Thanks to everyone who reviewed, followed or favourited -you really make my days while I'm struggling to write anything at all.

Thank you very much, Dangsoo, for betaing once more! (Any remaining typing mistakes are still mine.)

Enjoy!

Never By Halves

5

When Sherlock's eyes opened to pale morning sun falling into his bedroom, his body needed a few moments to take in his surroundings and to realise that he had, somehow, fallen asleep, finally, despite the cold, despite his continuous coughing. And now something had woken him up, something, a noise penetrating the silence, a noise that was, as he realised slowly, his ringing phone, shrill and loud and pulsating through his pounding head.

Sherlock coughed and squeezed his eyes shut; immediately, another cough seized him and left him breathless, a sweating and shivering wreck.

He blinked slowly, forced his heavy lids open in order to stay awake and did his best to breathe evenly, flatly. His feet were trapped in his duvet, Sherlock registered once his eyes had managed to focus on his bedroom around him, his phone still blaring, and Mrs Hudson's afghan had wrapped itself around his torso, around his chest and his sore lungs, his trachea burning with every heavy, flat breath he drew. When Sherlock tried to lift his head from where it rested partly against the pillow, partly against the headboard, the room swam around him, a bizarre distortion, and he barely succeeded in summoning the energy to extend his arm and grab his mobile with numb and shaky fingers.

"Yes," he croaked, a hoarse, quiet sound, and bit back another rising cough.

"Mr 'Olmes," a voice answered, a voice Sherlock knew but needed a few moments to recognise.

Billy. Billy Wiggins, calling him.

"Billy," he rasped and slumped back into the pillow, a weak echo of the exultation he usually felt whenever Billy brought news from his homeless network washing over him. News, there had to be news. "Anything?"

"Yeah," Billy Wiggins, who had somehow become Sherlock's most faithful and most useful street operator, confirmed. "Brilliant news. Got Miller. Tha' fellow ya wanna speak ta, remember?"

Despite himself, Sherlock's eyes closed, a shudder rippling through him. Miller, yes. The man he had been after for weeks, the one he hoped to extract information from on the network of insurance frauds he was investigating on Mycroft's behalf. He had his suspicions, of course, but in order to complete the case and fulfil his part of the deal with Mycroft's superiors, he would need proof, so… Another cough interrupted his thoughts and burnt in his lungs, cutting off whatever Billy Wiggins had been saying on the other end of the line.

"Mr 'Olmes?" Sherlock heard him ask as soon as he was able to draw breath again, the fingers of his free hand cramped into his creased trousers, goosebumps everywhere on his skin.

Needed to investigate, needed to question Miller. John would, no doubt, be disappointed in him, would be angry because Sherlock hadn't listened to his words, because Sherlock was working on a case, without him, again, but it… it was necessary. Could be his only chance to get to Miller, maybe.

"Fine, Billy," Sherlock croaked and sat up, the world turning around him. "Text me the address. I'll be there."

Another shudder grabbed Sherlock; he coughed again. Of course it was not actually cold in his room, had not been cold in the night; instead he rather felt cold, most likely due to a low-grade temperature.

Disgusting.

Half past ten in the morning, the bright screen of his mobile informed him after he had ended the call, and Sherlock's brain stumbled, to his irritation, over the simple task of finding out how long he had slept, how many hours he had allowed to go by without doing anything productive, without working.

Too many, he decided, but not worth the effort of finding out how long he had slept precisely. Needed to get up, medication, shower, get dressed. Work.

His mobile chimed in his loose grip just when another cough caught hold of his throat and lungs, his left hand clenching into Mrs Hudson's afghan.

Text. Not Billy Wiggins.

From John, of course.

Everything alright? Care to text me when you're awake? J

John had been here yesterday, in the evening, had made sure that he slept, and that he slept in his bed, had… Sherlock recalled, very vaguely, the sensation of a warm, familiar hand on his forehead, of someone - John - tucking a blanket around him, and…

No, he decided, and removed his thumb that had been hovering over the screen, slipping the phone into the pocket of his dressing gown. If he did not reply to John's text, if he kept ignoring John, John would, without any doubt, get annoyed first, then angry and would, finally, hopefully, stop texting Sherlock altogether, would realise that he was better off without Sherlock, without the danger he presented, constantly.

Sherlock swallowed and slowly manoeuvred his legs to the edge of the mattress, got to his feet, the world lurching around him. It was, without any doubt, better this way for all involved parties, he told himself.

Taking a flat, quick breath, he started making his way away from his bed, slowly, oddly slowly, towards the bathroom door, just a few steps, shivering even harder in the cool air without his cocoon of covers and hideous blanket.

Medication, Sherlock's mind listed as he stumbled against the bathroom door and managed to push it open, needed medication. Something for his headache, cough suppressants to get rid of that constant tickling, tea, maybe. John's tea, the thought occurred before he could stop it, but of course it was stupid. John wasn't here, rightly so, and Sherlock was indeed capable of making his own tea.

His mobile announced another text just when Sherlock flopped down to the toilet seat, his knees shaking. John, again.

And call me asap if you feel worse! I'll pick you up at half past four. See you in the evening. J

Sherlock's eyelids fell shut, chills chasing each other up and down his spine in the cool air of the bathroom. "Fine, John," he whispered, then coughed, the fit burning in his lungs and tearing at his throat. Fine.

If he didn't text John back, if he didn't text him at all, then maybe John would forget to pick him up, would forget about the invitation he had offered without a second thought, would be too angry to put up with Sherlock any longer.

Better that way.

Something in Sherlock's chest twisted, but he ignored it as he forced his legs to carry his weight once more, hands clenched around the cool surface of the wash-bowl to steady himself.

You machine, John's voice commented in his head, but Sherlock ignored him as well, ignored the tightness in his chest, ignored the sudden throbbing of his scar. Better that way.

I will burn the heart out of you, James Moriarty added, lips pulled back to reveal bared teeth, his dead face frozen in a devilish grimace.

"No," Sherlock croaked, took two deep breaths through his nose, exhaled through his mouth. No.

When he raised his head again, he suddenly found himself staring at his own reflection in the mirror, not at James Moriarty's dead face, not at John, his skin blistering because of the heat of the bonfire.

Deduce, Mycroft spoke up, the voice of reason, of logic, always. Deduce.

Pale, sallow complexion, shadows around his eyes, cheeks highlighted with red hues, sweat accumulating on his forehead - pointing towards a temperature indeed. Narrowed eyes while staring at the bright surface - headache, obviously, a constant, nagging feeling pulsating through his skull and threatening to pierce every single one of his thoughts. Inconvenient. Needed to concentrate.

Deduce, Mycroft's voice repeated, but for now, Sherlock would not have any of it. "Mind over matter," he muttered to himself and shook his head briefly, as if to shake off the dizziness that continued to lunge at him.

He needed a shower, a hot shower to chase away the cold in his very bones and the heaviness attacking his limbs. Shower, something for the headache, cough suppressants, and then…

Then he had some work to do.

He didn't pay attention to the warning voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like John, telling him that he could not simply suppress his cough, that this would most likely make it worse, on purpose.

(-)

His shivering had increased once he had showered, dressed, caught a cab and had sat down on the backseat, huddled into his coat and his scarf and waited for the pills he had taken to kick in and make him feel… close to human again.

The address Billy had indeed texted him came over his lips without a cough, and Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his head back, breathing heavily but determined not to fall asleep again. Just a few hours of talking to Miller, then an evening with John and Mary, for John, unless he did change his mind, and then he could go home and to bed, covered by every blanket he could find without walking around for too long.

Mrs Hudson, he remembered dazedly as another shiver gripped him, while the coughing had thankfully lessened for the time being, Mrs Hudson owned an entire stack of blankets. Once she was back, he mused, back from wherever she had gone, he would ask her to fetch some for him, and maybe she would even make him tea, or muffins.

Since his stomach growled again threateningly at the mere thought of muffins, Sherlock opened his eyes and stared out of the window, into the bright sun.

He wrapped his arms more tightly around himself and hoped that, whatever building Billy Wiggins was in, the heating there was working.

(-)

Questioning Miller - Billy Wiggins and two other members of his homeless network had not only managed to spot the man, but also to corner him and detain him inside of one of Billy's many hiding places - went nowhere near as well as Sherlock had hoped, and was even more draining than the journey to Billy's bolt-hole.

Miller was not, in general, unwilling to answer questions, the difficulty was rather that Sherlock found himself increasingly unable to ask them, because he could, surrounded by cold and icy air, hardly draw enough breath to form more but one or two words at a time.

"So did you…," he tried again in his painfully hoarse voice, and couldn't go on because another rattling cough broke free, a bout leaving him with a mushy substance of unknown consistency in his mouth that Sherlock decided to swallow down rather than spit out in front of several other people.

"Mr 'Olmes…," Billy Wiggins began at least for the third time, but once more, Sherlock cut him off with a shaky wave of the hand he had not pressed against his lungs, hidden by his coat; an invisible confession of his weakness.

"…fine," he rasped, and refrained from shaking his head. One, two, three heavy breaths later the fog in his head cleared a bit, and he felt able to continue his interrogation. "Mr Miller, did you…"

It had to be the air in here, Sherlock thought fuzzily as he failed to finish this sentence, too, once more interrupted by a coughing fit. Something had to be in the air that tickled his lungs, and narrowed his airway and made breathing a challenge, something… Interesting, maybe. Might even require an experiment to test the consistency of…

"Oh, for God's sake," Miller, so far rather pleasant about answering the few questions Sherlock had managed to choke out, exclaimed. "That's disgusting! Go home and see a doctor and stop spilling your germs everywhere, really…"

Doctor, Sherlock's sluggish brain repeated. Doctor. John. Should see John, maybe.

Despite everything John might think of him - especially after what he had done months ago, what he had done while perfectly aware that it had been the only possibility to keep John's life from collapsing completely if he found out about Mary otherwise -, Sherlock was not always entirely ignorant when it came to the needs of his own body.

Call John, a part of his brain told him again, and Sherlock could feel his resistance crumble, very gradually. Persistent, frequent cough, drowsiness and dizziness infesting him, running a temperature, possibly. Flu after all, he mused distractedly while remembering John's words, John's suggestion that Sherlock call him, maybe, when he felt worse. Call John… John was at work, he had said, at work, busy with patients, couldn't possibly be distracted now. Busy. Working.

Another cough tore at Sherlock's lungs, leaving him with more of the mushy substance in his mouth, and his eyes closed. John would stop by anyway, this evening, he told himself. No need to call John yet, no need to disturb John, to annoy him and…

This time, his coughing almost had Sherlock doubling over with its vehemence.

"Mr 'Olmes…," Billy said again, and finally, Sherlock gave in.

He hurt as he got to his feet, everything hurt, and his legs and arms felt as if… as if they didn't even belong to his body, as if they had been ripped off of some corpse in Molly's morgue and had simply been attached to his torso, regardless of whether this gave them the ability to function and carry his weight.

It felt different, utterly different, from the times he had shot up on heroin, to divert himself from the tedium of life without cases and exhilaration, from the vastness that life was without John.

Different, and…

That he had swayed and almost fallen he only registered when he noticed Billy's hands around his shoulders, keeping him upright and steadying him.

"'m fine," he said again, and it sounded awfully weak even to his own ears. John. He needed John. Would see John this evening, for dinner. John.

Another coughing fit passed, Billy's hands still on his shoulders, before Sherlock could state the obvious: "I think I'd rather… go home."

Miller snorted sarcastically.

"Er…," Billy Wiggins said rather dumbly, and Sherlock shook his head. "I'm fine," he repeated and straightened out of the other man's grip. "Keep me… updated."

"Shouldn' we…," Billy began again.

Sherlock walked towards the exit as quickly as his legs, the legs that maybe didn't even belong to him, would allow it. "No," he replied, without coughing, and let the door that had opened, or that he had opened, somehow, without realising that he had done so, fall shut behind him.

No, Wiggins absolutely shouldn't escort him home. He just needed a cab, and a bit of warmth to dispel the freezing cold that kept attacking him depite his coat and made him shiver, and sleep, and then he would be fine. Maybe. Possibly. Finally.

John had texted him, he registered with narrowed, bleary as he coughed again, in the cold, dry air outside. Had texted him, twice, and…

Spaghetti alright for you? And you're still sure that you're well enough to come over? No problem if not. J

And another one, newer, a text Sherlock didn't understand because John sounded weird, didn't sound angry, rather… panicked.

Sherlock, text me, will you? Are you alright? I swear, I'll come over if I don't hear from you! J

No problem if not, John said. He shouldn't, maybe, should refrain from disturbing John and Mary's lives any further, should refrain from developing an attachment to their child, a child they surely wouldn't want to grow up with frequent visits from a murderer, regardless of why he had done it. Better him than John, he thought dazedly and leaned against the wall of a building for a moment.

But no, John had asked him to come, and if he didn't…

Needed to text John, to reply, because if he didn't, then John would come to 221B, would interrupt his shift at work, would leave his patients who needed him, would get fired, would lose his job. Needed to reply.

Squinting his blurring eyes and with a pounding that had now settled itself somewhere in the back of his head, he typed out an answer with shaking fingers while at the same time, still feeling oddly dazed, trying to search for a cab.

Fine. No need to. See you. S

Dropping his heavy mobile into his pocket, Sherlock stifled a cough, bit it down, held his breath, and wanted, for a moment, nothing else but to be back home, beneath the warmth of his covers and with a cup of John's hot tea next to him.

Wanted, of course, what he didn't possibly have the right to have.

(-)

Sherlock had to stop and pause for breath halfway up the stairs to 221B. Distantly he realised that he was swaying on his feet, his tight grip to the handrail doing little to help him keep his balance and steady him. His other arm was clasping his stomach, as if to coax his lungs into drawing breath and not betraying him, and yet he couldn't stop.

Couldn't stop, and couldn't breathe, and…

Shallow breaths, shallow, not deep, a voice inside of his head told him, reminded him. Shallow, flat.

Sherlock held his breath, his heart thrumming in his chest, pounding against his ribs and in his throat and resonating in his head.

Held his breath, and…

He was shaking, trembling, he became aware of hazily, from exhaustion, and shivers crept up his spine and caused him to stumble again.

The next step came too late, was too high, and his grip on the handrail wasn't strong enough to keep him upright. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, toppling forwards, and tried to heave for breath.

Getting to his feet once more took far too much effort, and for a few moments, while he stared ahead dazedly, his brain too sluggish to process anything, he wondered if he could simply stay here, on the stairs, and… rest. Just rest, for a while.

The cold wrecking his entire body stopped him, as well as the thought of John coming home and finding him curled up on the steps.

John… John. Home.

It wasn't home, he mused with his foggy brain, wasn't John's home any more. John's home was Mary now, Mary, and the baby, and…

Another fit of hacking, rattling coughing cut off his thoughts, and Sherlock simply tried to concentrate on making it upstairs without passing out or being suffocated by the organs supposed to keep him alive.

(-)

Sherlock still couldn't stop coughing by the time he had stumbled out of the hot shower, the damp moisture wetting his raw throat a tiny bit, and was on his way to the kitchen, only wrapped into a towel, agonisingly long ten steps.

Of course the urge to cough didn't disappear immediately after he had swallowed a rather large portion of the cough suppresant, and of course his shivering - no doubt due to a temperature, a voice in his head that sounded rather like John kept reminding him - didn't abate immediately after he had ingested two more pills of paracetamol.

A quick glance at his watch he had dropped to the kitchen table while undressing uncoordinatedly confirmed that he still had… one hour, at least, until John would have finished working for today and get in his car to pick him up.

One hour. One hour to get something done, to text Billy Wiggins further instructions, to watch the Moriarty video for the hundredth time.

He tried to stifle another cough and failed as he turned back unsteadily, towards his bedroom, remembering to grab his mobile from his coat pocket.

His bed was a mess, his sheets no doubt sweaty and in utter disarray, but Sherlock couldn't have cared less as he slumped down on the mattress, clutching his towel for a tiny bit of warmth as he buried himself beneath the covers.

Alarm, needed to set his alarm…

His fingers ghosted over the screen of his mobile, quivering, and the clock and the numbers were swimming in a way that increased his dizziness, but somehow, he managed it.

The mobile still tightly in one hand, almost entirely submerged beneath the only moderately warm covers, he fell into an exhausted sleep.

(-)

With a shrill cacophony of sounds, the phone in his hand blurted to life, startling him into unpleasant wakefulness.

John, he remembered, needed to get to John and Mary, and needed to look acceptable.

His skin was sweaty and clammy, but Sherlock doubted that he would be able to muster the energy take another shower and get dressed and presentable.

No shower then, he thought fuzzily as he clambered out of his bed, his legs trembling beneath him. Clothes, needed clothes, other than his damp towel, needed shoes, coat, scarf.

Unread text messages from John, his mobile informed him, but Sherlock didn't have the time to care right now.

Needed to get dressed, needed to take more medication, needed to wait for John to arrive and needed to visit John and Mary, after they had invited him. Needed to be presentable…

A coughing fit that ripped through his trachea stopped his efforts momentarily, forcing him to hover in an uncomfortable position on the edge of his mattress, not quite standing, not quite sitting, but slumped over, one weak arm pressed against his heaving chest.

More medication, probably, needed more medication.

The trousers he had worn earlier that day were… Sherlock didn't remember, to his sudden shock, and after a moment of utter dread that would have taken his breath away if he had had any to be taken, he realised that he didn't care.

New pair of trousers was it, then, from his cupboard in his bedroom, much closer, much…

If he had doubted that he had a temperature before, he could be sure now, once he stood in front of his cupboard, heaving shallow, rapid breaths through his mouth and desperately fighting the urge to cough again. He was cold, so cold, and yet could feel a trickle of sweat down his bare back, and moisture plastering his hair, still wet from his earlier hot shower, to his face and his scalp.

Trousers, shirt, jacket, socks. Shoes, his shoes, where were his…

Sherlock sat down heavily on the only chair in his bedroom, forcing himself to take more shallow breaths, not quite as deep, in order not to trigger more coughing. Shoes… Kitchen, probably, or bathroom, where he had kicked them off when he had come home, stumbling into the shower cubicle.

If he called John now, told him that he couldn't make it, lied to him that he was busy, couldn't spare the time… It wouldn't work, Sherlock realised dazedly as he got his feet again, closing his eyes for a moment. John was clever, and John knew him, and if he called John now, hoarse and coughing, John would never believe him, but would probably come over anyway, because he felt responsible as a doctor, or because… maybe because he was John's friend, still, and… and he would not spend a nice, comfortable evening with the woman he had chosen to marry and who was carrying his child.

"No," Sherlock whispered and spotted his shoes on the floor in front of the bathroom door. No, he had to go. For John.

He slipped his coat on, lying on the kitchen table, together with his scarf, thankful for the ounce of warmth the heavy material provided, before he sat down again to tie his shoe laces, with trembling fingers and interrupted by an occasional cough, before he took another large sip from the cough suppressant, and before he took another pill to get rid of his fever, to get rid of the headache that had stubbornly accompanied him for the… He didn't even know how long it had been, the days were blurring together in his hazy brain, and for a moment, it terrified him.

Fever, he forced himself to remember, fever did this. He would be fine, just needed a bit of rest once he'd eaten dinner with Mary and John.

Or rather, as his throat prickled and his stomach protested at the mere thought of food, watch John and Mary eat dinner.

For a moment, his back against the cupboard to steady him, he contemplated taking the bottle of cough suppressant as well as the pill package with him, but decided against it. John would worry even more if he found out, and Sherlock would never hear the end of it.

He would be fine, in the end, he told himself again. Just a bit of a cold, or maybe a touch of flu. He would be fine.

Thank you for reading; please let me know what you thought. I could really do with a little encouragement right now. ;)