Uh...

Not dead?

Sincerest apologies for my lengthy absence (and for my continued failure to reply to PMs!) - there's no other explanation than that I've been rather busy lately and the motivation to write has been about as absent as I've been. There will be more chapters on this fic, I promise - I just don't know when exactly.

Thank you for your patience - enjoy.

Oh, and: this chapter is unbetaed, I'm afraid - I had to take advantage of the sudden burst of inspiration and get it done as quickly as possible. Any mistakes are mine. ;)

Never By Halves

6

Sherlock, the bloody idiot, didn't even think it necessary to text John. Of course he didn't.

Despite himself and although his mind had still been circling around Sherlock's exhaustion and additional low-grade temperature by the time he had arrived at home, John had slept soundly in the night. He had fallen into his bed, next to his softly snoring wife, contemplating if he should get dressed and drive back to 221B, and the next thing he remembered was that he had woken in the morning, with Mary still deeply asleep next to him and an hour after he had intended to get up.

Whatever plans John might have had to stop by at Baker Street before heading for work had dissolved immediately, and he had made it to the surgery just in time, after a rushed shower and without breakfast.

And now, eight hours later and a few minutes after his last patient for the day had left his office, he found himself in front of a red traffic light on his way to Sherlock's flat and hadn't heard from his best friend apart from one measly message around noon, informing him curtly that Sherlock was fine and probably busy and there was no need for John to come over.

Of course there wasn't, and of course Sherlock was fine, and of course he hadn't bothered to text John, probably hadn't even considered that John might worry about him after having found his best friend all but passed out on the sofa, knackered and running a temperature.

The traffic light switched to green, and John accelerated and turned right.

Of course there wasn't. His being worried had apparently been unnecessary because of course Sherlock hadn't been asleep or too sick to text as John had started to fear, but rather so thoroughly immersed in something immensely important that he could not possibly remember, with all that massive brain of his, to send his best friend a simple text.

Stifling a frustrated sigh, John turned right once again. It wasn't exactly unusual for Sherlock to develop a low-grade temperature after a tiring case and sleep for twenty hours straight, but that didn't mean that John had to approve of Sherlock's habit of running himself into the ground. Especially not, and this thought caused John's heart to clench, since the entire Magnussen business and Sherlock's endless hospital stay. He insisted that he was fine, naturally, but then, Sherlock would even claim to be perfectly alright when he absolutely wasn't.

By the time John finally pulled up in front of the familiar building in Baker Street and parked the car, he had long given in to the temptation of drumming the fingers of his right hand against the steering wheel, his exasperation at Sherlock's thoughtless behaviour slowly gaining the upper hand over his worry. He would, he decided nonetheless while pocketing his car keys, insist that Sherlock eat a healthily sized meal in the evening, not only a few bites, and that he sleep in the night and get some more rest.

A quick glance at his watch while crossing the road confirmed that it wasn't half past four as he had told Sherlock, but rather five sharp. He really should have expected it, John realised when he unlocked the door to 221B, should have known that traffic would be hellish, but of course hadn't.

The door fell shut behind him, and Mrs Hudson's flat remained eerily quiet. Still not at home then, John concluded, otherwise the radio would be blaring or the telly babbling.

What was more disturbing than the lack of noises from Mrs Hudson's rooms, however, was the silence emanating from upstairs, from Sherlock's flat. John stopped at the bottom of the stairs, listening, his brow furrowing.

Busy, Sherlock had informed him in his short text, and John had simply assumed, hoped, that Sherlock meant an experiment in the kitchen, involving livers and other organs and bacteria, and not running around in London and chasing criminals or worse, without John on top of everything.

Stupid.

John squared his shoulders and began mounting the stairs. Of course Sherlock wouldn't take things easier for a while, being so ridiculously terrible at taking care of himself as he was, of course he would catapult himself headfirst into the next case without paying any attention at all to what he was doing to himself by constantly pushing his body further and further.

Curling the fingers of his left hand into a fist, John shook his head and made for the door to the kitchen. Sherlock Holmes, genius and a bloody idiot at the same time.

"Sherlock? You in?" he called and pushed open the door, surveying the kitchen.

Apparently not. No answer, no Sherlock to be seen anywhere, sitting at the kitchen table and staring into his microscope, busy with some experiment and curtly telling John to shut up because he needed to concentrate.

"Sherlock?" John repeated and wanted to curse his bloody best friend. Because of course Sherlock would not even stay at home, but run off to some case. Of course.

Shaking his head in consternation, John approached the door to the living room, sparing only a short glance for the two armchairs and the table there.

It was only then, his eyes wandering through the living room, that he became aware of the sound of breathing, someone's breathing, interrupted by a short but loud coughing fit.

Nothing but the coughing betrayed that the lump on the sofa John had simply overlooked before, complete with coat and shoes, was Sherlock.

Fine, he had texted. Fine.

Perfectly fine.

John froze for a moment and felt a frown spread on his forehead. "Sherlock?" he asked again and didn't receive an answer. For all he knew, Sherlock could be busy in his mind palace and just too absorbed in some bloody case details to notice John, but that did nothing to stifle the uneasiness, the worry that was creeping up in him once more.

By the time he had reached Sherlock's side, the anger that had started boiling in his chest when he had assumed that Sherlock had gone out dissipating rapidly, John had to admit that Sherlock was asleep, out of it, and most definitely not in his mind palace. Still pale, reddish hues covering his cheeks that spoke of at least slightly elevated temperature, his eyes closed with dark smugdes beneath them, raspy breathing.

"Sherlock," John said quietly, and received no reaction either.

He swallowed tightly and pursed his lips. Fine. Yes, absolutely, Sherlock was perfectly fine. And of course he had - stupidly - simply believed his best friend's words.

Sherlock didn't even stir when John rested a hand on his forehead - warm, but not alarmingly so - and only after John had given his shoulders a careful shake, his eyes fluttered open and he inhaled sharply.

"John," he mumbled after a moment and blinked.

"Hey," John replied and only barely refrained from checking Sherlock's pulse. "You with me?"

Sherlock kept up his strenuous blinking. "'course," he croaked and broke into coughing.

John sat down on the edge of the coffee table, wanting to curse either himself - for not growing suspicious - or Sherlock for claiming to be fine. "I've come to pick you up, remember?" he said, not taking his eyes from Sherlock. Absolutely fine, yes. "Unless, of course…," he went on, interrupted himself and cleared his throat. "You don't have to," he ended lamely.

Sherlock's eyes had closed again. "'m fine," he mumbled, and the very unconvincing claim provoked John to snort. "Yes," he replied. "I can see that."

"Really," Sherlock muttered and struggled to sit up - and succeeded, shoulders slumping and apparently stifling another cough. "I'm fine," he repeated, burying his hands in his coat pockets. "Really, John. Just… tired."

Tired. Tired was, for all John could see, an overwhelming understatement. And tired didn't usually cause coughing fits that made him want to flinch.

As if on cue, Sherlock coughed again, caught his breath and cleared his throat, his left hand moving to his temple. Headache, John concluded, still. Sherlock stopped as soon as he became aware of John's eyes on him and cleared his throat again. That, plus the very obvious fact that Sherlock had been asleep, had fallen asleep while waiting for John, in his coat, with his shoes on, on the sofa, in a span of… what? Twenty minutes?

"Ready?" Sherlock wanted to know, already getting to his feet.

John's attention snapped back to reality. Sherlock was standing, remained standing, more importantly, but he did absolutely not look fine at all, not even with a very vivid imagination. "Right," John decided and stood, too.

Sherlock definitely was under the weather, this was something else than one of his usual post case crashes, and John would be damned if he wasn't going to keep a very close eye on his best friend and his health. No more 'fines'.

"Really, John," Sherlock mumbled hoarsely when John did not avert his gaze, and started fumbling with his scarf. "I'm fine."

"Yes, thank you. Care to remember who of us is a doctor?" John bit back, his words sharper than he had intended them to be. Sherlock sick, Sherlock injured - no other thought had been able to turn his stomach like this one in the past few months. He took a deep breath, then met Sherlock's gaze again. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't…"

Sherlock simply shrugged. "It's fine," he mumbled.

Silence enveloped the living room, a silence which, while John couldn't tear his gaze away from Sherlock's face, from the odd look in Sherlock's eyes, and yet didn't want to see because Sherlock looked so… human, so young for a few moments that it became almost unbearable, was finally disrupted by another cough of Sherlock's, loud and harsh and enough to hunch his shoulders.

"Right," John said and clenched the fingers of his left hand into a fist. "Let's go."

(-)

The first few minutes of their journey in John and Mary's car passed in more silence, overlayered by the noise of the car engine and both their breathing, occasionally added to by another rattling cough.

It did not sound good, John noted with growing uneasiness.

"So," he began awkwardly after Sherlock had once more caught his breath and lapsed into silence on the passenger's seat. "How was your day?"

"Fine," Sherlock rasped, flatly. John didn't need to be the world's only Consulting Detective to see the blatant lie behind that one tiny little word.

"Did you…," he began again, staring ahead on purpose. "Did you manage to get some rest?"

"Mh," Sherlock made next to him. "Case."

Case. Of course. For a split-second, John felt an echo of the anger that had threatened to rise in him when he had come to 221B and found it empty. He should have known, he really should. Of course Sherlock couldn't have stayed at home when he clearly wasn't well, but had to run off, somewhere, headfirst and without bothering to inform anyone, without John and probably without even sparing a thought about how John was going to feel if one day, he got a phone call and an impersonal voice informed him that, unfortunately, his good friend Sherlock Holmes had been killed in an accident, or had been stabbed by the murderer he had been chasing, or had been blown to shreds by an explosion, or kidnapped by Moriarty's henchmen or God knew who, and all of that because John hadn't been with him, because Sherlock had once more not bothered to phone him.

John pursed his lips and kept his eyes glued to the road. Shouting at Sherlock, he realised by now, wouldn't make any difference. "Was it successful, then?" he asked curtly.

Sherlock seemed to clear his throat. "No," he muttered, and coughed.

John risked a glance to his left the very instant Sherlock's hand made its way to his temple, fingertips pressing against his skull.

"Headache?" John wanted to know and turned his head, scanning Sherlock, huddled into his coat and the seat. "Sherlock?" he said when silence took over again.

"Mh," Sherlock confirmed eventually.

John nodded. Headache. Fatigue. Cough. Sherlock was definitely not fine, and definitely not merely exhausted. "You're running a temperature; anything else? Pain, anything?"

Sherlock had his face turned towards John now, he realised after another short look, as if to scan him. "John-," he began, but John cut him off: "Just answer my questions, will you?" he demanded, and, after a pause and clearing his throat, added: "I'm worried about you, you know."

For a moment, he almost expected Sherlock to reply: "I know."

He didn't, however, coughed. Kept silent. Turned back to face John once more. "There's no need to be," he reminded John, and his tone alone betrayed him. There bloody well was, and John had come far too close to leading a life without his best friend in the past few months to let it go.

Sherlock, however, wasn't finished yet: "Exhaustion," he listed. "Headache, cough. I'm sore all over. Low grade temperature. Content?"

No, John thought. "Yes," he answered. "You know that you can trust me, right?"

Silence once more.

"The fact that Mary and I are about to have a baby doesn't change that," John went on and waited for a reply, a comment, anything.

A cough was what he got. "I'm fine, John," Sherlock repeated stubbornly, far too quietly.

Perfectly fine, of course. Bloody well fine. He would not again be fooled, deceived by this, content with this. "Right," he muttered nonetheless and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

(-)

Mary had, although John had told her not to bother, dinner ready by the time they finally arrived at John and Mary's flat.

"Hello," she greeted them cheerily, wrapping her arms around Sherlock's shoulders, as far as her baby belly would allow it. "I haven't seen you in ages," she exclaimed.

She couldn't blame Sherlock that he had not been particularly keen on seeing her lately, John couldn't help but think, she really couldn't. She had, after all, pointed a gun at Sherlock and pulled the bloody trigger. Surgery, Sherlock's voice repeated in John's head, but no matter what Sherlock said, what Mary said, what each of them tried to sell John as the truth, it had been far too close. Far too close.

"Mary," Sherlock replied in his hoarse voice, his shoulders stiffening in her embrace with what John recognised as an impending coughing fit.

Mary's brow furrowed; she caught John's glance and stepped back, releasing Sherlock, who immediately started coughing, head bent, away from Mary, one of his arms around his middle, the elbow of the other one covering his mouth.

John took a step forwards, just in case.

The coughing stopped, but he could see Sherlock's lean frame tremble.

"John and I are getting the noodles," Mary announced all of a sudden, one hand on her protruding stomach. "The table's laid in the living room."

Sherlock gave a tiny nod. "Need… help?" he muttered, and sounded, to John's discomfort, nothing like his usual self.

Mary was quick enough to chuckle and nudge his arm. "I'm pregnant, not an invalid," she complained in mock exasperation, and Sherlock gave in.

Mary had cooked spaghetti as they had agreed - q quick meal that didn't take long to prepare while standing on one's feet - but when John reached out to grab the pot with the noodles and take it to the living room, she rested her hand on his right arm. "He looks terrible," she whispered. Her face, turned towards John, bore an expression of worry, just like it had when she had joined John in the hospital after one of the longest nights of his life, the night she had fired a gun at his best friend and yet been the very image of friendly concern the next morning. Stop it, John told himself.

Mary knitted her eyebrows together, creases on her forehead. "And I'm pretty sure he's running a temperature," she added.

John let go of the pot and pulled his wife into an embrace instead. "I know," he replied quietly, quietly enough to allow them to listen to the choked coughing resounding from the living room. "He says he's fine."

Mary snorted and nuzzled her nose against John's neck for a moment. "You're not going to tell me that you believe him, are you?"

John's eyes closed on their own account. "No," he muttered, and stifled a sigh. "Of course not."

Slowly, Mary loosened her arms around him, and John was forced to let go, too. "Maybe he should stay here tonight," she suggested and grabbed hold of the pot with the noodles.

Maybe Sherlock should indeed, John mused while Mary was already waddling to the living room and towards Sherlock. Maybe John should never again let Sherlock and Mary - and their child, once it was born - out of eyesight, just to make sure that they were alright.

Useless with Sherlock, he figured, took a deep breath and, snatching the pot with the sauce, followed his wife.

Thank you for reading. If you find the time, please leave a comment!