're saying now. Come on, through the door, we're almost home... oh god, I forgot we had stairs..."
The stairs proved some challenge for John but in the end he gave up trying to get Sherlock's limbs to cooperate and simply lifted the taller man in a fireman's carry and walked up the stairs.
Their houseke – landlady looked up the stairs at the strange retreating figure that the two of them cut, and smiled fondly. At last.

I love writing drabbly things; they're just so... drabbly. Reviews make for a happy Priya! Even if they're just complaints about how I killed the characters etc. etc. etc.