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Sorry about the delay, but life and Aristotle keep getting in the way (not that I mind Aristotle).

There's another one and I really hope you like it ;)

The next time he woke, all he could see were blurred shapes. Shapes that were spinning, as was the entire room. One of the shapes, standing next to the bed was gesticulating and talking quickly, but Holmes couldn't understand exactly what was being said. He could only make out some words. 'Got higher…can't do much…never wake up…' He would try to listen more closely if he wasn't so cold. And if he could breathe. And if the room wasn't spinning so quickly, making him feel nauseous. And if his side didn't hurt that much. And if he wasn't so absolutely and overwhelmingly cold. He never liked cold things. Other boys at school used to hurl snowballs at him, he once slipped on an icy day and dislocated his wrist at university and during his career as a detective he learnt that…dead people were cold. He always shrugged off the possibility of dying. In fact, he never really considered it as an actual possibility. Until now. He was the great Sherlock Holmes and he survived dozens of attempts on his life but he felt he was going to be brought down by stupid fever. He didn't fear death itself. Death was nothing and nothing can't hurt you. But there were too many unfinished things. It would be illogical for him to abandon it all like this. Conclusions had to be reached. Equations needed results, not just mere variables. Even the thought of doing something so unreasonable, dying now, made him whimper .

Having heard the sound, Watson concluded that Holmes had to be awake. Surprisingly, the fever has risen again, though he thought it had broken already. Now Holmes was there, as delirious as before, but conscious and staring at him, trying to focus his vision.

'Are you in any pain?' Watson was by his side immediately, with a morphine-filled syringe in his hand. Holmes shoved his hand away. The damn thing wasn't doing any good anyway.

'No…no…' He was, but there were more important things to deal with before he…'I don't want to spend the last moments of my life sleeping. I…'

'Shut up. Don't say that.' Watson snapped at him, moving away from the bed and towards the window. Holmes was delirious, of course he would be talking rubbish. But Watson noticed that his eyes have turned glassy and he shouldn't even be awake with that temperature. What if…Holmes had a point?

'Can we talk?' Watson's heart started beating as it never has before. Last month, he was attending to a sick boy. Hours before he died he started rambling about school and his friends and family and all he wanted to do was talkGod, Holmes shouldn't even be awake. The detective's rattled breathing was the only audible sound in the room, but Watson had to control himself, not to hyperventilate as well. He sat on the edge of Holmes's bed, took the washcloth off his forehead and replaced it with a new one.

'We can. What do you need?'

'Behind the painting in the living room, next to the fireplace there is a safe. The code is 0511. When I'm d…just open it later, take out the envelope and read what's inside. And…do you think we should get Mycroft? We were never that close, but he helped us out last time and it seems reasonable to say thanks.' Watson was amazed at how steady Holmes's voice was. He shouldn't be rambling like this. Shut it Holmes. Rest. The doctor had to focus all his efforts on not letting his panic show.

'You can tell him yourself once you feel better.' The doctor cut Holmes off before he could go any further. 'How are you feeling?' That was a stupid question, but he needed to take both their minds off those horrible scenarios Holmes was making up. Watson's question was not graced with a reply. Holmes just shot him his 'do-you-really-think-I'm-an-idiot?-well,-I'm-not' glance.

'You are an intelligent man Watson. And a doctor. You've seen people die before. So have I. And I read things. I even saw my father…well, not exactly because I wasn't allowed to…

'Holmes!' This was not good. Watson couldn't get the image of the young boy out of his head. The animation in his voice and that need to get out everything he had to say before...And now Holmes suddenly felt like talking about things he used to avoid at all cost.

'He came back from India, with a fever. Nobody would see him when he was dying, they didn't want to catch it and then…

'Holmes…'

'Let me finish. And so he died alone. And then Mycroft came and told me. And I didn't even cry at first. Most peculiar. What an intriguing child I was…But you lied to me.'

'What?' Watson had difficulty following what the detective was saying. He was spitting out words at a speed of a machine gun. Then he needed to pause for a moment. He leaned against the pillows and took a deep breath. It sent a shudder through his weak form, as even the air felt cold and the pain in his side intensified with the sudden movement.

'Well, you said I'd die alone and it seems…' Holmes raised his hand to point at Watson, to indicate that he would not pass in solitude after all. The doctor felt rage rising inside him. Maybe Holmes's body should give out if the temperature doesn't go down, maybe the gunshot should have killed him straight away, but since when did Sherlock Holmes care about what he should be doing? Why was he doing this to himself? Before he could stop himself, he grabbed Holmes's wrist and violently pinned it to the bed, brushing against the bandages accidentally. Holmes groaned at the sudden violation and squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment. Watson regretted his reflex immediately.

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…'

'I know. I'm sorry…about being a pain again.' The detective suddenly became very interested in the painting hanging on the wall opposite, avoiding eye contact with Watson. 'As always, but…'

There was something Watson needed to ask. Desperately.

'Why are you suddenly so keen on dying old boy?' Maybe, hopefully Holmes was simply delirious, and not acting as a man in his right mind. Or maybe he really knew. Watson's extensive medical knowledge told him it was the latter, but he desperately refused to admit it to himself.

'I'm not, but… maybe if I don't then…one day I'll find myself on my own in an alley, bleeding to death or with my guts all over the place like those poor girls in Whitechapel or…And now you're here and even Mary is here…And I'm bloody cold and it bloody hurts and, and I feel like I have this massive stone in my chest and…Don't think I'm considering this on an emotional level. I simply think that…this option maximizes utility and ergo is the most…reasonable one to choose.' He was considering it on an emotional level.And he was getting increasingly paralyzed with fear. Or maybe it was just circulation not working as it should.

Watson delicately turned Holmes's head away from the painting, so that they were looking each other in the eye, and put a firm grip on his friend's shoulder. Holmes had propped himself against the pillows, so that he was sitting up. Watson delicately pushed him back down and tucked the covers around his shoulders.

'Not an option Holmes. And yes, it does register on an emotional level. You will…No. We will get through this.'

'But it feels so wrong and it hurts and death (oh Lord, he actually said it) is the only logical and valid conclusion. But…I want you to know that it does make a considerable difference, having someone on whom I can thoroughly rely. So thank you. And…oh God W-watson…oh God…oh God…' Holmes grabbed Watson's arm with all the strength he had left in him and the other man tried to hold his friend up, as he sensed panic in the detective's voice. '0511, rem-member'. Holmes slumped in Watson's arms and the doctor immediately reached for his wrist to check for pulse. It was still there, but very weak, and maybe it was just Watson's imagination but it seemed to be slowing.

Watson was no longer a doctor. All that was left was a bundle of emotions and Holmes's best friend. The detective was still breathing, but now he was again locked in a little world of his own. He started clutching at the wound again, trying to rip off the bandages and he pushed the duvet off himself, as if he was trying to get away. Watson held him firmly in place, his touch remaining firm but comforting. He could no longer keep the tears from coming. He was desperate. Holmes had minutes, maybe not even that. There had to be something he could do.

'Come on old boy, one more miracle…please.' Watson shook Holmes's shoulders delicately, which only resulted in an uncontrolled sob of pain from the other man. He started trashing and knocked a glass of the bedside table. It smashed to pieces on the ground with a loud noise.

'Sssshhh…ssshhh…it's okay. You're ok. You'll be fine…' Watson cradled the detective to his chest, hoping that this way, he won't be able to slip away into nothingness. 'You selfish, selfish bastard. Don't you dare do that. You have no right to…to…Do you hear me?' Holmes didn't.

A few minutes later he was just lying calmly in Watson's arms with his eyes closed, no strength left in him to struggle. His head was leaning against the doctor's shoulder, his features somehow relaxed. If the doctor wasn't keeping his hand on the detective's pulse, he would almost feel relieved that his friend finally managed to find peace. But he knew better. When he shifted Holmes's body onto his lap, there was no reaction at all. When he tried to slap his cheek, there was no reaction at all. When he begged Holmes do open his eyes in desperation, there was no reaction at all.

Holmes probably couldn't hear him anyway, but there were still unsaid things between them.

'You know…you're the most annoying, irresponsible, cold-hearted bastard I ever knew. And…you always make mess and blow things up and steal my clothes and try to sabotage my relationship with Mary….. And you're my best friend.'

And, dear Lord, I think your heart just stopped.

So, I'm done with another chapter.

Having killed Holmes again, I'm starting to wonder whose side I'm really on…Well, I guess you just have to forgive my depressed little mind. But fear not, when it gets un-depressed I tend to make miracles happen :DDD and I actually already have one in mind.

And do you know what helps with getting un-depressed (apart from Aristotle, that is)?

REVIEWS! Pretty please?