...hello? Anyone still here? Anyone still reading? If some of you are, I want to thank you for your continued interest and your reviews and your encouragement (especially you, Catie, and also Prothoe, if you happen to still be reading. Oh, and, actually everyone. Thank you, paula. , Sandra67, Tamiriel, HalfBloodPrincess110, LisaP4, joycelyn. , TheBritishBourbon, Kendra Da Shiell, Ernil i Pheriannath and BornInTartarus). Thank you all.
Enjoy.
Never By Halves
13
Sherlock was aware, distantly, somewhere at the back of his mind, that John had left.
John had said something, had asked him something, maybe, and then had left, had disappeared, his so familiar presence had, his steady breathing next to Sherlock.
Good, he attempted to tell himself while a cough shook him, good. John should be at home, should be with his pregnant wife, because if anything happened to Mary or their baby while John was away, was here, wherever here was, with him, then John would never forgive himself, would never get over it.
Good.
There was a sting somewhere, a stabbing pain, in his chest, in his head, in his heart, maybe, as he started coughing again.
See, a voice said in his head, he doesn't need you. Doesn't want you. No, your precious John said, no, you can't go home, not with him, to his perfect family, you need to stay here.
Not going to do any case-solving without me, John's voice was saying, replying. Lost without his blogger.
He was your blogger, Moriarty in his head was tormenting him. Now he has a family. He doesn't need you any longer. Who would need you?
Yes, Sherlock found himself agreeing, yes, of course. Had to be that way, the only solution, because John had a family, a wife, a child, and John deserved to be happy with them, happy without him, without the danger and the trouble he presented, happy.
Not going to do any case-solving.
Wife. Liar.
"You were very slow," another voice was saying, Mary, and: "You don't tell him. You don't tell John."
I'm sorry, he wanted to say, because he had told John, because John had to know, deserved to know, needed to know who she was, and then had to forgive her, and because John deserved a peaceful life with his family and his job.
"Of course I forgive you," John said again, and it sounded so good, but it wasn't true, couldn't be true. He had hurt John, had caused him so much pain and suffering, and nothing he could do would ever make up for that. Nothing he could ever do...
More pain sliced through Sherlock; he curled around himself, trying to escape.
He needed to find Moriarty's man, needed to stop him, needed to protect John and his family, and Mary, and John, and their child. Couldn't allow John to suffer again, to suffer more, after everything he had done.
"Your friends will die if you don't."
But he had, hadn't he, had done what Moriarty had wanted, had played the game and won, and had hurt John in the process, so much worse than Moriarty's sniper could ever have done, and...
His chest burned with another cough, and his eyes opened of their own volition as he desperately tried to suck in air.
I'm sorry, John, he wanted to say, but couldn't bring his tongue to form the words, and it wouldn't matter, didn't matter, because John wasn't here. Of course not.
Breathe. He needed to breathe. Breathing was boring. Breathe.
Slowly, the fit subsided. Everything was swimming around him; his eyes, although open, had difficulty in perceiving anything at all. Shadows, merely shadows, lurching around, spinning, shadows, outlines, silhouettes, a familiar silhouette in the doorway, wearing John's clothes and John's gait, and...
Delirious, he was delirious. Had to be. Wasn't making sense.
Fever, he catalogued as John came closer. Cough, headache, exhaustion, pain everywhere.
Cold. Common cold. Lung cancer… no, not enough data to base this assumption on. Tropic disease, maybe. Whooping cough, possibly. Distantly Sherlock remembered being been sick as a child, coughing, too, remembered his parents' worry and Mycroft's, because Mycroft naturally never got sick, but he had, and now John, here, and… John shouldn't be near him, he concluded, shouldn't because whatever he had could be dangerous for Mary and the baby, and…
John's voice put an end to his futile calculations, fuelled by fever and not knowledge.
Narrow it down, Mycroft's voice said in his head. Narrow it down.
Of course I forgive you, John said in the depths of his mind, vaguely, dimly, of course I forgive you.
Real John, John with more wrinkles and with eyes of a richer blue, a deeper blue, appeared in his line of vision, lines on his forehead, too many lines.
John, he wanted to say, but then his chest started cramping, again, his lungs did, and the thought, the word, the ability to think at all slipped from Sherlock's mind, solely focused on the attempt to keep breathing.
"...eathe," John was telling him. "Breathe."
So he did.
And John's hand was on his shoulder, and John smiled, tersely, but smiled, and Sherlock closed his eyes and let go.
-o-
There were voices around him, some time later, John's, and other's, John's, sounding angry, somehow. Words around him, directed at him, not directed at him, words that didn't make sense.
Then he was moving, somehow, and yet he wasn't, something was moving, but it wasn't him, an odd, shifting sensation building in his mind, in what was left of his ability to think clearly, think at all.
John, he wanted to say, where's John. John. And: I'm sorry, John.
But he couldn't say it, because he couldn't breathe.
Couldn't breathe.
"...eathe," John's voice was saying.
Later, some time later, another voice added – not John, not John: "...car's rea..."
Carsrea. No sense whatsoever was in these words, in this word, and thinking was hard, so hard, his brain foggy, thick, sluggish, breathing impossible.
Cold was attacking him all of a sudden, and a distant part of Sherlock's brain registered, hazily, that he was moving, being moved. John, he wanted to say again, but everything that came out of his mouth was a low moan, irritating the back of his throat, threatening to take his breath away.
It hurt, burned, drove the oxygen out of his cells. Fingers tightened around his, warmly, closely. Blurry outlines appeared when Sherlock forced his eyes open, for a second, for two seconds, John's face, John, worried, was staring at him.
"'m fine," Sherlock managed to mumble before the remainder of his draining energy left him, all of a sudden, and his eyes slid closed.
The next thing he knew was moving again, moving. Arms around him, strong, safe arms, and cold enwrapping him, totally, cold leaving room for nothing else. He was moving, walking, the world spinning around him, only the arms keeping him from crumbling.
"In here," John's voice said, somewhere close to him, close to his head, and then he was walking again. "Here."
John's voice, laced with something Sherlock could not possibly label, could not possibly determine, stirred something in him, and his eyes flickered open, ever so slowly.
"Breathe," John told him. Lights were flashing, around him, flickers in Sherlock's dimming sight, bright spots in a darkening orbit. Then the lights around him were being switched off, and Sherlock lapsed into darkness.
Voices pierced the dark veil now and then, voices, snippets of sentences floating through him; movements, warm hands somewhere on him, doing their best to chase off the chill that did not let him go, would not let go, maybe, ever again. It didn't make sense, the warm hands, the chill. Nothing did, not the sudden pressure on his face, somewhere, his chin, nose, cheeks, not the cold. Cold, the cold remained, a comforting constand in addition to John's voice, only John's now, John, the cold and the inability to breathe. Fresh air was enveloping his nose, his mouth, fresh, cool, blissful air.
Something else was resting on his face, or neck, something strong, familiar. Hand, John's hand.
John.
He needed to open his eyes, Sherlock's brain figured, needed to see where John was, if he was all right, what he was doing here, what was going on. John, needed John.
John, he wanted to say, and wasn't even sure if he actually succeeded in making a noise, a groan, moan, a word, anything.
Then finally light was seeping in beneath his half closed eyelids, moving, fluttering, light from above him, John's voice appeared, or what Sherlock believed to be John's voice. The weight that was his body, his chest, his mind, was pulling him down, back towards the darkness, towards sleep that made him forget the cold for a while, and the pain, pain in his chest, pain, shot, no, not shot, not this time, not...
"...lax," John's voice reached him from somewhere in the room, around him. "...'ll... fine... here, I'm..."
Sherlock didn't understand, couldn't grasp the words' meaning, found, even, that it took too much effort to try. What little control he had mastered over his eyelids threatened to glide away, threatened to leave him, and his eyes closed, slowly, sluggishly.
John, he wanted to say, I'm sorry. And: Go home, you have a family now, go home.
The words never turned into sounds, never came out of his mouth, and somewhere, in the back of his mind that did not think rationally, that was selfish and wanted John here, not with Mary, his pregnant wife, Sherlock could not help but be relieved.
If John was here, still here, then it would be all right.
-o-
John was still here when John's voice stirred Sherlock's heavy, slow thoughts once more.
Fragments, at first, of words, cool, fresh air on his face, a comforting, warm touch somewhere. John.
"...hear me? … Sherl... at me..." Fragments, mere fragments, slowly evolving into coherent phrases, something with meaning, meaningful, something important.
His opening eyes revealed a fuzzy, blurred silhouette in front of him, John, of course, but he wouldn't become clearer, no matter how often, how tiredly, Sherlock blinked.
Mask, he realised belatedly as his foggy thoughts untangled themselves for a moment, the pressure on his face was a mask, oxygen mask.
John's face approached, a smile on his lips, tense, not at all like John's normal smile, lines on his forehead. "Can you hear me?" he asked, and this time, the words held a meaning Sherlock's brain could grasp. Cold, still so cold. "Don't talk, just try and squeeze my hand if you can."
Squeeze... Sherlock's fingers were tingling, oddly enough, enwrapped in another hand, John's hand, providing warmth, or simply solidity. He concentrated, focused, did his best to ignore the cold and the pain and the tightness in his chest long enough to twitch his fingers, to tell John: Yes, yes, he could.
John's own fingers, it seemed, tightened around his in return. "Good," he made, his voice distorted in Sherlock's ears. "Good."
His voice faltered, for a few moments, or minutes, or hours, and the smile slipped off his face. Sherlock kept his eyes glued to John's face, did not want to close them, wanted to do what John wanted him to.
"We're back home," John said. Sherlock swallowed, involuntarily, causing pain to explode. It ebbed away, eventually, but he couldn't see, because his eyes had slid shut, could only feel, John's palm on his face, keeping him from breaking apart.
"We're back home," John repeated, "and you'll be fine. I'm..."
John's next words drowned in another coughing fit that seized Sherlock without a warning and that blew away what John had been about to utter, had wanted to utter.
John's voice was drifting around him, soaring above him, mingling with Sherlock's own coughing. "It's all right," John was saying. "I'm here. It's all right."
It wasn't, couldn't be, because it wasn't safe, not safe, because of Moriarty, because of snipers, snipers aiming at John, and John had a family, a family to care for, a family he should be with, not waste his time with Sherlock.
Needed to see, needed to tell John, needed to open his eyes. Focusing on John's fingers cramping around his own, Sherlock forced his heavy eyelids apart, held his breath, needed to get the words out. "John," he managed to wheeze before coughing overtook him
"I'm here," John said instead. "I'm not going anywhere."
Tons of heaviness were pulling at every single one of his limbs, at his muscles; his dizziness increased.
"Go to sleep," John said. "I'm not going anywhere."
Of course I forgive you.
Sherlock's eyes closed, and finally he stopped struggling against the inability to inhale, to provide his transport with oxygen. He gave in, let the pain rip through him, let the dizziness overtake him, simply let it be.
John's touch had not yet disappeared as he drifted into the darkness, and that alone was, always, always, enough.
Thank you for reading. If you're in the mood, I'd be very happy about some comments.