Hello again... (I know, it's been more than a month already, but it's better than a hiatus of close to a year, isn't it? Seems like I finally re-discovered my love for sick!Sherlock.)

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous part, especially those I can't thank via PM. It means a lot to know that - even after all the time it took me to finally update - there are still people who are interested in this and reading this.

Okay then... here you go.


Never By Halves

9


"…rlock… up… Sher… on… Sherlock!"

The tendrils of awareness approached him slowly, very slowly, in the form of John's voice in his ears and John's grip on his shoulder.

"Mh," was the first thing he could think of, think with the mass of cotton that was his brain, with his eyes that were too heavy to be opened.

"Sherlock," John said again, "wake up."

"Mh," he made again, as if to reassure John, to tell John that everything was fine. Before he could even process what was happening, his non-committal response evolved into a cough that hurt his throat and hurt his lungs, and he was writhing where he was lying, John's hands still on his shoulders.

Tears threatened to spring from his eyes when he finally succeeded in wrenching them open, tears produced by the brightness all around him and by the urge to breathe, breathe, breathe.

John's face, Sherlock registered even while he attempted to suck in oxygen, John's face was worried.

"Better?" he asked quietly, and Sherlock nodded slowly, doing his best to discern his blurring surroundings.

Bedroom, he was in his bedroom, had been, for a while, probably, had gone to John and Mary's, for dinner, and then… then coughing and John asking him questions and driving to 221B, and… not much more, haziness, vague memories of the sofa, a glass of water, coughing, of John, John, who didn't leave, who had been here, with him, John.

Sherlock frowned, tried to make sense of everything and to suppress a violent shiver that was about to overtake his body. "Why're you here… still?" he croaked, forced the words out although he wanted nothing more but to double over and curl up with the force of his coughing.

Then John's hand was on his forehead, John's warm hand, and Sherlock's eyes closed despite himself as breathing slowly became possible again.

John's face was still grim when Sherlock wrenched them open once more, still grim and… "Your temperature's gone up a bit," he said, quietly, as if to himself, and then looked at Sherlock, with his eyes dark, so dark. "How do you feel?" he asked.

Fine, Sherlock wanted to say, his very first impulse. He swallowed, tried to stifle a cough, concentrated on his body, his transport for a few moments. "Sore," he finally rasped, and promptly coughed. Sucked in air, coughed again, swalllowed. Managed to breathe.

A short, tense smile flickered over John's face, flickered and then disappeared. "Do you think you can sit up a bit?"

Did he? Probably. "Yes," he said, although his head swam as he tried to force his body into a position close to upright, swam as he tried to order his memories from the evening. John here, John with him… staying? Family, John had a family, family who needed him more than Sherlock. And yet… he felt… tired, so tired, everything, every limb, every bone, his very being, aching and exhausted and…

He only realised that his eyes had closed when John's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "Sherlock," his voice said, looming above Sherlock as he struggled to open his eyes. "Don't go to sleep now, okay? Can you do this for me?"

For John? Always.

"Mh," he made, barely bothered by how unintelligible it sounded, and did his best to breathe calmly even as he felt another cough approaching.

John's lips were pursed, his posture tense, Sherlock noticed through barely open lids, and he seemed… angry? Worried?

"Here," John said. A glass appeared in Sherlock's line of vision, and two pills in his open palm. "Take these. And drink. Do you think you can keep them down?"

Sherlock swallowed. "Yes," he mumbled. He would have to, for John, wouldn't he?

John nodded as Sherlock lifted his hand, gulped down the two pills. He had to cough, once, twice, then reached for the glass with a shaky hand. John had been thoughtful, as thoughtful as he always was, always the perfect conundrum, because he had not filled the glass up to the rim, mindful of Sherlock's trembling, of the shaking he couldn't control because his body decided to oppose him. The water was cool, mercifully tasteless, liquid, swooshing about in his mouth and soothing, numbing the stinging in his throat for a moment.

"Slowly," John said from somewhere in front of him, "you need to drink slowly."

Sherlock did, but still spilled more on his duvet than he managed to swallow, and some time later John took the glass from his trembling grip. Sherlock's eyes closed.

"Okay," John's voice was saying now, "lie back down."

"Mh," Sherlock made and let his head slump back. John's hand was on his shoulder again, and Sherlock could feel himself being manoeuvred into a prone position, but his eyes didn't want to open, and every thought was hazy and confusing. He coughed again.

John's voice was still there when he managed to stop, louder than the hammering of his heart or the stabbing pain in his lungs. "Get some sleep," John said and gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. "I'll be next door if you need me."

Next door, next door… In the living room, John meant, the living room with the sofa. John shouldn't sleep on the sofa, Sherlock's muddled brain reprimanded him, because sleeping on the sofa always gave John a stiff neck and a backache. John shouldn't sleep on the sofa, Sherlock thought again, John shouldn't… John should be at home, he remembered hazily, with his family. At home, not here. Not with him.

"John," he managed to whisper, a sound so quiet that he didn't think John had heard him. John, he wanted to repeat, wanted to prop himself up on one elbow and open his eyes. He could see John, a blurry mirage of John, but before he could think of something to say, before he could tell John to leave because he would be fine and John's family needed him, he broke into another coughing fit.

John's hand, he noticed once he felt like he could breathe again, was back on his shoulder.

Go home, he wanted to tell John, but all that came out was one more cough.

"Get some sleep," John's voice reached him, and Sherlock's eyes closed. He didn't even stay awake long enough to feel the loss of warmth when John removed his hand and left the room.

(-)

When Sherlock surfaced again, when his body jolted him back to consiousness with its coughing, it was still dark around him, and quiet. The case, he remembered suddenly, he needed to solve the case. The case, the case. He clang to the thought while he struggled to stop coughing, struggled to draw in a decent breath. Needed to solve the case, the most important case, the case of Moriarty, of the Moriarty video, because if he didn't, if he failed, then John was in danger.

No, no, no. His heart started fluttering uncontrollably, and his lungs seized up as he rolled to his right, curling around the stabbing pain in his chest as best as he could. No, Sherlock forced himself to remember, the case. He needed to solve the case.

He swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, just long enough to catch his breath. His legs were sore, and stiff, and Sherlock automatically held his breath as he fought to shift into a sitting position, slowly, shakily. Everything spun around him for a moment, and he clenched one hand tightly around the blankets that had been spread over him, just to keep track of where up was und where down. Afghan, he noticed. Mrs Hudson's afghan.

His lungs felt tight and constricted, and he was cold, so cold, but Sherlock ignored it. Case. He needed to solve the case.

Getting to his feet and staying there was even more difficult than sitting up. Everything blurred, and swirled, and he couldn't even tell if his eyes were open or closed, but he couldn't sit down again. He couldn't. He had to cough, curled his left arm around his chest, clang to the wall as his knees started to buckle.

No, no, no. Couldn't sit down, couldn't take a break now. The case. Moriarty. The case. Moriarty wasn't allowed to come near John ever again. Wouldn't. Needed to be stopped. Because John was in danger.

Sherlock swallowed the next cough that rose in his throat and lurched forwards. One step, another. Billy, Billy Wiggins would know. Billy would have someone to question. He needed his phone, his phone to…

Sherlock stumbled and almost crashed against the bathroom door, but didn't fall. Case. John. Case.

A cab, he decided as he bit down on his lip to stifle another cough. Cab. Needed to catch a cab and solve the case.

By the time he had reached the stairs, his heart was hammering heavily and his vision was blurring, darkening in a way that had nothing to do with the lack of light inside his flat. His left hand cramped around the banister as he tried to take a breath, but then he failed to anticipate the notion of another cough triggering his lungs, failed to anticipate and stop it. A squishy, musty substance appeared in his mouth, and Sherlock swallowed out of reflex.

The coughing didn't seem to end, and everything was spinning and turning even more violently, and he was shivering, but he didn't have time for that now. The case. He needed to solve the case, needed to stop Moriarty.

One hand pressed to his mouth to muffle the sound of his hacking, the other one clenched around the banister, he took the first step, then another, and another. All he could manage were small, shallow pants to get something like air into his lungs. He would have been annoyed at his transport, he mused hazily, if he hadn't been so focused on navigating the stairs and staying on his feet.

Maybe he could phone John later, he pondered distractedly. Another cough tore through his lungs and throat; he shivered and stumbled again. Could phone John later, once the case was solved, could stop by at John's flat, could allow himself to stop by because John wouldn't be in danger then, because John, and his wife, and his family would be safe and not even Sherlock would be able to endanger John, at least not with one visit.

John. Needed to keep John safe.

He was coughing so hard by the time he had reached the front door that he almost didn't manage to open it. Almost, because his arm was shaking and the walls were swaying and it was cold in the hallway, but then it opened, finally, and Sherlock took a step forwards, outside - cab, he recalled vaguely, something about a cab - and another, and then his knees simply gave in and he slid down, down to the floor, on the steps in front of the door, with his back against the wall of Mrs Hudson's building.

He coughed again, and shivered, and his eyes fell closed for a second before Sherlock could remember that he needed to keep them open, had a case to solve. The coughing didn't stop, didn't lessen, and he couldn't breathe.

Finally, finally, he managed a tiny gasp, and another, and he knew, he knew, that he was supposed to get up and find a cab, but his eyes had closed again and his head was resting against the wall behind him and everything was spinning even though he was sitting down, and…

Just a minute, he thought dimly. A minute, just to catch his breath, and then he'd get up again to…

And then yet another cough burnt through his lungs, and Sherlock simply forgot about everything.

(-)

"…erlo… ake up… Sherl… diot… erlock… please…"

A voice appeared, from somewhere, and slowly, very slowly, he became aware of himself again. Hazy, everything was hazy. The back of his head was resting against something, something hard and solid and cold, and he shuddered in his freezing surroundings.

Then the voice spoke up again, begging him to do something, and Sherlock remembered. Lifting his eyelids took effort, almost too much effort, but through tiny slits he could see John, John crouching in front of him, one hand on his shoulder, the other one on his cheek. John was crouching in front of him, and he looked terrible, and he wasn't supposed to be here.

"'ohn," he whispered soundlessly. He didn't even try to stifle the next cough. Couldn't find the energy to.

Something flickered over John's features, something, something… Sherlock didn't know. Could barely see. Or breathe. "Oh god," he heard John let out a heavy sigh. He blinked, or wanted to, but his eyes decided to stay shut.

"Sherlock," John was saying. "Hey, Sherlock. No going back to sleep. Stay awake, you hear me?" John's voice was hoarse, and trembling, and that was enough to make Sherlock open his eyes again.

John's face was the only thing he saw, the only thing he could focus on.

"You with me?" John asked. Sherlock kept looking at him, concentrated on John in front of him and didn't close his eyes again.

"God." John exhaled again, and Sherlock could feel his throat narrow. Scared, John sounded scared, which meant that something had to have happened, with Mary, maybe, and… "What were you thinking," John was muttering now. Angry, maybe, Sherlock mused. John didn't remove his hands, though, and for that Sherlock was glad. It was cold, and John was warm and there and kept him right. Always. Always John Watson.

"You idiot," John said now, the frown lines deep on his forehead. "God, you almost gave me a heart attack."

Sorry, Sherlock wanted to say, I'm sorry for all the hurt that I caused you, but he didn't have enough breath left. Had to invest all of his remaining energy just to keep his eyes open.

"Sherlock," John said again, tapping his cheek lightly. "Stay here, okay, and try not to fall asleep. I'll be back in a second."

Sherlock blinked slowly, tried to make sense of what was happening. His throat was burning, and his lungs were on fire, and he could feel himself shivering. And then John's mouth was moving again, and then John was gone, and Sherlock wanted to sit up and find John and solve the case and… but he didn't, couldn't even breathe, and then John was back again, after having disappeared for a moment, back in front of him, and John had his coat, and his scarf, and… Sherlock had to cough again, and the thought slipped from his mind. Something was amiss, he recalled hazily, something… He had work to do, important work, cases to investigate which would, if he solved them, keep him from having to go undercover, into exile, and…

"Sherlock." John's voice, John's voice and John's hand shaking his shoulder nudged him awake again, made his eyes try to flutter open. He was wearing his coat now, Sherlock realised with something akin to an echo of fascination, his coat, and shoes, and his scarf. John, had to have been John, because John…

That thought was gliding away from him, too, when John's hand, warm, so warm, appeared on his cheek again. "Hey," he said firmly. "Don't fall asleep again. Stay with me, Sherlock, just for a bit."

With John? Always.

"Sherlock," John said again, and Sherlock blinked slowly. "Do you think you can make it to the car?"

Car, car… A cab, something about a cab, something important… John's face disappeared in a rush of vertigo and another bout of coughing, but when Sherlock opened his eyes again, John was still there, and Sherlock remembered the car, John asking him…

"Mh," he made, meant to say more, but the words wouldn't come.

"Okay," John said, and: "Come on," and something else, and then John was tugging on his arm, and Sherlock took a quick breath and started coughing again, and suddenly he was on his feet, John's hand around his arm, and everything was swimming again.

Car, John had said.

Sherlock took one unsteady steps forwards and expected to fall over, but somehow he was still on his feet, and John was still there. To the car. Sherlock swallowed thickly, swallowed more of the mushy substance. To the car would have to be fine, he decided with his slow, slow brain, and did his best to take another step.


Hope you liked it. :) If you're in the mood, please let me know what you thought.