Wow! I am positively shocked by the response to this story after only one chapter, shocked and thrilled and amazed! Thank you all for reading, reviewing, following and favouriting!

Then, secondly, please forgive me for the delay. Both time and motivation to write have been absent for about two weeks, and because of your interest, I wanted to take the time to give you a proper chapter that deserves the title and not just... anything to shorten the wait. Here we are now, and I hope to be able to stick to my original idea of posting a new part once a week from now on.

And for those of you were wondering: I will finish this story, even if updates might take a bit longer sometimes.

Thank you again, and please enjoy.

Never By Halves

2

The urge to cough, Sherlock noticed distractedly and with a certain sense of irritation, had not decreased in frequency by the time he had arrived at home and had seated himself in front of his laptop in his living room. His eyes were staring at the screen, tired and burning, and yet Sherlock found himself unable to concentrate for the moment, his skull pounding viciously. Something indescribable continued to weigh down his limbs, adding to the constant company of his exhaustion and pulling at his legs and arms. Sleep, a voice that of course sounded like John's reminded him, he needed sleep.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, still ignoring the unpleasant tickling in his throat, and contemplated, his thoughts oddly sluggish, owing to his exhaustion as well as his pounding headache, when he had last slept. The day before yesterday, a nap to two hours. Probably.

Pulling himself together, Sherlock shook his head and exhaled. No, no time for that now. Work to do. Blinking once, twice, he forced his gaze to focus on the screen again, determined to finally finish this case of Mycroft's superiors, the few he still had. Insurance fraud, a series of insurance frauds, stupid, boring. And nonetheless there was something, had to be something he had missed until now.

Another cough disrupted his tentative concentration, a wave of his so inconvenient tiredness crashing over him, familiar by now. Despite himself, Sherlock's eyes settled, for a second, on John's empty chair, his body longing for the softness of the sofa, or the armchair, or the warmth of his bed.

Symptoms, John might have said. Symptoms. Cough, exhaustion, headache…

John would, of course, be angry at him, his brain supplied without further incentive. He kept telling Sherlock - even now, without being present, with Sherlock doing his best to stop John from visiting all the time - that he needed to sleep more regularly, and, even more importantly, needed to sleep more.

But no.

He swallowed and wrenched his closing eyes open, determined not to lose himself in vain memories and useless delusions. There was a case that demanded his full attention - not Lestrade's, obviously, because of which he had just wasted precious time -, and distraction was the last thing he could afford right now. A tickle rose in Sherlock's throat, threatening to erupt into more coughing. He held his breath and concentrated, cursing his weak transport that of course decided to need some rest now, to malfunction now when he coud least allow it to, when he was not allowed to let down his guard and make even the smallest mistake. Not now.

Abruptly, Sherlock tore his gaze away from the empty piece of furniture, directing it back to the laptop once more, his throat burning, his eyes burning.

Transport, simply transport. There were more important things to be done. Mycroft's case first, then another glance at everything he had collected so far about the video.

His jaw clenched at this thought, despite himself, and the well-known pain in his temples, in his forehead, skull, radiated through his entire body for a few seconds, forcefully enough to make him stiffen in his chair, black dots dancing across his vision.

Inconvenient, so very inconvenient.

"Transport," he muttered hoarsely to himself and concentrated on the screen.

(-)

Sherlock did not know how much time had passed until his head, throbbing more viciously than before, forced him to concede defeat and get to his feet, to go to the bathroom, in search of something that contained paracetamol, anything, to get rid of the pain in his skull. The tiredness of his muscles, it seemed as he sat down in his chair again, heavily, was trying to outrival the soreness of his throat, and his head's pounding had not yet lessened, despite the pills he had indeed found and swallowed.

Sleep, John's voice told him again, John who wasn't here, sleep.

"No," Sherlock croaked into the empty room, James Moriarty's face frozen on the screen of his laptop, a fragment of the video. He had disregarded Mycroft's case for the sake of finding the Moriarty-impostor for the moment, finding whoever was behind this video, and he needed to solve this case. Needed to expose the creator of the video, needed to keep the vow he had made. No traces as of yet, absolutely nothing, but there had to be something, he had to have overlooked something.

Sherlock coughed, but did not care. Whoever was behind that, behind the video, they were not allowed to get the chance to present a danger to anyone close to him. Not again.

Not again.

His eyes kept burning even as he rubbed them, and the dryness in his throat did not allow his coughing to subside, but turned it into a hoarse, long fit that shook his entire body.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, only to have Moriarty's grinning grimace appear in his mind, haunt his very thoughts, a monotonous, sardonic "Did you miss me?" on his lips.

The image, an image that kept pursuing him, jerked his eyes back open, and him back to reality.

John, John would help, the thought crossed Sherlock's throbbing mind while he was blinking slowly to keep his eyes from closing. John would make tea, would sit there, in his armchair, would ask the one question or make the one remark Sherlock's brain needed to draw the correct conclusion, but John was not here. For a moment, in the silence of his empty living room, his head pounding in tact with his heart and suffocating exhaustion pulling at every single limb, Sherlock's resolve almost crumbled. Almost gave in, almost allowed him to text John, almost, before he got himself back under control, pulled himself together.

No. Another cough escaped him, adding to his headache. No, he could not drag John into this mess, could not maneouvre John into danger again, not after everything, not with Moriarty. He would not.

No John, not this time. This time, he would have to be fine on his own, would have to investigate on his own, and keep doing so, no matter what other ideas his mind might come up with.

He would not allow something similar to happen to John ever again. No.

Sherlock took a deep breath, did his best to swallow the approaching cough and concentrated to ignore his body's inopportune needs.

(-)

The first thing he became aware of was the sound of merry humming approaching, penetrating the fuzzy cocoon his brain had melted into. The darkness behind his closed lids helped to soothe his headache, however minimally, and his eyes would not, at first, open. When they did, finally, they were greeted with the sight of his own table, at, however, an odd angle, as well as by a hot, surging wave of pain in his neck when he moved, or attempted to.

"Oh," Mrs Hudson's voice reached him, startled him, her small steps shuffling about, "back from your case already? I didn't mean to wake you, dear."

Raising his head from where it had been resting on the table, from where he had obviously, although inexplicably, fallen asleep while working, while sitting up, sent more rivulets of pain through his skull, extending towards his neck, his arms, even his legs. Sherlock blinked and attempted to make sense of what had happened, of why he had allowed his transport to nod off when he was so clearly busy.

"You really shouldn't sleep like that," Mrs Hudson muttered. "It's not good for your neck, dear."

He had, naturally, not intended to fall asleep, Sherlock wanted to inform her, but the only sound his vocal folds were willing to form was a hoarse croak, halting, aggravating his dry throat. He coughed, could not control it, his throat burning, neck stiff and head throbbing viciously. His eyes closed, despite himself, for a few seconds, a vain attempt to numb the persistent hammering, and the bliss of unconsciousness, he found, had not appeared so appealing in a long time.

Sleep, a voice told him again, John informed him, he needed sleep.

He flinched, to his surprise, when Mrs Hudson spoke up again. "I'll be at my sister's for the next few days," she began, her voice floating through the flat as she made her way to his kitchen, "but…"

Sherlock's next cough, hitting him without any time for preparation, submerged her words and drowned out everything apart from the burning, tearing sensation in his throat. It was ridiculous, he attempted to tell himself, absolutely ridiculous how much energy it took him to force his eyes open once he had caught his breath, his leaden, heavy lids. Tired, why was he so tired…

Sleep, John's voice reminded him, go to bed tonight instead of staying up and working, and Sherlock, pressing his softly trembling fingers to his temple, a feeble effort to distract himself from his stabbing headache, almost felt inclined to give in.

Sleep. Just a few hours, just a bit…

"Sorry," he made as soon as he realised that Mrs Hudson was staring at him from the kitchen door, expectantly. "You were saying?"

She huffed under her breath, Sherlock noticed sluggishly as he struggled against his eyes which wanted to close once again, then folded her arms over her chest. "You should have John take a look at that cough of yours," she told him. "With the way you take care of yourself, it really wouldn't be a…"

Instead of rolling his eyes, Sherlock let them flutter closed, just for a moment. "Mrs Hudson," he interrupted her, his voice hoarse and not nearly as sharp as intended, and promptly had to stifle another cough, rising from his chest.

Cough, John's voice said in his head, exhaustion, headache. Coming down with something. A cold, the flu. Sleep.

Sherlock only noticed that his eyes had remained closed when Mrs Hudson's voice startled him once more, and his lids flew open. "You know," she said, arms still folded, from the door to the kitchen, "we're all worried about you."

Worried about him. He was fine, perfectly fine.

"Yes, thank you, I'm aware," he croaked while Mrs Hudson kept staring at him, and successfully stifled a cough. "Absolutely no need for that."

Mrs Hudson huffed again and finally shuffled back into his kitchen, to his kettle, busying herself, hopefully, with making tea.

Tea. John had always made tea.

Sherlock stared at the screen of his laptop in front of him, black, void of any of the documents he was supposed to skim through, his body longing, to his disgust, for his bed. Stupid, and inconvenient, and not in the least enough to warrant worry. Obviously not.

"After all that… you know," Mrs Hudson added, her words ending in a little choked sob. The kettle in her hand, even Sherlock's burning eyes could see that, trembled.

After all that. Of course. All that. Drugs, shot, being exiled, Moriarty. All that.

"I'm fine," he hissed and pressed his knuckles to his right temple. This headache… Something stronger than paracetamol, than over-the-counter medication, would help, might have helped, but since John had lived at 221B again, until Christmas, there wasn't anything here. Paracetamol, nothing else.

"If you say so," Mrs Hudson replied belatedly and finally put the kettle on. Sherlock's eyes closed. "As I was saying," she went on, her voice floating towards him from the kitchen, floating around the edges of his throbbing consciousness, "I'm off to my sister's for a few days, but I have filled your fridge, so you should be fine for a few days. There's still a bit of leftover from yesterday, and I bought milk, cheese, vegetables, bread…"

She continued talking, but Sherlock did no longer listen, could not muster the energy to listen. There had to be something, his mind told him, something. But nothing so far, absolutely nothing, nothing on Moriarty, or rather the one who had published this video, the one who had assumed a dead man's name - because Moriarty, the man himself, was most certainly dead, and had decided to play another game with Sherlock. He could not find it, was incapable of finding it, needed to work harder, needed to concentrate…

The fingers of his right hand dug into the fabric of his trousers. Could not fail. Not again.

"…'ll be back on Friday, dear," Mrs Hudson ended her monologue, appearing next to him, and Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Here's your tea, just as you like it."

Nothing, absolutely nothing, Sherlock's mind echoed as he squinted his tired eyes at Mrs Hudson, blinked slowly. Nothing whatsoever. Tea, he registered, she had made tea. "Thank you," he wanted to say, tea, almost like John's, but his words drowned in a cough, and this time, he neither had the time nor the chance to stifle it.

"Oh Sherlock," he could hear Mrs Hudson say once he was able to breathe again, properly, breathe and feel the cool air stream through his raw throat. "Surely this case of yours can wait for a few hours, don't you think?"

Wait. Sleep. Case. Moriarty. Another cough startled him and scattered his futile thoughts, directing them back to the present. He was supposed to snap at Mrs Hudson, to tell her to stop mothering him and then concentrate on finally tackling that organisation he had to investigate on behalf of Mycroft's superiors, to make up for the undercover work he was failing to do now… His burning eyes, however, threatened to close yet again, and Sherlock could not find the energy to prevent it.

"Mh," he made instead, oddly drowsy, oddly comfortable with his eyes closed and the smell of Mrs Hudson's tea in his nose.

"And call John, will you," she added, her soft steps shuffling about a little more.

"Mh," Sherlock repeated, coughing faintly, and forced his eyes open. No. Not yet. Not now. Case. Work. Needed to finish.

He did not know how it happened, or why, or when, or why again, but eventually, his head hit the table with a loud noise, tendrils of pain shooting through it, and his eyes were closed again, Mrs Hudson gone.

Sleep, John's voice reminded him, and this time, Sherlock gave in. No use in trying to work like that, think like that, with his body failing him and making it impossible for his brain to function properly.

Stiffly, all of his muscles and tendons aching, he got up from his chair and made his way to his bedroom. The world was turning around him for a bit, the kitchen, the hallway, and the pounding in his skull had, if possible, intensified.

Sherlock struggled his way of his shirt and trousers and into a loose tee, wide trousers and his blue dressing gown. Blue, he decided hazily and failed to stifle a cough, blue, the old one would have to do. Could not possibly risk having mucus or spit from his atrocious, annoying coughing on his new ones, on the red gown, or the camel one. Blue.

One hand clamped around his mouth to stop another onsetting cough, he ventured to the bathroom, decided against the effort it would take to shower, dry-swallowed two more pills, another dose of medication for his blasted headache, hopefully strong enough, and then even found an unopened bottle of cough syrup.

Good, very good.

Without bother to read the blurring package insert, he poured a bit of the viscous liquid into his toothbrush mug, not ready to summon the energy or motivation to fetch a spoon and do it properly, and swallowed that, too.

Stifling a yawn, his exhaustion finally threatening to overwhelm him, Sherlock scuffled on into the living room and eased himself, carefully, mindful of his stabbing skull that might be aggravated by any quick movement, down on the sofa.

He coughed a bit, and shifted, trying to find a comfortable position for his stiff and sore neck, shivered in the coolness of the room.

One of Mrs Hudson's ugly afghans was lying on the edge of the sofa, ugly and hideous and old, but for the moment, it would have to suffice. Mind palace, Sherlock told himself and blinked to keep his heavy eyes open, needed to access his mind palace and examine everything again, to find out what he was missing. Or a quick nap, maybe, very quick, just in order to refresh his failing transport. Then he would go back to work, would finally crack that bloody case of Mycroft's superiors, would concentrate on finding the Moriarty-impostor and hunting him down himself, if necessary.

Just a quick nap.

Another cough shook him as he unfolded the afghan, nuzzled his cold feet into the soft fabric and pulled it up to his raw, sore throat.

Sherlock angled his legs for a bit of warmth, drew them closer to his body, and finally allowed his eyes to close, the darkness around him numbing his raging headache a bit, even if not the soreness of his throat or his useless exhaustion.

Just a quick nap, he reminded himself, needed to set the alarm on his mobile, to be on the safe side. Needed to…

Unfortunately, however, and to the detriment for Sherlock's plans, he was asleep, truly and deeply asleep, before he could even finish the thought.

Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought.