Hello again!

First of all: I can't thank you enough for your reviews and your encouraging words.

Then, secondly: Once again, the wait has been longer than indended - I am honestly sorry for the delay, but sometimes (most times) real life doesn't leave much time for fanfiction. But here's the next chapter. Enjoy.

Never By Halves

11

John would be angry.

John would be angry, Sherlock's brain told him, or maybe John was angry already. John had looked angry, of that he was certain, with deep lines on his forehead and dark seriousness in his eyes.

It must have been something he had done, or said, his foggy mind concluded, something inappropriate, or rude, or something generally not good. Work, he remembered. John probably had to go to work. Or back home, to Mary, pregnant and his wife, his family. Yes, that. Safe and home and with his family, that was where John was supposed to be. Where John was going now, probably.

When a voice that wasn't John's addressed him, Sherlock's eyes shot open – when had he closed them? Had he closed them? –; an unfamiliar hand came to rest on his right arm.

Where's John? he wanted to ask, wanted to ask before his hazy brain remembered once more that John had better things to do, had a pregnant wife, that he had told John that he would be fine, because John was not supposed to neglect his wife and job and life because of him.

"My office is just through the door," the man next to him said, blurring in and out of focus and tightening his grip around Sherlock's arm.

I'm fine, he wanted to snap and tell the man - not John - off, force him to let go of him. He was, unfortunately, not sure if he had enough coordination left to do so and still remain standing.

His head was swimming and throbbing; the walls were in motion around him, even though he wasn't moving, didn't think he was moving, and, for a moment, everything tipped over and darkened, so suddenly that he feared to lose his balance, if not for the man's unwelcome grip. Something was hurting in his chest, his lungs, his ribs, his…

Another cough ended all those thoughts for a moment, and he had to fight to stay on his feet.

"Over there," the man – Burton, John had called him – said. "You can sit down over there."

Sherlock managed a nod and held his breath as he took a step; Burton's fingers were digging into his arm uncomfortably. Burton was saying something else, but Sherlock didn't listen. Couldn't listen, couldn't concentrate, couldn't think. Where's John, he wanted to ask again.

Work, John's voice said in his head. Family. Mary. Best friend. You machine. Work.

Fine, he would be fine, he told himself, and kept his mouth shut.

He was distantly aware of his rapid breathing as his legs trembled and his knees buckled, hazily realised that he was walking, moving, slumped down gracelessly on a soft surface that had somehow appeared.

The man removed his hand from Sherlock's arm, and Sherlock wanted to take a relieved breath, a deep breath, but couldn't, couldn't, because everything hurt.

Burton's face reappeared in front of him; a room came into focus, a desk, a chair. Doctor's office, Sherlock reminded himself, and he was sitting on an examination table. Doctor's office. Doctor, but not John.

There was a line on the man's forehead, Sherlock's bleary eyes noticed, but he found he couldn't tell what it meant. Whether it meant anything at all.

"Your brother and Doctor Watson already briefed me about your symptoms," the man said all of a sudden. The rest of his words were lost to Sherlock as he tried to force his swimming, drowning brain to concentrate. Cold, it was cold in here. "He's your usual GP?"

Sherlock tried to huddle more neatly into his coat for a bit of warmth, burying his chin beneath his collar that was turned up, somehow – John, must have been John, for some reason –; he resisted, however, the urge to hug himself in front of Burton in order to chase off the chills running through his muscles and sinews.

"Your GP?" the man repeated and looked at Sherlock questioningly.

GP. General Practitioner. Lost without his blogger. Lost without his doctor. "John," he Sherlock replied hoarsely. GP. Army doctor, his brain added, Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, doctor, soldier, blogger, best friend.

Burton seemed to nod, but Sherlock found he was too exhausted to care. "Very well," the man made, leaving through a folder. His voice sent another shiver down Sherlock's spine.

"No chronic diseases, allergic to melittin, no other known allergies. Is that correct?" Burton went on.

Sherlock let his eyes close for a moment, trying to think, trying to concentrate. Correct... John knew, John always knew, even knew the things Sherlock himself couldn't remember. The lights in Burton's office were blinding, stinging, manifolding his headache, and his chest was burning. Headache, he had a headache. Again. Or still.

John would know, John would... Suddenly, he wanted to have John here. John who wouldn't need to ask questions and hear the answers, almost regretted persuading John not to neglect his job, his normal, proper job, because of him, almost regretted telling John it would be fine. He would be fine. He didn't feel fine. "Yes," he croaked eventually.

Burton seemed to nod. "And you've had a fever since Saturday, as well as a cough?"

John had been at work yesterday, so... had to have been Monday, or Tuesday, or... But the day before that, John had been with him in the afternoon, had brought take-away, so... it could not have been a work day, or John would have been at the surgery and busy. Sunday, most likely, and then the day before that... He didn't know, didn't remember how much time had passed since he had started feeling... off, couldn't even deduce it. For a moment, he felt panic well up inside him, then forced himself to control it, quench it. "Yes," he answered. He held his breath, doing his best to swallow a cough.

"I'd like to take your temperature," Burton's voice wavered close all of a sudden.

No, Sherlock wanted to say, his brain spiralling, but didn't. Tympanic thermometer, his mind supplied as Burton moved closer and held a device to his left ear for a few moments before returning to his chair.

Burton mumbled something; Sherlock wasn't certain if he was supposed to reply, or to make something of it. His eyes slid close, and he coughed, once, then held his breath again.

"Your cough," Burton was saying, "is it productive? Do you cough up phlegm or sputum?"

Mushy, foul substances on his tongue, substances that reminded him of... of... the consistency of stomach, or brain, in Molly's lab. "Yes," he muttered and, as if to underline his hoarse reply, started coughing.

Burton's hand, moving far too quickly for Sherlock's eyes to follow, scribbled down some notes. Sherlock watched, coughed again. Burton wasn't writing fast enough. He had a case to solve, he remembered hazily, a very important case, the most important case of all. Needed to solve it, needed to find out how, how Moriarty was back, because if he didn't, John was in danger. And he wasn't about to let that happen again.

Burton's voice sounded strangely distorted to Sherlock's ears when he went on: "Now I'd like to take your blood pressure and listen to your heart and your lungs."

Sherlock coughed, tried to make sense of the words. He swallowed, but the urge to cough didn't let go of him and for a few moments, he simply concentrated on breathing. Breathing... Breathing's boring, he remembered telling John, years ago.

He only realised that Burton was saying something when he noticed the man's lips moving, quivering in Burton's fuzzy face. "...off your coat?"

Another cough gripped him; his eyes closed involuntarily. Burton's voice floated at him, louder than John's, and with clipped vowels, and Sherlock blinked his lids open. Question, Burton had asked him a question.

"If you could take off your coat?" Burton repeated, and this time, Sherlock remembered to nod.

He coughed once; taking a flat breath, he began to remove his coat. His arms were lead, and his fingers did not want to cooperate while his head kept spinning and his lungs burning, but he succeeded. When Burton reached out, Sherlock almost recoiled. "'s fine," he mumbled; didn't want the man's fingers on him, didn't want heavy, thick hands on his skin.

Somehow, he managed to wriggle his way out of his hoodie, interrupted by more coughing that left him trembling and breathless. Burton was saying something else, he noticed dazedly, moving, talking, doing something, something, but he didn't have the energy to pay attention.

Suddenly, there was a cuff around his right upper arm; Sherlock shivered even as he felt another cough approach. The cuff inflated, deflated again, then Burton removed it, mumbling incomprehensibly to himself, or maybe he was talking to Sherlock. Impossible to tell.

Sherlock shuddered again when unfamiliar hands, cold, hard hands, not John, pried at his shirt, lifting it, touching his freezing skin, pressing something against it.

"No," he muttered feebly and tried to protest, tried to recoil, to pull away, but couldn't, couldn't even open his eyes. "John…"

"Mr Holmes," a voice said, an unfamiliar voice, not John, and Sherlock shivered again. "I'm afraid I need to listen to your lungs," the voice repeated, and the fingers, hands reappeared, and something freezing was on his skin, something cold. Sherlock coughed and wanted to make it stop, wanted John, didn't want the hands, fingers prodding at him, touching him. He wanted to yelp, wanted to squirm away because he didn't like it, because it wasn't right.

But then John's voice reminded him that John was busy, had a job to do, couldn't waste his time. Family, John's voice said, best friend. And: Necessary, John's voice told him inside of his head, necessary, not that bad.

He stiffened, couldn't help it, but didn't flinch away.

He breathed when Burton told him to, coughed when Burton said so and couldn't stop when Burton informed him that it was enough, simply sat still when Burton pressed the stethoscope to his chest and back to check his heart, and coughed again and slumped when Burton was finished, drained, and…

"Mr Holmes," Burton addressed him, "I would like to admit you."

Admit... Sherlock swallowed, wanted to shake his head, wanted to tell Burton that he was fine, would be fine, that it was nothing, but a cough stopped him.

Burton was moving again, he realised dazedly while he was doing his best to catch his breath, moving and taking up a phone and talking to someone.

"A nurse will be here shortly," the man told Sherlock, "to help you settle in and take you for x-rays. I'll inform Doctor Watson, but I'm positive that he, as your GP, will agree with my recommendation."

Agree, John would agree... Army doctor, soldier, army doctor. Best friend. John would agree. Of course John would agree. John was good, was brilliant, was far more brilliant than Burton could ever hope to be. Sherlock could solve the murder, but John could save the life. Would save the life. Save the life...

Sherlock started coughing again, couldn't stop, couldn't. Angry, he remembered all of a sudden, John had looked angry, distressed. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course. Mary was pregnant, and John wasn't there. Needed to be with his wife. Needed to have time for his wife.

John. Friend. His friend. Course you're my best friend. Friends protect people. Take care of people, he assumed.

"Yes," he croaked as soon as he could, even blinked his eyes open to look at Burton. "Fine."

Burton nodded, or seemed to nod; Sherlock didn't know. Burton added something, something with "nurse", "here", "soon", and Sherlock simply nodded. Fine, it was fine. Fine.

He focussed on breathing, on taking slow, flat breaths, breaths that didn't aggravate the fire in his chest, and finally allowed his eyes to slide close.

Thank you for reading. As always, I'd appreciate your feedback.