I can't even begin to explain how sorry I am for keeping you all waiting for more than a month. Please believe me that I didn't intend to do so, and although I haven't managed to reply to any of your reviews, I am nonetheless thrilled and very, very grateful about every single one of them and your continued interest!

Life has recently been busy, but I hope to be able to write the next chapter more quickly.

A special thank you - apart from the gratitude I owe to all of you - goes to Dangsoo who offered to beta for me and had a thorough look at this chapter!

I'll shut up now - enjoy!

Never By Halves

4

Sherlock was, when John checked on him one last time before heading home, about three hours later, still asleep, but of course running a fever.

He had curled up on his side, buried beneath his covers and the afghan, and goosebumps had formed on his skin where his right forearm was dangling from the mattress, uncovered, the sleeve of his dressing gown having slid up and exposing his bare skin.

Sherlock didn't wake when John brushed his hair away from his forehead to press the back of his hand against his best friend's brow, but groaned and opened his eyes when John returned to his side a few moments later, with a glass of water and two pills, and softly shook his shoulder.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled, a confused expression on his face, and gave a quiet cough.

John grabbed the glass and the pills he had placed on the bedside table in order to wake Sherlock. "Yes," he answered quietly, his hand clenching the glass. "Here. Take these pills and drink. You have a temperature."

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he struggled into a sitting position, not letting go of his covers. "Drink?" he mumbed hoarsely, but accepted the glass obediently when John handed it to him, as well as the pills.

"Yes," John confirmed. Fever, exhaustion, possible headache. Nothing unusual for Sherlock, not when he hadn't slept in days and had ingested hardly more than cigarette smoke, tea and the occasional slice of unbuttered toast. But this time, Sherlock actually looked drawn, tired, and that was, maybe, what worried John the most. Because even when Sherlock had not got any sleep for ages, after a long, demanding case, he never appeared tired, no matter how knackered he really was.

Well, John couldn't help but think and swallowed thickly, but then, Sherlock's overall health had been better before he had got shot.

He tightened his jaw and took the glass from Sherlock when his best friend's eyes closed after he had swallowed the pills. "Do you feel nauseous?" he wanted to know and pressed the back of his hand against the underside of Sherlock's jaw for a moment. He would have preferred to take Sherlock's temperature, properly, with a clinical thermometer, to reassure himself that Sherlock's fever was indeed in normal range for one of his post-case crashes, and that he had not caught a bug, the flu, whatever, on top of everything, but since Sherlock didn't own a device safe for using on anything else but decaying flesh, this would have to do for now.

This time, Sherlock tried to bat his hand away, with a sluggish movement, and even blinked his eyes open. "John," he muttered. "'m fine."

John swallowed and didn't reply anything. Not queasy, then, he concluded. Still. "You will be," he corrected, letting go of Sherlock's jaw, awkwardly perched on his heels in his best friend's bedroom. For a moment, he pursed his lips before straightening his shoulders. "Right," he muttered. A night on the sofa it was, then. "Don't go to sleep yet," he told Sherlock. "Be right back, just need to call Mary."

Sherlock's head shot up. "Mary?" he croaked. "What for?"

"Well," John said and got to his feet, flexing the fingers of his left hand. "Can't leave you on your own tonight, can I?" he said, awkwardly. Chances were that Sherlock would just be fine, after a good night's rest and a decent breakfast, but John wasn't willing to take any risk. Not again.

Sherlock kept staring at him. John was waiting for him to roll his eyes and hiss in protest, but instead, Sherlock's eyelids slid shut and his head lolled back to the pillow beneath him. "John," he mumbled. "Go home. 'm fine."

John swallowed, hesitated. Sherlock had been under a lot of stress lately, had worked, quite possibly, for days on end, had slept far too little, had eaten next to nothing, had investigated various cases and had, as John suspected, worked on the Moriarty video on top of everything else. And it was nothing too unusual for him to crash completely once he had driven himself too far, had put too much strain on his body. And yet… "You're coming down with something," John remarked and tried to ignore the cold fist that had clamped around his heart at the thought of Moriarty and, even worse, Sherlock and Moriarty. "How long have you had that cough?"

As if on cue, Sherlock cleared his throat, probably an attempt to stifle yet another cough. "Don' know," he mumbled. "Working."

John pursed his lips. Working, of course. "How long have you been awake?" he wanted to know.

Sherlock shifted until he was once more on his right side, facing John, the light from the corridor emphasising both his paleness and the dark circles around his eyes. For all his intelligence and brilliance, Sherlock could be more than remarkably dense when it came to his own body's needs, John thought not for the first time. The grip around his heart tightened immediately as soon as he remembered that one night, him, Sherlock and Mary in 221B, Sherlock in bloody pain and John too furious to see.

"Sherlock?" he addressed his best friend.

"Mh," Sherlock muttered and frowned. "Don' know," he repeated.

John stifled a sigh, and when he returned his gaze to Sherlock, his best friend was, once more, staring at him. "Go home," he said, and for a moment, there seemed to be something like… regret in his eyes. "'ll be perfectly fine without you."

He would, probably, John told himself. Sherlock was always fine after cases, had even been fine the one time he had collapsed in Lestrade's office, and it probably was nothing. A bit of a cough, maybe.

"And you shouldn' sleep on the sofa," Sherlock added, his words slurred. "'s no good for your neck."

It wasn't, John had to admit, and the prospect of sleeping in his own bed instead of Sherlock's worn sofa did have a certain appeal.

"Fine," he finally muttered and made up his mind. "I'll get your mobile, and you will call me as soon as you feel worse, alright?"

"'m fine…," Sherlock began, a claim which was quickly swallowed by another cough that shook him and had him wheezing for breath afterwards.

John's throat narrowed, and the words intended to cut Sherlock's insistence off never made it out of his throat. "Breathe," he croaked instead and then, when Sherlock's coughing had subsided fully and he was, in fact, breathing, added: "You will call me, alright? No matter how late it is. Sherlock."

Sherlock grunted noncommittally and attempted to bury his nose in his pillow.

"Sherlock," John repeated. "Promise me that you'll phone me as soon as you feel worse."

"John," Sherlock slurred eventually, "go home. …fine."

He retrieved Sherlock's phone from where it had been lying on the table in the kitchen and placed it on his best friend's bedside table, along with a fresh glass of water. Then he hesitated, simply stood there for a few more minutes, listened to Sherlock's slowing, deepening breathing, and could not resist the urge to feel for his temperature once more.

Sherlock winced when John's palm made contact with his forehead, and his eyelids fluttered open. "John," he mumbled and sounded so tired that John's heart twisted. "What're you still doin' here?"

Making sure that his best friend was okay, or at least close to okay, would have been the correct answer. Trying to make sure that his bloody best friend didn't do anything stupid, didn't wreak havoc on himself and his own life, again, that he was safe and fine and there. John swallowed thickly and removed his hand. "Go to sleep," he mumbled. "I have to work tomorrow, but I'll pick you up after work, and you're going to have dinner with Mary and me. And you're actually going to eat something."

Sherlock blinked, and coughed. "John-," he began.

John didn't let him finish. "No," he said. "I will. And I don't care if you're busy."

Another coughing fit shook Sherlock's shoulders.

"Get some sleep," John repeated and got to his feet. "Take it slow tomorrow, alright?"

Sherlock didn't reply to that, and, a few seconds after his breathing had evened out, John left the room.

When he left almost two hours later, after having made sure that Sherlock was still asleep, and that his fever was still low-grade and not skyrocketing, the lingering uneasiness, worry, somewhere among his intestines accompanied John all the way home.

(-)

Sherlock woke to the sound of his own coughing and didn't, at first, know where he was.

His throat was on fire as his heaving lungs catapulted him back to consciousness, and the dark room around him swayed and lurched unsteadily, making him dizzy while he was blinking to keep his eyes open and attempting to catch his breath and not launch into more coughing at the same time.

He struggled into a sitting position, unheeding of the turning, rolling walls around him, and simply breathed for a few seconds, waited for the fit to abate that, once it had, left him with a familiar pulsating in his temples and a stale taste in his mouth.

He was in his bed, Sherlock registered slowly, in his own room, and he felt… heavy. Everything felt heavy, his arms, his legs; his head was pounding unpleasantly, and he was shivering in the revolting cold of his room, in his tee and trousers and dressing gown and despite his duvet.

Biting down another rising cough, he grabbed hold of the covers and the ugly afghan that was, curiously, lying on his bed, and pulled them up, for a bit of warmth around his arms and shoulders.

Bed, he mused and barely noticed that his eyelids were drooping, lest alone attempted to stop them. Bed… How had he…

John had been here, this realisation hit him with a sudden force and made him jerk, enough to aggravate his stiff muscles, his eyes flying open. John had been here, some time ago, had found him on the sofa, tired and sleeping, and… John had been here, at 221B instead of his own flat, with Mary, although he wasn't supposed to be, and Sherlock… Sherlock had let him.

Stupid, so stupid.

A fierce stab of pain shot through Sherlock's temples and forehead when he attempted to remember what John had said, whether he was still here, whether…

Transport. Failing transport. Disgusting. Immensely impractical, especially now, when he needed to concentrate and to remain alert, needed to find out who was behind the Moriarty video, what their intentions were, if they planned, in any way, to continue in Moriarty's footsteps and endanger the people Sherlock valued most in his life.

Endanger John.

The dark world around him tilted again, and this time, Sherlock couldn't tell whether it was because of his fever - because he had a temperature, probably - or because of the sudden fear that sprang on him at these thoughts.

John could not be allowed to be in danger again. He had a family now, and a mistake like Sherlock had made with Magnussen simply was not allowed to occur again, a mistake that could cost John everything, destroy everything.

Sherlock's throat narrowed, and the annoying tickling that lingered there grew overwhelming, a feeling causing him to shudder and his throat to blaze in anticipation of the pain of a forceful cough.

Then he did start coughing, the room spinning, and squeezed his eyes shut, shivering and shuddering.

Sleep, John's voice told him, sleep. Then he would be fine.

And because he would be fine, John - who wasn't here any longer, had gone home, because otherwise he would have heard Sherlock's coughing, would have come in already, to check on him, as he always did - would not feel obliged to come over and keep him company, but could instead stay with his family, the family he deserved and that deserved him, and not with Sherlock.

Fine, he repeated to himself, his brain far too hazy, and swallowed despite his narrowing throat, everything would be fine.

(-)

Sleep, of course, evaded him for the rest of the night, after he had woken, breathless and shivering.

Sherlock's eyelids were leaden weights over his eyeballs, and his brain didn't stop reminding him that it was ready to shut off, with its slowness and numbness, and yet he could not go back to sleep, the ability to rest, wanted for once, not returning to him.

The cold kept him awake, the cold around him despite his duvet and Mrs Hudson's afghan, the cold in the room and the cold in him.

The cold, and his own coughing.

He had contemplated whether he would manage to get up and swallow more of the cough suppressant he had found, and maybe another pill, but when he had tried to sit up and clamber to his feet and everything had rolled and turned and swayed, he had sunk back to his bed, too tired and too sluggish to try again, and had given up the thought. Had curled in on himself, to fence off the cold, had buried beneath the afghan, had closed his eyes and did his best to control his breathing and his shivering, and yet did not fall asleep.

John, a voice in his head whispered, call John.

John… John who was at home, in his own bed, with his wife, sleeping, resting. Who couldn't do anything against his coughing, or his being cold - his fever, the part of his brain still functioning kept telling him - and who would only worry pointlessly.

And his phone was far away, so far away on his bedside table, and he could not possibly invest the energy to move the bulky mass of immovable stone his arm had morphed into, or the energy that would be needed to coax his eyes into opening and type out a text.

Fine, he tried to convince his brain, fine.

Perfectly fine.

Another coughing fit overwhelmed him, and all that remained to do for Sherlock was to roll to his side, bonelessly, and try to heave in breaths sufficient to please his lungs.

The fit abated, finally, and he was alone with his shivering once more, alone in the dark.

Alone in the dark. A dark, wet cell, not allowed to sleep, not…

"No," he croaked and didn't even know who he was talking to. There was no-one here, there never had been anyone, not in two years.

"No," he repeated and coughed, cramping both of his hands into his sheets. "No!"

No, he wasn't alone any more, no, he was back home, he was fine, and John was safe, and…

Sherlock drew his knees to his chest, whether for warmth or comfort or to stifle his coughing and stop his lungs from convulsing, he did not know.

Call John, the voice repeated, and Sherlock didn't want to hear it as another violent shudder seized him, and he tried to curl up even more tightly.

"No," he repeated quietly to himself and concentrated on taking flat, shallow breaths.

Fine, he was fine. Or would be.

It wasn't until much later that he finally fell asleep, exhausted and still cold, huddled into his duvet and Mrs Hudson's blanket that somehow, inexplicably, still smelled like her.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think, and I will do my best to actually reply this time...