All belong to Mr Doyle and the BBC.

Enjoy x

The radio was playing.

And here's number six of your Official UK Singles Chart, coming to you from BBC Radio One.

The song was unrecognisable to John; it was just a buzz of background music filtering from the front part of the cab. However, combined with the gentle movement of the taxi as it traversed through Marylebone's streets, the radio's indistinctive tone calmed him. John looked across to his flatmate who sat in the leather seats opposite.

"You alright?" he asked instinctively.

Sherlock had been staring complacently out of the window, watching the drops of rain as they pattered against the glass of the hackney carriage. He turned to stare at John, his face deadpan.

"How many times now?" he sighed. The elder man slumped back and felt the back of his head rest against the cool glass that separated the travellers from the driver.

"Sorry," he replied, releasing a heavy sigh that rivalled his flatmates. "I'm just…well, you know, checking you're alright."

"You checked 72 seconds ago. You also checked 129 seconds prior to that."

"I'm a doctor, it's my job."

"You're not at work now John."

The doctor sighed again. "You're right, you're right…always bloody right." He muttered the final part under his breathe, the palms that rubbed at his tired eyes preventing his words from reaching the detective.

Sherlock too settled his back against the taxi head rest and closed his eyes, this uncharacteristic move signalling just how exhausted his body truly was. John noted this, but as instructed, remained silent.

John also noted the angry red bruise that marred his friend's right cheekbone - an angry bruise courtesy of tonight's foray at the pool. He tried to cast his mind back and search for when this may have happened but he had no success; all he was rewarded with was the image of Sherlock's face as he had slipped out of the cubicle, his coat packed with explosives.

The taxi pulled to a halt and John thanked whatever Gods there were when he realised that they had arrived at Baker Street. Lethargically he slipped his hand into his coat pocket and, having cast off his seatbelt, pulled out a loose twenty pound note. He slipped it under the glass barrier towards the driver's reaching hand, "Keep the change."

"Cheers mate," the driver tipped his flat cap towards John. "You might wanna take your friend with you though." Confused, John glanced up and followed the driver's bemused eyes. Sherlock was still resting against the leather seats, his head still tilted back and his eyes firmly closed. His breathing was shallow, he was fast asleep.

Of course he's asleep. I can't remember the last time he had the opportunity to.

John leaned forward and shook the detective's elbow gently. "Wake up Sherlock, we're at Baker Street." Sherlock didn't move but his eyes opened slowly, he blinked wearily as he looked upon John.

"Come on," John muttered again, tugging on Sherlock's elbow before he turned around, opened the cab door and stepped onto the pavement. The rain had stopped and the fresh, damp air was most welcome upon his fatigued body. His face turned up a small smile when he saw that Mrs Hudson was stood in the doorframe of 221b, her face tight and her bony hands wringing together in worry.

Sherlock emerged from the cab and John immediately noticed his stooped figure leaning heavily against the door as he set his feet onto the ground. The doctor placed one hand on his flatmate's back and guided him away from the cab and towards 221b. "You're dead on your feet. I told you that you weren't alright."

"If I remember rightly," Sherlock muttered, pausing to give Mrs Hudson a peck on the head, "You were the one practically sewn into a jacket of explosives."

The elderly lady's eyes jumped from their sockets.

"Jacket of...what? Explosives? I beg your pardon?" Mrs Hudson ran to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at the detective. Sherlock didn't turn around; his body was leaning heavily on the left wall as he dragged himself up the stairs.

"Sherlock, what did you say? Sherlock?" She turned to John who was trying unsuccessfully to unzip his own coat. Realising he didn't have the energy to do so he headed past his landlady and began the seemingly gargantuan ascent up the stairs.

"Ignore him Mrs Hudson," John said in a monotone voice, making no effort to soothe her, "He's tired and talking rubbish." Fortunately this seemed to pacify the landlady, who had noted the exhausted state of her two tenants.

"You do both seem awfully tired dear," she said, "Perhaps I'll make a pot of tea."

John didn't turn around but his soft voice conveyed his gratitude, "Tea would be lovely Mrs Hudson." He trudged across the landing to where Sherlock was leaning heavily against the door frame, his forehead pressed against the panelling.

"Couldn't find keys," he spoke, mostly into the door. His eyes were closed again and John rummaged through his pocket with a little more urgency, worried that his flatmate would collapse of exhaustion right there. Soon his fingers felt the cold metal and within seconds he had pushed the door to 221b open. His hand once again gently pushed Sherlock's back, encouraging the detective through the entrance. Thankfully Sherlock only had to take seven sluggish steps before he let himself fall forward onto their brown sofa, his head face down in the cushions.

Normally when Sherlock face planted into the sofa after an arduous, sleepless case, John would insist that he get up, get undressed and go to his own bed. This time, however, the doctor himself was far too exhausted to insist anything. He quickly tugged off his coat and threw it to the floor before collapsing into his chair, his body sagging into the cushions as he gratefully breathed in the familiar scent of home.

When Mrs Hudson arrived ten minutes later with a tray full of tea and digestive biscuits she found both men in the same position. Rolling her eyes and shaking her head silently she picked up John's coat from the floor and, after fixing the zip, covered the sleeping man. She made sure his body was completely concealed before fondling patting his head. Next she glanced at the younger man, his body curled on its side, his arm hanging loosely from the side of the sofa. After closing the window blinds and blocking the final streams of daylight from entering 221b she found a large blanket resting on the table, covering a pile of books and a laptop. She unfolded the soft quilt and tucked it around Sherlock's body, folding the sides in carefully so that the young man was completely covered. She placed a soft kiss on top of his mop of brown curls.

"Night boys," Mrs Hudson whispered, clicking out the light as she shut the door behind her.

Sorry if it just fizzled out. Hope you enjoyed though :)