*carefully peeks around corner to check for possible readers*
*hopes to not be assaulted because of horrible delay of new chapter*
I am SO sorry for how long it took me, once again. This chapter is for all you who've been waiting, all these months, and for those of you who commented on this story that I update so irregularly and whose comments motivated me to finally get something done. (And it's for you, of course, Catie!)
Enjoy.
Never By Halves
12
After Burton had reappeared briefly to inform him that he was going to have x-rays taken indeed as well as intending to admit Sherlock, John waited for at least another thirty minutes. When Burton finally approached him, John was on his feet immediately.
"Doctor Watson," Burton greeted him with another one of his professional smiles, the kind of smile that made John want to clench his hands into fists and straighten to his full height.
"Yes," John replied instead, curtly. "So?"
Burton didn't hesitate. "The x-rays confirmed my initial diagnosis," he said; John could only grit his teeth. Pneumonia, Burton had voiced John's own suspicions thirty minutes ago, and John had spent these thirty minutes cursing himself for not realising it sooner, for not dragging Sherlock to his office in order to take a look at him himself when he first noticed that his bloody best friend was a little more than merely under the weather. Sherlock, the irritating git, did have something about him that made John forget about his duties as a medical professional, did somehow always manage to distract him, to deflect, and even though John hadn't believed for a second that Sherlock was fine, as he kept claiming over and over again, he had let it slide when he should have seen that this wasn't a simple cold, but something more serious. Pneumonia. Of course. Of course it had to be, of course it was. Because Sherlock naturally never did anything the easy way, never did anything by halves.
"I would like to admit him for a few days, just as a precaution," Burton went on; John's attention snapped back to the man. "But, of course, you're free to talk to him first, if you like."
~o~
Burton briefed him about Sherlock's condition on the way to Sherlock's room – Mycroft's name, John had to realise once again, literally opened doors and provided special treatment – and John did not like what he heard.
"He's been given something to help him relax," Burton concluded, "and get some rest. Quite likely he's asleep."
Sherlock was, as John realised as soon as he opened the door and entered without Burton, most definitely not asleep, nor did he appear particularly relaxed. He raised – or tried to – his head at the sound of the door closing; his hands, John noted, were fisted into the sheet covering him, and his breathing had a heavy, carefully controlled quality to it.
"John," Sherlock croaked, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment. "'m ready," he went on, his voice breathless. "Ready when... when you are. … can... go." He pushed himself into a sitting position and then proceeded to slowly manoeuvre his legs over the edge of the mattress.
John rushed forward, to stop him. "Whoa," he said, both hands on Sherlock's shoulders. Fine tremors were running through Sherlock, despite the fact that his sweat-soaked hair was sticking to his forehead. "Where do you think you're going?"
Sherlock's eyes, glassy and fever-bright, attempted to focus on John. "Home," he slurred before another rattling cough came out of his throat.
"No, no," John said, smiling tightly. It didn't take much force to push Sherlock back down into a lying position, but even then, he remained tense. John clenched his jaw and removed his hands from Sherlock's shoulders. "You have to stay here." Which was the truth, even though it didn't mean that John had to like it.
Sherlock blinked at John. "Oh," he made. "Of course."
John frowned, pursing his lips. Whatever that was supposed to mean. "Yes," he agreed. "It's just for a few days, just to..."
Another cough tore through Sherlock; John could only wait for it to pass, his left hand clenched into a tight fist. Sherlock's eyes slipped closed, but the arm he had curled around his torso during his coughing fit remained where it was.
"'s fine," he slurred quietly, hoarsely. "You need... be home, with... family, not be... here, with..."
Whatever else he had wanted to say drowned in more harsh coughing. It took John a few moments to figure out what Sherlock's breathless words meant, but once he had, he realised he had heard enough.
"Shut up," he forced out between clenched teeth and grabbed Sherlock's right shoulder. The coughing, wet and harsh, was subsiding, slowly, and left strained, uneven gasps for breath in its place.
"Shut up," he mumbled again, hoarsely, resting his palm against the side of Sherlock's face, against his too warm skin. "Sherlock."
Sherlock's eyes were still closed, but he twitched feebly when John shook him lightly, and his lashes fluttered.
Better that way, Sherlock had said. Had echoed his words from earlier, when he had tried to tell John that it was fine, when he had apologised to John - or tried to - for keeping him that long.
John's throat narrowed as Sherlock's wheezy words kept ringing in his head, as well as Sherlock's earlier comment to Burton that he was fine, fine without John. Need to be at home, Sherlock had panted, not here, with him.
John swallowed tightly as he looked down upon his best friend, the man who had saved him, just by being the annoying git he was, the man who had completely turned his life around, and that twice. The man who, in spite of who he was, despite his inclination to avoid all kinds of sentiment, had done everything he could so that John could keep his chance at a happy-family-life.
Well, sod that. Absolutely not. Not with John Watson.
Sherlock coughed faintly, then muttered something hoarse, incomprehensible under his breath.
John gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. "Don't go anywhere," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'll be right back."
Rest, Burton had said, Sherlock needed to rest and relax. Rest, yes, John determined with another glance at Sherlock's tense form and his pale face, speckled with feverish hues. But not here. Not here, on his own, in a bed he wasn't familiar with, in a hospital full of people with too polite smiles, strangers surrounding him. Not as long as John Watson, Kandahar and Afghanistan veteran, army doctor and bloody blogger, still had a say that matter.
~o~
Ten minutes later found John outside the hospital entrance, waiting for his call to ring through.
"John," Mycroft Holmes drawled on the other end of the line. "Two phone calls in two hours. Should I be worried?"
John flexed the fingers of his right hand and curled them into a fist. "You're the British government," he said.
"Yes?" Surprisingly, Mycroft didn't even bother trying to deny it.
John straightened and squared his shoulders. "How long will it take you to set up some equipment in Sherlock's flat?"
The moments of silence that followed his question were the longest time John had ever heard Mycroft hesitate. "A hospital stay is not an option, I take it."
John clenched his teeth and took two deep breaths through his nose. Definitely not. "No," he answered.
Mycroft was quiet for a few more seconds. "What are we dealing with?" he wanted to know then, and his tone of voice spoke of exasperation and maybe even, though John could be imagining it, a hint of worry.
With the result of a combination of John's own stupidity and blindness when it came to Sherlock and Sherlock's inability to ask for help when he clearly needed it. "Pneumonia," he explained instead. "And..."
"And you would prefer my dear brother to be at 221B Baker Street under your observation," Mycroft finished, his voice perfectly even. "I see."
John waited, pursing his lips. "So," he said finally when Mycroft remained quiet. "Can you...?"
"Naturally," Mycroft replied. "I will have whatever you require brought to 221B Baker Street." He paused, only to then go on: "Oh, and John. Do make sure to keep an eye on Sherlock's temperature. He's always been rather prone to running high fevers."
For a moment, John didn't know what to say. Imagined, all of a sudden and despite himself, a much younger Mycroft with more hair and less weight, tending to a feverish, curly-haired child. Recalled Sherlock's words, slurred, trying to convey to John that it was fine if he left, if he had other, seemingly more important things on his mind. John had to clear his throat before he managed to answer. "I will," he croaked and nodded, the phone pressed to his ear.
"Very well," Mycroft said. Any trace of sentiment, or worry, or whatever Sherlock's brother called it, had disappeared from his voice, extinguished by his normal, smooth tone. "I will be on my way back presently. Now, Doctor Watson, tell me what you need."
Thank you for reading. Please tell me what you thought; it would make my day.