Uhm… hello? *carefully comes out of hiding-place* Hey, it's me. Still not dead. And back, at least for now, with a new chapter.

There isn't really anything to explain my lengthy absence(s). Believe me, I'm so, so sorry, but the motivation to write makes itself scarce these days. You don't even know how grateful I am for all the reviews some of you keep leaving (although it's been ages since this story's been updated), and although I think I haven't managed to reply to all of you, please know that I appreciate every single review and that it were the reviews that spurred me into re-writing this chapter and finally uploading it.

So, well, here you are then. Enjoy.

Never By Halves

8

Sherlock was quiet, apart from the occasional cough, and John had his jaw clenched for the entire time it took him to drive to Baker Street and coax Sherlock upstairs - under his own steam, mostly - and into the living-room of 221B, where his best friend headed, of course, straight for the sofa. Before John could stop him and insist that Sherlock sleep in his bedroom and his bed for once, Sherlock had already - but very cautiously - lowered himself down to the worn leather and was massaging his temples with the tips of his fingers. Headache, still.

John stood for a moment, had to stifle a sigh of resignation. He should have known, he assumed, that Sherlock wouldn't make this easy. "Right," he muttered finally and pocketed his car keys. "Stay where you are. I'll be back in a sec."

A quick survey of Sherlock's kitchen in its usual disarray was all it took for John to discover the package of panadol that was lying, as if it had been tossed there haphazardly, on the worktop next to the sink. Sherlock had said that he had taken something before John had come to pick him up; that had been, John estimated, about two hours ago, two and a half at most, which meant that it was too early to give Sherlock another pill already. And, John assumed while he pursed his lips and started rifling through a few of the cupboards in the kitchen, it was probably too much to hope that Sherlock owned some kind of cough syrup, some kind of expectorant, that was still ingestible and not part of a gruesome experiment about mould and bacteria and God knew what.

John checked the final drawer and came up empty. Of course. Because, after all, the body was just transport to Sherlock Holmes, consulting genius, and determining the rate of extinction of bacteria through contamination with cough syrup via experiment was of course so much more important than something as mundane as his own health.

Well then. He would have to stop by the chemist's the next day. Or ask Mrs Hudson.

Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, John stifled a sigh, grabbed a glass - it looked clean; he could only hope it was - from the cupboard and filled it with tap water.

When he came back to the living room, Sherlock was exactly where John had left him. Seated on the sofa, still in his coat. Shoulders hunched, fingertips pressed to his temples, almost as if he were busy lounging around in his mind palace. Almost, because the slight trembling of his hands betrayed him, as did the coughing he launched into only seconds later. It sounded worse than yesterday, John was suddenly sure of that, especially when he thought back to Sherlock's behaviour at dinner, how he had been listing to one side even while sitting down, how he had barely seemed coherent.

Sherlock gave a final cough and uncurled his right arm from where it had found its way around his stomach. Christ, he really did look awful. A part of John wanted to shake Sherlock, shake him until that brilliant brain of his finally realised that he was only human and that working and working and working was absolutely not healthy. Bloody idiot of a best friend who claimed to be fine and went running around London for a sodding case when he was obviously, visibly ill.

That thought spurred him into motion again.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open when John sat down on the edge of the coffee table opposite of him and cleared his throat. "Here," he told his best friend and handed the glass of water to him. "Drink that." Sherlock accepted the glass with his right hand; the other fell away from his temple and came to rest in his lap.

"Drink," John said again, crossing his arms. Sherlock, almost to John's surprise, took a sip.

Fluids, John's brain listed, rest, medication for the fever in about an hour. Then, in the morning, preferably before work, a trip to the chemist's, to pick up some medication and a clinical thermometer, which, hopefully, would not immediately be contaminated by another one of Sherlock's experiments. Or, if his temperature rose during the night or the cough worsened, he could still try dragging Sherlock to the clinic with him, he supposed.

When Sherlock spoke up all of a sudden, John all but started.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice deep and raspy. "What are you doing?" His eyes, bright and glazed over from the temperature he was running, were locked on John's, and his intense and yet strangely open, strangely honest gaze made John want to squirm.

He swallowed once, turned his head to his right for a moment. Pursed his lips and, finally, turned back to Sherlock and settled on a tense smile. "What's it look like," he replied. Because someone had to take of Sherlock bloody Holmes, brilliant and a genius in everything, unless it came to taking care of himself. And because Sherlock was his best friend, and he'd be damned if he let Sherlock get even close to slipping away ever again. One faked suicide, a near-fatal gun shot wound and an almost-exile had been enough. And he'd also be damned, his brain insisted on adding, if he ever allowed himself to voice even one syllable of that in front of Sherlock, self-professed mister-didn't-do-sentiment. He could really do without Sherlock's scoffing at that, thank you very much.

"John," Sherlock said again. When he broke into coughing, the rest of the water in the glass in his hand sloshed dangerously, but didn't spill. John could feel the warmth radiating from Sherlock from where he was perched on the edge of the coffee table, could see the shivers that were wracking Sherlock's frame.

"John," Sherlock repeated as soon as the coughing had abated. "You shouldn't be here."

Always nice to know when he wasn't wanted, John thought, half-amused, half-annoyed. "Well, tough," he replied in a clipped voice, squaring his shoulders, "because I'm not going anywhere. Now drink."

Once again, Sherlock didn't protest, but, with a shaky hand, raised the glass to his lips and took another sip.

Well. That had been easier than John had assumed. He watched his best friend for a few moments and then, flexing his jaw, stood.

"Okay," he said, "off to bed with you."

Sherlock raised his glassy eyes, but before he could do more than open his mouth, John had already cut him off: "And no, the sofa's not fine. Come on." He grabbed Sherlock's left elbow, putting the glass on the table with his other hand. "You need to sleep, and you need a bed."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment longer, and John swallowed, forcing another tight grin. "Come on," he repeated, and this time, Sherlock got to his feet.

John followed one step behind Sherlock as they made their way into Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock walked slowly, with none of his usual vibrancy, but seemed, to John's relief, to be a little more steady on his feet than he had earlier. During dinner at his and Mary's - and John couldn't help but clench his jaw at the memory - Sherlock had appeared as if he was about to keel over any second, disoriented and visibly lightheaded.

Sherlock broke into coughing once he had slumped down on his bed - sheets rumpled and in disarray, but it was still better than the sofa -, one of his arms curling around his middle as he hunched forwards ever so slightly.

John swallowed hard and had to force himself to take a deep breath. It was just a cough, nothing life-threatening, and yet his chest was tight with worry, and yet he couldn't stop seeing Sherlock, on the pavement in front of Bart's, broken eyes starting unseeingly, or Sherlock, on the floor in Magnussen's office building, bleeding out and deathly pale, or Sherlock, about to leave for an exile from which he would not come back, when he looked at his best friend now.

Sherlock inhaled, without coughing, and John, with another deep breath, straightened his shoulders.

"Here," he said, fumbling around in the pocket of his jacket for the clinical thermometer Mary had remembered to give to him back in their flat. Sherlock used to own one too, but that, of course, was long past safe use on humans. "Take your temperature. And give me your coat."

This time, Sherlock didn't move. "John-," he began, then, of course, predictably, started coughing again. "It's-," Sherlock choked out in between his hacking, "you-"

John's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Shut up," he told his best friend, his own voice almost as hoarse as Sherlock's. "Just, for once, shut up."

Sherlock did, didn't even try to say anything else once he had managed to stop coughing. His eyes locked on John for a moment, before he began, with slow, halting movements, to take off his coat.

"Stay here," John told his best friend, grabbing the coat. "Take your temperature. And change into something comfortable."

He put Sherlock's coat on its usual hook on the door to the living room, re-filled the glass of water, stood in the kitchen for a few minutes, and then returned to Sherlock's bedroom. His best friend had changed indeed, was now in tracksuit trousers and a loose tee, his dress shirt, trousers, jacket and shoes discarded in a messy heap on the floor.

"Did you take your temperature?" he asked as he reached for the clinical thermometer in Sherlock's left hand.

39.2, it read. John pursed his lips and stared at it for a moment. Not great, but not too terrible either. Yet. On the bed, Sherlock coughed. John flexed his jaw and did everything he could to keep from simply staring at his best friend, sick and feverish and coughing, but not dead, not exiled, still with John.

"John," his best friend croaked before he had even caught his breath. "I'm fine."

John stiffened at that."Yes," he said with a harsh snort, "you're perfectly fine."

"You can-," Sherlock began, then cut himself off as he broke into coughing once more. "… can… go now…"

Yep, definitely nice to know when you weren't wanted. John forced himself to ignore Sherlock. "Get some sleep," he told his best friend. "I'll wake you when it's time to take some more panadol."

But Sherlock shook his head. "No," he choked out in between his hacking. "John," he added and actually succeeded in taking a full breath, for once not interrupted by more coughing. "You can leave now."

John gritted his teeth. God, he wanted to shake some sense into Sherlock, to force his thick, brilliant head to accept that John wasn't going anywhere, that Sherlock wasn't going to get rid of him so easily, not again, but he managed to control himself. For now, he assumed darkly. "I told you," he ground out between clenched jaws. "I'm not-"

But Sherlock, his stupid, brilliant best friend, didn't let him finish. "You should be with Mary," he interrupted instead, didn't even bother to listen, and John suddenly lost it.

"No, I bloody shouldn't!" he snapped.

The room fell silent. He was breathing more heavily than Sherlock, John noticed in the utter quiet, and every single muscle in his body was tight and coiled. Assuming combat stance, ready to attack.

Sherlock didn't look at him, and John suddenly felt guilty for his outburst. Sucking in a deep breath through his nose, he tried to calm himself down, to keep his sudden anger in check and relax his muscles. "Listen," he went on, doing his best to force his voice back to normal. "Mary's an adult, and a nurse, and she'll be perfectly fine without me." Assassin, intelligence agent, he could have added, but didn't.

Sherlock didn't reply at first. John let out a harsh breath through his nose, then straightened his shoulders and forced himself to uncurl his fists. "Okay," he said, pursing his lips. "Okay. You get some sleep. I'll be in the living room."

Sherlock's quiet voice held him back. "You're still angry at her," he remarked. When he raised his gaze to meet John's, his eyes were bright, bright from the bloody temperature he was running, and his face was pale, despite the unhealthy flush that had crept over his cheeks.

John had to swallow against the sudden tightness in his throat. His fingers tightened into fists yet again. On the bed, Sherlock coughed, a hoarse, raspy sound, and then settled on breathing, clearly audible in the silence of the room.

"You're right," John replied finally. Just to say something, maybe. Maybe because he should have said it a long time ago, because it was the truth. He swallowed, looked away for a moment. "You're right," he repeated. Sherlock's eyes were still locked on his, and Sherlock seemed to be listening, even as another cough escaped him. "I'm still angry at her."

It had been six months since then. Six months. A long time. But… John used to wonder, before - often when Mary had gone to see David, to a café maybe, or a restaurant - whether he would find it in him to forgive, really forgive her if she ever cheated on him. Probably, he had concluded. Maybe. Depending.

But what Mary had done… John swallowed again. What Mary had done, it had been worse. So much worse. And although John was willing to work on himself, and so was Mary, apparently, and although everything seemed… fine, he couldn't help it. And he didn't know if the anger that welled up in him now and then would ever disappear. The anger, the mistrust.

"You're still angry with me," Sherlock croaked, and coughed.

No, John wanted to say. "Yes," he muttered, his voice almost as hoarse as Sherlock's. "Yes, I am."

Sherlock's eyes had closed by the time John turned his head to look at him again, and he was listing to his right, as if about to fall asleep. "Sherlock?" he asked quietly, and got a soft moan in reply, to his relief. Sherlock shifted, ever so slowly, until his back was resting against the headboard of the bed.

"Because of Bart's," he mumbled, without opening his eyes.

Was he? Was it that?

"No," John croaked and cleared his throat, staring straight ahead. He didn't want to have this conversation, not really. Not now, not ever. They didn't talk about stuff like that, and they were fine. So there. Fine. "Yes," he then corrected himself. "I don't know." He paused. Took a deep breath. Another look at Sherlock, his flushed face, closed eyelids. Felt his throat tighten once again, felt a familiar wave of anger surging up inside him. Sherlock coughed.

"I'm angry at you because you keep doing it," he finally choked. "Because you keep excluding me, and because you keep doing your best to get yourself killed."

John's jaw was clenched so tightly by now that it hurt, but he couldn't relax, not now, not when it took every ounce of self-control he had to not lose his temper and start yelling. Either that, or to walk out, without a word, until he could calm down again.

It wasn't because of Sherlock, not really. Rather because of that anger that seemed to be have been simmering inside him ever since Magnussen and the night in his office building. Or the night in Leinster Gardens that he wished to God had never happened. So he gritted his teeth, took a deep breath and listened to Sherlock's atttempt to suppress another cough. Swallowed drily, listened to Sherlock fail, to another bout of coughing, a bout that seemed to go on forever and that left Sherlock breathless and with his shoulders slumping in his bed once it was over.

Why didn't you call me, John wanted to snap at Sherlock. Wanted to yell at Sherlock for not telling him that he had been feeling awful, wanted to know why Sherlock went off on a bloody case instead of calling John, his best friend and a bloody doctor. Wanted to shake Sherlock, again, for being so utterly, utterly stupid sometimes, for being so focused on his bloody work that he didn't even stop to think about what he was doing to John. What it would to do John if Sherlock managed to get himself killed on a case because he wasn't on top of his game and because he couldn't be bothered to take care of himself or even call John to…

Sherlock coughed again, and John's attention snapped back to his best friend. "Okay," he said, his voice hoarse. "Okay. That's it."

Unclenching his fists, he grabbed the duvet from where it lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed and did his best to spread it over Sherlock. His best friend only looked at him, his eyes bleary and filled with something John couldn't identify, something tender, maybe, something almost vulnerable, something that didn't belong in Sherlock's gaze, brilliant, calculating, rational Consulting Detective that he was. John swallowed and averted his eyes for a moment, but when he looked up again, Sherlock's gaze was still fixed on his. Sherlock opened his mouth, to say something, probably, but before he could get out a single word, he broke into another coughing fit.

"Okay," John repeated, pursing his lips. He waited, with clenched teeth, until the coughing had abated, then gave Sherlock's left shoulder a quick pat und retreated a few steps. "Get some sleep."

Sherlock's eyes had slipped closed, and he didn't show any indication whether he had heard John's words, whether he had paid attention, whether he was still awake.

John flexed his jaw, then nodded once, sharply, to himself. Okay. Sleep. Sleep was good. He'd wake Sherlock in an hour or two, get him to take some more medication, then…

"John." Sherlock's quiet voice held him back before he could switch off the light and exit the room. When John turned around, Sherlock's eyes were still closed, and he looked more asleep than awake. And definitely worse than half an hour ago.

"John," Sherlock mumbled again, interrupted by a feeble cough. "I'm sorry."

John didn't move. Didn't know whether to laugh, to cry or to start swearing. "Sherlock," he croaked finally, and then didn't know how to go on, or what else to say.

Sherlock didn't stir, didn't open his eyes, didn't react. So John stared at his best friend for a few more seconds, his throat tight, before he switched off the light and left the room, without saying anything else.

Thanks for reading. No idea if it was any good - just hope that it wasn't too awful.

Take care,
Gwen