I am once more both terribly sorry for the delay and at the same time ridiculously amazed by your continued interest.
Beware of the early onset of fluff and two certain former flatmates being far too complicated for their own good.
Enjoy.
Never By Halves
3
John Watson was, after a long, uneventful day at work, on his way to Baker Street, tapping his fingers on his thigh, when his phone beeped. Sherlock, probably, telling him for the second time today that he could not spare any time and that John did absolutely not need to come over because he was so busy.
Nope, John decided within split seconds, definitely not going to work. He had, after he had come home from his shift at the surgery and found his sofa occupied by his enormous, pregnant wife and one of her friends - the most annoying one who had been, quite apparently, enjoying herself very much in front of the telly -, made up his mind to pay his best friend a visit, no matter what said friend might think about that, and had sent another text to Sherlock's phone, announcing that he was coming over - instead of inviting Sherlock to their flat for take-away since Mary was busy otherwise, and Sherlock claimed to be.
Everything alright with Sherlock? Seemed a bit under the weather. Greg
John stared at the message - most definitely not from Sherlock - and then pocketed his phone, stifling a sigh. The tapping of his fingers ceased, and his right hand clenched into a fist instead.
Under the weather.
John pursed his lips and returned to staring out of the window, houses and streets gliding by slowly in the traffic of an early Friday afternoon.
Under the weather.
Sherlock had been… on edge, ever since his not quite exile.
John's fingernails dug into his palm, painfully, and for a moment, he failed to shake off the horror that crept on him whenever he thought of what would have happened if there hadn't been a video, a video of Moriarty. No-one had ever explicitly stated it, of course, but John wasn't stupid, and although he only had a vague idea of what had occurred during Sherlock's two-year absence, he had realised, fully realised as soon as he had seen the expression in Sherlock's eyes on that bloody tarmac, that this exile would not have ended so well. That Sherlock might not have come back this time. That he would have been gone for good.
John clenched his teeth, his left hand tensing and following the example of his right one.
No, he decided again. Not again. He had been unable to do anything, had been powerless from the moment when Sherlock had pulled that trigger almost three months ago and had put a bullet into Magnussen's brain, had not had any say concerning his best friend's fate.
But not now, not this time. Sherlock could be as tight-lipped as he wanted to, could try to stop John from being a part of his life, could try to keep John away from cases and from doing a bit of research on that video for himself, but it was not going to work. It absolutely wasn't.
After everything that had happened last year, when John had come so close to losing Sherlock again, for real this time, and with Moriarty - possibly - still alive, or at least with some impostor, he had never been more determined to keep his eyes open and watch out for Sherlock because the bloody idiot was too busy with other things and couldn't be bothered to do it himself.
John's jaw muscles tensed involuntarily when he thought back to Greg's text. There had to have been a case if Greg had seen Sherlock recently and had noticed that he wasn't as fine as he always stubbornly claimed to be, a crime scene to which Sherlock had gone, once more, on his own, without even considering informing John.
There had to have been a case if Greg had seen Sherlock and noticed that he wasn't as perfectly fine as he always stubbornly claimed to be, a crime scene to which Sherlock had gone, once more, on his own, without even thinking of informing John. In the months that had passed since Christmas, since Magnussen, Sherlock had been working on his own far more often than John would have liked him to, both for the government - top-secret, according to Sherlock, which meant that John was not allowed to know anything - and, as John suspected, investigating the video or whoever was responsible for it - once more without John.
Under the weather.
John pursed his lips, his gaze still fixed on the window. Under the weather.
Sherlock had, for more than two months now, done his very best to keep John away, whenever possible, claiming that he was busy, working, did not have time, or that Mary needed John and John was supposed to be at home, with his wife.
Under the weather.
Today, John determined, he would not allow Sherlock to distract him, to change the topic or to push him away, and he would, in turn, make sure that Sherlock ate, drank and for once actually talked to John.
He would be there for his best friend, no matter what. He would.
But first, he needed to stop by somewhere else.
(-)
John managed to unlock the front door to 221B without dropping any of the boxes with take-away dinner he had picked up from Angelo's, or spilling pasta all over the pavement.
"Mrs Hudson?" he asked, the door falling shut behind him. The smell of the meal Angelo himself had prepared in a rush was wavering through the hallway as John hesitated, waiting for an answer, Mrs Hudson's voice, maybe, or Sherlock's, for any sound of commotion in 221B, to tell him that Sherlock was at home.
There hadn't been another text from Sherlock, not even to inform John that he should stay with Mary and his unborn child. For a split second, while he was standing and listening, a familiar uneasy feeling rose in the pit of his stomach, a sensation that welled up now and then since Sherlock's failed exile and Moriarty's video.
"Sherlock?" he called and shook his head to get rid of the thoughts of somebody breaking in, attacking Sherlock, of Moriarty back, here, at 221B. Squaring his shoulders, John finally approached the stairs, taking two steps at once, the boxes tightly in his grip. For a moment, he wondered why he hadn't though of bringing his gun, just in case.
"Sherlock?" he repeated and pursed his lips, jogging up the stairs. No, he told himself. Sherlock was fine, certainly.
The flat seemed to be silent, too silent for Sherlock to be in, when John mounted the final steps, his pulse thrumming in his carotid artery. "Sherlock?" he called again, pushed the door open, stepped into the living room.
The flat was quiet indeed, apart from his own, loud breathing and a hoarse, but familiar voice, a mere croak, coming from the sofa.
"John?" Sherlock mumbled and raised his head from where it had been resting on the armrest of the sofa. "Wha's wrong?"
John stopped, his eyes settling on his best friend. Or rather, the lump that was his best friend, covered by one of Mrs Hudson's old afghans, pulled up to his neck, not much more peeking out beneath it but the mess of Sherlock's hair and his face, eyes narrowed.
Belatedly, with a sudden stab of guilt, John realised that Sherlock had, probably, been asleep before he had pounded upstairs, yelled his best friend's name and most definitely woken him.
Asleep. God knew how long it had been since Sherlock had last had a proper rest, and now John had gone and woken him.
"John?" Sherlock repeated hoarsely and gave a cough, his head dropping back to the armrest while he was trying to press his face into the afghan to muffle the sound at the same time.
John approached fully, putting the boxes from Angelo's down to the coffee table, his eyes still scanning his best friend.
Under the weather, as Greg had put it, was definitely an appropriate description.
Huddled into the afghan, eyes closed as he sucked in a breath once after the short bout of coughing, cheekbones as pronounced as they had been three days ago, at John's last visit, jutting out sharply. The dark circles beneath Sherlock's eyes that had been lingering there for weeks hadn't disappeared, but rather darkened since then, telling very distinct stories of sleepless nights and long cases which John had to, apparently, be kept away from because they involved governmental secrets, as well as betraying that Sherlock had, most likely, not slept in days.
John felt his heart flutter in his chest for a moment, at Sherlock's paleness and the slackness of his face once his coughing fit had abated, felt it flutter in a way that had become far too familiar after two nights he had spent in a hospital chair only a few months ago, worrying, hoping that Sherlock would not die from a bullet wound and internal bleeding.
Stop it, he scolded himself. Sherlock appeared tired, exhausted, yes, his body's need to rest catching up him with, after days, probably, with only short naps, but it was nothing, nothing dangerous, nothing that could be compared to a bullet in the chest.
"John?" Sherlock mumbled sluggishly and blinked his eyes open, his left hand moving to his temple, the tips of his fingers pressing against his skin.
Possible headache, John's instincts started cataloguing, his lips pursing. Cough, hoarse voice. Exhaustion, quite apparently. Under the weather. "You were asleep," he remarked, for the lack of anything else to say, and almost expected Sherlock to roll his eyes at his stating the obvious.
Sherlock shifted beneath his afghan, his eyelids drooping. "Brilliant deduction," he murmured.
Everything John had wanted to ask, had wanted to talk about and tell Sherlock - about Sherlock's cases, about the bloody video, about Sherlock's sheer stubbornness to keep John out of everything, no matter whether John wanted to be left out or wanted to be part of Sherlock's life and of the danger that was imminent, about Greg's case - vanished into thin air at the sight of his best friend, beyond tired and definitely not well.
"When was the last time you slept?" he asked and sat down on the coffee table, the fingers of his right hand tingling.
Sherlock coughed and closed his eyes. "Not 'mportant," he muttered and shifted again. "Busy."
John clenched his jaw and exhaled. "Right," he made. "I can see that."
Sherlock frowned, rubbing his temple almost absent-mindedly while at the same time opening his eyes, locking his gaze onto John. "John," he mumbled. "Didn' you get my text? Told you to stay at home. No need to come. 'm fine."
"Yes," John agreed and leaned forwards. "That's why you look as if you're coming down with something."
"…fine," Sherlock mumbled again, and promptly ruined what little confidence his statement had held when he coughed softly and his eyes fluttered shut.
Under the weather, Greg had said in his text.
Over-worked, rather, John assumed, pursing his lips. Stressed out. Utterly exhausted. He didn't know - Sherlock hadn't bothered to inform him, and had, when John had started prying, always very cleverly changed the topic - how many cases Sherlock had taken since his exile, how many hours he had spent on trying to find out who was responsible for the video snippet of Moriarty, and how many hours he had actually slept, or how many times he had remembered to eat when John hadn't been there to nag him to.
Not nearly enough, that much was obvious, especially for someone who had just recovered from a near-fatal gunshot wound and constantly wreaked havoc on his immune system by treating his own body as nothing more but transport. John did not even want to think about when Sherlock had last had a proper meal, providing his body with nutrients and not just barely enough to keep him going.
Sherlock coughed again, not even trying to muffle it this time, and all but buried his nose in his blanket.
"Sherlock," John said, perking up his ears at the repeated cough rising from his best friend's chest, "how long have you had that cough?"
"Mh," Sherlock made, his brow furrowing. "G'home, John," he insisted, even though his words were sluggish and slurred. "'m fine."
"Absolutely," John returned and placed the back of his hand on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock's eyes shot open and focused on John for a moment, before he then obviously decided that it wasn't worth putting up a fight.
"You're a bit warm," John muttered and frowned when Sherlock didn't squirm beneath his hand, "but you don't have a fever."
Sherlock cleared his throat and allowed his lids to flutter closed over hazy eyes. Exhausted, definitely. "Mh," he repeated, and coughed again.
John withdrew his hand from Sherlock's warm forehead and regarded his best friend again. Dark circles beneath his eyes, pale. But then, Sherlock was always pale, and that hadn't changed after he had almost died twice in a row from massive blood loss. He felt cold, apparently, or else he wouldn't be buried beneath Mrs Hudson's old afghan, and he seemed more asleep than awake.
Cough, exhaustion, chills. Headache, possibly, at least if Sherlock's hand that had once more moved to his temple was anything to go by. Exhaustion.
"Anything else?" John wanted to know. "Apart from the cough and your tiredness? Headache, nausea, difficulty breathing, anything?"
"Stop worrying," Sherlock slurred and pulled the afghan up to his neck, but once more, as John noted with a growing feeling of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, his voice completely lacked its usual sharpness.
"It's not easy not to worry about you," he muttered to himself, but Sherlock heard him. He huffed drowsily, a huff which quickly turned into another cough, and then croaked something that sounded suspiciously like "…totally unwarranted".
John swallowed against the growing lump in his throat. "Sherlock," he began, then pursed his lips. Under the weather, definitely. It really wouldn't come as that much of a surprise if Sherlock had managed to catch a bug, with the way he kept treating his body, and…
"'m fine," Sherlock mumbled stubbornly, his words slow, drowsy.
No, John decided. Whatever it was that was ailing Sherlock, he was not fine. "Is there anything else?" he repeated.
This time, Sherlock didn't respond, did not stir. Soft puffs of air were emerging from his slightly open mouth, his jaw limp, relaxed in sleep, left hand dangling from the sofa, and only then John realised that he had drifted off.
For a moment, he had to fight the urge to simply let Sherlock sleep. But no. Not yet. Not here, not on the sofa.
"Sherlock," he tried again, swallowed, rested a hand on his best friend's shoulder. "Sherlock, wake up."
Sherlock winced ever so slightly when John shook his shoulder, softly, and his eyes opened slowly. "Is there anything else?" John repeated calmly. "Any other symptoms?"
"Mh," Sherlock sighed hoarsely, and although his eyes remained open, they appeared hazy, and his hand found its way to his temple once more. "'m fine, John."
Headache, definitely, John concluded.
Then Sherlock coughed again, his eyes closing, and the sentence he had been about to utter was swallowed by his fit, except for its ending: "…tired."
Tired. A word Sherlock never uttered willingly if he could help it, if he felt like himself. John's throat narrowed at this final confirmation, if he had ever needed one, that Sherlock was, without any doubt, absolutely knackered.
"Okay," he announced, getting up from the coffee table and ignoring the tight knot that was consolidating in his stomach. "That's it. Come on, you can't sleep here."
Sherlock didn't budge, didn't open his eyes. "Case," he insisted, and yet his words were barely more than a slurred, drowsy whisper.
"Nope," John told him and grabbed hold of Sherlock's afghan, uncovering him. "Whatever you're investigating, it can wait. You're in no condition to do any work."
Sherlock only pressed his nose into the sofa cushion and furrowed his brow, his hand still at his temple. "…shouldn' be here," he mumbled, and John's stomach dropped even further at how utterly spent he sounded. Of course Sherlock would have gone and run himself into the ground until his body simply couldn't take any more, until he crashed completely. Of course.
"Come on," John repeated and grabbed Sherlock's shoulders gently, forced him to shift into a slumped but sitting position, huddling into his blue dressing gown without the warmth of his blanket. "Can you manage?" he wanted to know when Sherlock gave a short cough, and then swallowed. Sherlock looked, frankly, terrible, and John had needed to find him almost catatonic on his sofa to realise that Sherlock's pushing himself so hard would, eventually, take its toll.
"'course," Sherlock croaked, blinking to keep his eyes from closing fully. "John," he then added, a cough interrupting him, and raised his head to find John's gaze. "You don't have to…" Another cough cut him off and turned the rest of his sentence into nothing more but a wheezy breath that had John's throat narrowing. "…do that." He swallowed visibly, took a deep breath and went on before John could think of anything to say: "It's…," he began, then stopped. "Go home, John. Stay with Mary, and your baby…"
Enough, John decided, and interrupted him: "Mary's fine without me for a while, you know? She's pregnant, not sick. And she's not the one I found passed out on the sofa this evening," he added. He could feel the fingers of his right hand dig into Sherlock's skin as they clenched, involuntarily. How long exactly had it been since Sherlock had got any proper sleep, not only a nap of a few hours? And why the hell hadn't he forced Sherlock to rest earlier, three days ago, why only now? He would have to pay more attention from now on, John told himself. "And that's why you're going to your bedroom right now, and you're going to stay there and sleep. Got that?" he asked.
To his surprise, Sherlock didn't attempt to protest again, but nodded instead, and slowly got to his feet, making his way through the living room and to the kitchen, towards his bedroom, John's right hand still on his shoulder.
"Alright?" John wanted to know and did not take his eyes from Sherlock, loose clothes and Mrs Hudson's afghan hanging from his gaunt frame, his unsteady tottering betraying his exhaustion.
"Fine," Sherlock mumbled, not sharply enough to snap at John, and didn't even roll his eyes. John swallowed thickly.
Sherlock's room was tidy as always, his bed meticulously made - Mrs Hudson's doing, most likely - when he all but collapsed to the mattress, scrambling beneath the covers with John's assistance, another frown settling on his forehead.
"Want anything for your headache?" John asked and took the afghan out of Sherlock's limp fingers.
"'m fine," Sherlock muttered drowsily without opening his eyes, a short cough escaping him. "No need to…"
Sherlock was, John assumed, asleep before he had managed to tuck the covers around his best friend and spread the afghan on top of the bedsheets.
Pursing his lips, John scanned Sherlock once more, brought his palm to Sherlock's forehead to check for a fever again, found none. Sherlock didn't stir, but slept on, knees brought up to his chest, exhaling through slightly parted lips.
"Sleep well," John muttered and found himself unable to tear away his gaze from Sherlock yet. "I'll be in the living room."
He would go home later that evening, John decided, but not yet. An evening with now cold take-away noodles and mindless telly on minimum volume, at least until he was sure that Sherlock would remain deeply asleep, for his own sake, and that nothing else was behind his exhaustion but lack of sleep and nutrition. He would go home later, John determined, but he would be back tomorrow. He absolutely would, not matter what Sherlock would say.
Thank you very much for reading! Please let me know what you thought.