Never By Halves

10

They did make it to the car. John kept his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and they had to stop twice because Sherlock almost doubled over with the force of his coughing, but they made it to the car.

"John," Sherlock rasped in between his coughing, one arm clenched around his middle, the other one - shakily - bracing himself against the car. "John," he repeated and, predictably, broke into another hacking coughing fit.

John clenched his jaw and opened the door, without letting go of his best friend's shoulder. "Don't talk," he said. "Get in."

For a moment, Sherlock's gaze - fever bright - met his. "John," he croaked again, but John cut him off. "Get in," he repeated.

Maybe it was because of the high temperature he was running, maybe it was because of the next coughing fit that seemed to take Sherlock by surprise and made him sway on his feet - he didn't fight John, didn't protest, but closed his eyes and allowed John to manoeuvre him into the passenger seat.

John didn't waste time waiting for his heartbeat to return to its normal pace or for the tingling in the fingers of his left hand to abate. He hurried around the car, got in behind the wheel and, before starting the engine, glanced towards his best friend again.

He had nodded off on the sofa, some time after midnight, and when he had woken again, with a stiff neck and an aching back, the door to Sherlock's bedroom had been open, the bed empty and Sherlock gone. He hadn't been in the bedroom, hadn't been in the bathroom, or the kitchen, or the living room, and John had all but panicked. He had already been on his way downstairs, doing his best not to drop his car keys while frantically trying to dial Lestrade's number at the same time when he had spied the open front door, and his heart had plummeted. Because Sherlock, naturally, wasn't simply disorientated and confused while running a temperature; no, Sherlock, the world's only Consulting Detective and a bloody workaholic on top of that, actually went and left the house, early in the morning, in bloody March, while wearing nothing but socks, a tee and thin trousers.

As soon as John had darted outside, through the open door, he had spotted Sherlock, slumped there with his back against the wall of the building.

John flexed his jaw as he waited for the adrenaline that was still pumping through his veins to wear off. Sherlock couldn't have been outside for long, and he was fine - or would be, now that John had him bundled up in his coat and scarf and they were on their way to the closest hospital where John would make bloody well sure that Sherlock would not bail again but would instead get checked out, properly.

With a carefully controlled exhale, John squared his shoulders and fumbled for his mobile. Sherlock, he noticed, was still awake, pale and burning up, but watching John with a heavy-lidded, unfocused gaze. "John," he mumbled. "Where're we going?"

John pursed his lips, forcing himself to keep staring straight ahead. "Hospital," he replied curtly.

Sherlock's only reply was another cough, and when John turned his head to look at him again, his eyes had closed. For a moment, John let his gaze linger on the dark smudges beneath Sherlock's eyes and on his ghastly pallid face. Sherlock coughed once again, and John finally remembered the mobile in his hand and why they were sitting in the car too bloody early in the morning. Hospital, right. But first, he needed to make a call.

With another glance at Sherlock, he dialled and waited for the call to ring through. The phone, of course, was answered within seconds. John straightened in his seat at the sound of the cultivated, yet purposefully blank voice.

"Doctor Watson. What an unexpectedly early pleasure. What has my brother done now?"

John flexed his jaw muscles. "Mycroft," he said and started the engine. "I need a favour."

-o-

When John pulled up at the hospital Mycroft had directed him to and parked the car as close to the A&E entrance as possible, Sherlock's eyes were still closed. He appeared to be asleep, head slumped to his left, his stillness only disrupted by the occasional cough; didn't even stir when John opened the door on the driver's side and got out. Only when John rounded the car and addressed Sherlock did his eyes flutter open.

"Sherlock?" John repeated. "You with me?"

Sherlock blinked a few times and raised his head; his cloudy gaze met John's. "…there?" he croaked and then tried to clear his throat, which, predictably, only resulted in another harsh bout of coughing.

John's left hand clenched into a fist. Yes. Definitely not just a bout of flu, or a nasty cold, no matter what Sherlock liked to claim. Sherlock's breathing sounded loud and rough in John's ears, and he seemed to be about to drift off again. "Come on," John told his best friend. "Time to get up."

"Mh." Sherlock made no movement to get out of the car. "John," he mumbled instead, attempting to fixate John. "'s not safe here." A cough interrupted him, but did not stop him from trying to speak. "'s not… 's not… six months, Mycroft said… need to…"

John had to frown at Sherlock's slurred ramblings. "Yes, all right," he tried to assure his best friend. Sherlock swallowed visibly while his eyes drifted out of focus. He quieted, but it did nothing to ease John's worry.

"Come on," he repeated and grabbed Sherlock's upper arm, to guide him out of the car. "On your feet."

This time, Sherlock did what John told him to, got to his feet with shaky movements and even managed to stay there, even though he did look like he was going to keel over any moment.

John hastily slammed the door shut and locked the car, and everything without letting go of Sherlock's arm.

"John," Sherlock mumbled again, but followed when John started walking towards the entrance. "The case." He gave a cough, and John could feel him tremble.

He clenched his jaw and did his best to ignore the cold hard lump that had been resting heavily in his stomach ever since they had left Baker Street. "The case can wait," he told his best friend.

They had to stop for a few seconds as more coughing seized Sherlock, a bout that left him breathing shallowly. "…home," he croaked nonetheless. "…need to… home… and tell…" Another cough interrupted him, but Sherlock pressed on: "…s'ry for… keeping you so… long…"

John tightened his grip on Sherlock's arm when Sherlock started swaying. "Don't talk," he said instead of trying to make sense of Sherlock's breathless words. "It's not far."

Sherlock didn't listen. "Need to solve… the case," he slurred, his fever-clouded gaze catching John's. "Con… sulting…"

John forced himself to take a deep breath. Consulting Detective, yes, the only one in the world. "You're not up to running around and solving any cases now," he said. Which was probably exactly why an initially simple cold had turned into something more serious. He pursed his lips and waited for Sherlock to stop coughing and start breathing again. "And you're not going to do any case-solving without me," he added quietly.

But Sherlock heard him. "Lost without… my blogger," he slurred with a faint smile.

Despite himself, John almost had to smile, too. "You bloody well are."

Sherlock was out of breath and quite audibly trying to suppress another coughing fit by the time they reached the entrance to the hospital. John directed him to the nearest set of chairs, which Sherlock sank into without protest, huddled into his coat and scarf. "Stay here," he told his best friend, and then, after a last glance back, made his way over to the receptionist.

The woman behind the counter looked up as soon as he approached. "How can I help you?" she asked.

John squared his shoulders. "My name is John Watson, and I was told..."

"Ah, yes, Doctor Watson," she interrupted him; John narrowed his eyes. "Mr Holmes informed us you'd be arriving soon; we've been expecting you."

Obviously, John couldn't help but think. Mycroft Holmes, though a giant prick and a pain in his arse most of the time, was nothing if not thorough.

The receptionist dialled a number and turned back to John with a professional smile on her face. "Someone will be with you momentarily."

John remained where he was for a few moments longer, but when she directed polite smile at him and focussed completely on her telephone, John assumed he was dismissed. "Right," he muttered to himself; raising his chin, he turned back to Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were only half-open, John noticed, his jaw clenching, and even though he had, for the moment, stopped coughing, he did not look good at all.

He moved to take a seat next to his best friend, but before he could, a man in a white coat – doctor, obviously, an echo of Sherlock's voice said in John's head – hurried towards them. "I'm Doctor Burton," he introduced himself and reached to shake John's hand. "You must be Doctor Watson, and this must be Mr Holmes."

John stood and shook Burton's hand. "John Watson, yes, hello," he said. "And Sherlock Holmes."

Burton nodded once. His gaze, John noted, was resting on Sherlock, scanning him, scrutinising him. John took a step forward, drawing Burton's attention back to him. "He's had a cough for a few days," he informed Burton curtly. "He's been running a temperature; chills, headache, lack of appetite, frequent coughing. I suspect bronchitis, maybe even pneumonia."

Burton gave him a polite smile. "Mr Holmes – the other Mr Holmes – already informed us that you were on your way," he said. "If you'd follow me."

John turned back to his best friend. Sherlock blinked at him, blearily, but got to his feet and, trying to muffle more coughing with the sleeve of his coat, took an unsteady step forwards. "I'm fine," he muttered hoarsely.

John made to follow, but Burton's voice stopped him. "If you'd take a seat here, Doctor Watson; Mr Holmes, please follow me."

John could feel himself tense. "I'd rather be present at your examination, too," he ground out, his teeth gritted.

Burton only smiled again. "And I'd rather speak to my patient in private, if you don't mind."

John straightened to his full height; he had already opened his mouth to inform Burton that he did indeed mind when Sherlock's quiet voice silenced his attempt to protest. "It's fine," he croaked, followed by a cough. "'s fine, John."

John closed his mouth and frowned at his best friend's words. "Really?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "'course," he mumbled. "Mary's probably..." More coughing interrupted him, coughing that left him breathless and shaking. "'s fine," he repeated almost tonelessly.

John's hands had clenched into fists. He hesitated for a moment, worry heavy in his stomach, but then gave a clipped nod. "I'll be right here," he told Sherlock. "If anything...," he began, then cut himself off.

Sherlock nodded infinitesimally and attempted something was probably supposed to be a reassuring smile, before another coughing fit interrupted him, wiped the smile from his face and had him suck in greedy, rattling breaths afterwards.

"X-rays," John spoke up again, his words directed at Burton. "You probably ought to take x-rays."

Burton gave John another one of his polite smiles. "Be assured, Doctor Watson, Mr Holmes is in good hands. If you'd follow me now, Mr Holmes."

John remained where he was until Burton and Sherlock, his gait slow and unsteady, disappeared behind a closed door; only then did he sit down, fists still clenched and with a cold ball of worry where his stomach used to be.

Thank you for reading (despite another long wait...).

A bit of feedback would make me very happy. :)

Take care, Gwen