Uh... hello again. I'm still here, if anyone was wondering, and I still intend to finish this story - although it might take a while. Anyway, here's another chapter - un-betaed, I'm afraid, and probably containing an awful lot of silly mistakes (which is ridiculous, considering the amount of time it took me to finally put it up here). Nonetheless - here you go.

Never By Halves

7

Sherlock couldn't even muster the energy it would have taken to appear interested in his food. Spaghetti, he thought dazedly, spaghetti. John had made spaghetti often, a long time ago, because it was quick, he had said, and easy.

Easy…

The next coughing fit took him by surprise, and he only very narrowly avoided coughing directly onto his full plate where he had moved around the noodles and sauce, a weak and vain attempt to make it look like he had eaten something.

John wouldn't be fooled by that, of course. He and Mary had emptied their plates long ago, but…

Sherlock resisted the urge to close his eyes and picked up his fork again, his fingers cold and numb. Food, some part of his brain told him, food, he needed food. Nutrients were good, even if they would aggravate his dry and raw throat, and his trachea, and…

"Sherlock?" a voice addressed him, and his eyes shot open. So much for not closing them.

Concentrate, another part of him said, concentrate, concentrate. John would worry, John shouldn't worry. He needed to concentrate, to show John that he was fine.

John's eyes were glued to him, of course, his brow furrowed. Worried, his brain supplied, worried.

"Hm?" he made and tried to remember whether somebody had been talking, and if so, what they had been talking about. The baby, probably, or painting the wall in the child's room, or…

"Are you nauseous?" John wanted to know, and didn't at all ask what Sherlock had anticipated. If he had listened, maybe, or what he thought about yellow for the walls, or green, or pink.

Or maybe even a remark that he hadn't eaten anything at all.

But no, it was John, of course, and John was clever, always clever. Skipping questions, doctor, drawing conclusions.

'I'm fine,' he wanted to say, and realised that it would only make everything worse. "No," he replied and swallowed dryly, tried to swallow the urge to cough. "Just not… hungry."

John's nod blurred in his head as his eyes attempted to slide closed.

"Have you taken your temperature?" John asked, almost softly.

Had he? He didn't know, didn't remember, everything was… cloudy, and hazy, and vague at best.

The fork dropped out of Sherlock's weak fingers as he focused on keeping his eyes open, on keeping looking at John.

"Sherlock?" John repeated, and his voice sounded distinctly odd in Sherlock's ears. Distorted, somehow, hard, and at the same time… soft. It didn't make sense, Sherlock mused distractedly, absolutely no sense at all.

Concentrate, he reminded himself and launched onto the sound of John's voice. "Mh?" he made, unintellegibly.

"Do you want to lie down?" John asked, and got up from his chair.

Lie down… Why would he want to lie down, why… A coughing fit took his breath away and frayed his vision around the edges, speckled it with black and grey dots as he waited for it to stop. Waited, because there was nothing he could do that would speed up the process.

"Easy," John's voice said, close to him, close to his ears, all of a sudden. "Try to relax, don't fight it." And: "Easy. It'll be alright."

The coughing abated before his vision cleared, the quick, greedy breaths he sucked in - air, needed air, oxygen - rendering him dizzy and blurring his eyesight even more.

A glass of water appeared in front of him, clutched by a hand - John's hand, his hand offering him water.

Sherlock took one sip, another one, too quickly, coughed again, took another sip, let eyes close while he waited for his heart to stop thumping against his ribs as if threatening to break them and for his mind to stop reeling.

Rest, maybe he needed rest.

John's eyes were dark, narrowed, when Sherlock wrenched his own open, staring blearily into John's face.

"Can you stand?" John asked and got to his feet. Kneeling, John had been kneeling, one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, the other one holding the glass. Worried, had worried John.

"Yes," he croaked and wondered why he shouldn't. Maybe there was something with his legs, something… A shudder hit him and ended all of his efforts for a few moments.

When he stood, his knees were trembling beneath him, worse than they had done earlier, when he had been questionning Miller, or had tried to, or when he had got home, and…

They were making their way over to John and Mary's sofa, where Mary had been sitting earlier. Had been… Was now standing, too, glancing at him, at John, a frown line on her brow, her eyes small. Angry…? No, worried, worried, too. Because of John?

The cushions were soft against his back, and Sherlock could almost imagine to be home, at 221B, in his bed, or on their sofa. No, not their, because John was living here now, was…

A cold hand on his forehead jerked his eyes back open, John very close.

"Sherlock," John said, and kept studying him, kept staring at him, "have you taken anything against the fever?"

Fever… Sherlock shivered involuntarily and forced his eyes to remain open.

"What is it?" Mary, John's wife, Mary, interjected from where she was standing, hands in her hips. Backache, probably, so close to her due date. "John!"

The hand left his forehead as he lapsed into another coughing fit, the hand left, but John didn't. "His temperature's too high," he said, and Sherlock, his raw throat burning and tickling and aching, wanted nothing more to close his eyes and succumb to sleep.

"Sherlock," John addressed him again, and Sherlock suddenly remembered the question. Taken anything… not drugs, because he was clean, had been for a while, few months… not drugs.

"In the morning," he mumbled, and wasn't exactly sure if it was true. Or after he had come home… "And before you… came," he added, and shivered again.

John's curt nod blurred terribly. "Okay," he said, nodded for a second time. "And now, Sherlock, tell me, really tell me: Fever, cough, fatigue. Is there anything else? Anything at all?"

Anything… Sherlock tried to shake his head and regretted the idea immediately. "Headache," he muttered, but John surely knew that already, didn't he? John knew, John always knew.

The hand returned to his forehead, wiped his wet hair away, rested there for a moment. "Okay," John repeated, and then, facing away from Sherlock, facing Mary again: "Could you get his coat and scarf?"

Coat, whatfor would he need…?

"Wouldn't it be better if he stayed here?" Mary interrupted his thoughts, and Sherlock slowly turned his head towards her. Fine, he wanted to tell John, he would be fine, just needed rest, and warmth, and maybe something to drink.

John shook his head. "He needs a bed, not our sofa, and something comfortable to sleep in."

"And you don't want me to catch whatever he's got," Mary added, and nodded, vaguely. "Call me if you need me, will you?"

Sherlock didn't understand the small, tense smile that suddenly appeared on John's face. "Of course," he muttered, and turned to look at Sherlock again.

Call him… why would Mary call John, why… Oh.

"John," he whispered and swallowed, tried not to cough. "You don't need to…"

Of course his sentence did end in a cough, and for a moment everything was floating around him.

"Easy," John's voice kept saying, kept saying until Sherlock's gasping was successful, until a mouthful of air, air tinged with a smell that was John, purely John, entered his lungs and eased the burning there for a few moments.

John's finger tightened around his wrist, Sherlock realised dazedly, tightened, pressed against his pulse point, his other hand on his shoulder. Again. Still. Sherlock didn't know.

"Your heartbeat's too fast," John mumbled, as if to himself, but Sherlock heard nonetheless, heard in a moment when no cough was wrecking him and no shiver attacking him.

"…should stay here," he managed, holding his breath. "…with Mary, and…"

John's hands on him tensed as he coughed yet again and felt a wave of exhaustion roll over him.

"'ll be fine," he mumbled and didn't care any longer if what he was saying sounded coherent. John would understand what he meant; John always understood. "I'll get a cab, and…"

John's firm grip on his shoulder and his wrist didn't at all fit with his chuckle. Irony, a part of Sherlock realised, sarcasm. Not amused. Humourless. "I will not let you go and trust you to get a cab and get home on your own," he clarified, and Sherlock swallowed.

"Mary…," he whispered and fought against his eyelids, fought against closing them. He would be fine, he had to, because he had work to do, important work, cases that, if he didn't make progress, if he didn't solve him, would get him sent to Eastern Europe for what he had done, away from everything, and the video, had to find whoever was behind that, could not let John and his family get into the line of fire again, needed to…

"Sherlock," John said, his voice fierce. "Sherlock, look at me."

John's eyes hadn't lost their darkness, their grim expression. His fault, completely his fault.

"Mary will be fine on her own," John told him.

Sherlock tried to shake his head. "…if your baby…," he managed before his throat shut down, his vocal chords failed; he didn't know how to go on, how to make it work.

"Then she'll call me, and we will get things sorted," John explained patiently and shook his head. "She will be fine, alright?"

No, Sherlock wanted to say, you need to be with your family, I'll be fine, don't worry about me, care for your wife and your child…

He coughed and almost doubled over, his eyes closed, only the pressure of John's grip around his tense shoulder keeping him glued to reality.

"John," Mary's voice cut through his hacking, rattling somewhere in his lungs, ripping his throat apart. "Do you need me to drive?"

John's hand disappeared, and Sherlock wrenched his eyes open. Scarf, John had his scarf in his hands, and his coat. Coat. "No," he said, and Sherlock allowed himself to slump. "I'll stay with him through the night, and right tomorrow morning I'm…"

Whatever John said next drowned in Sherlock's coughing, and then there were hands on his face again, not John's, smaller ones, slimmer, hands… As soon as he could draw shaky breaths again, Sherlock blinked his eyes open, staring into Mary's grim face. "'m fine," he whispered and slowly reached out for the scarf in John's hands.

"Ssh," Mary made, and kept her hands on his cheek, on his forehead. It felt… it wasn't John. She wasn't John, and… "He's burning up," she said, and Sherlock realised only belatedly that she was talking to John now. Talking about him as if he wasn't in the room.

It didn't matter, it really didn't. Exhaustion was pulling him down, threatening to drown him in oxygenless coughing, and he couldn't muster the energy to care, lest of all be upset.

"I know," John replied quietly, and the scarf appeared around Sherlock's throat all of a sudden.

"Can…," he mumbled and tried to suppress his trembling for long enough to shrug on his coat.

"Yes," John agreed and helped him nonetheless, helped his weak arms, wiped the cold sweat away from his forehead, turned, as Sherlock registered hazily, his coat collar up, buttoned the coat.

The table, still laid, John and Mary's glasses and empty plates still there, more noodles lying discardedly in the pot, suddenly swam into focus. "'m sorry," he mumbled, and coughed again. Sorry for interrupting their evening, for disturbing them, for meddling with their lives all the time. John really should stay at home, with his pregnant wife, spend a perfectly ordinary evening with her, and…

"Ssh," Mary said again, and John asked: "Do you think you can walk?"

Walk… "'course," he croaked and slowly, unsteadily, John's hand in a firm grip around both of his arms, got to his feet.

"…car," was all Sherlock could hear from what John had been saying, could hear over his fast, exhausting breathing.

"I'll call you," John said, to Mary now, and Sherlock took a step forwards, and another one. Home, needed to get home, and to bed, and then… and then John could return to his wife and child and home.

He was glad that John didn't let go of his arms.

Thanks for reading, and sorry again for the delay! I hope it wasn't too awful - I've been a bit off lately and now I feel like I'm going to need ages until I'm completely back in the fandom and fandom-y stuff... (but then I was reminded of the fact that some people are (miraculously) still following this story, and I thought... let's do this! So, here we are.)

Take care, Gwen