So... This delay has been ridiculous, and I know it. The good news are: three chapters (I think) plus one epilogue to go - how long can it possibly take? Oh, and I haven't done any proofreading at all on this chapter, so if there are any glaring spelling mistakes or half-finished sentences... really, really sorry!

Enjoy.

Never By Halves

14

He surfaced to reality to the sound of voices floating around him, voices he knew, voices he was supposed to know.

"Shouldn't... be in hospital?" someone asked.

Hospital, hospital, hospital... A memory of John, blurred and translucent and only half-real, telling him: We're back home. Back home.

John's voice answered something, but Sherlock didn't hear, didn't listen, because his chest spasmed, his lungs did, and he had to cough.

The other voice was back when he could breathe again. "...ounds awful."

The familiar tone, familiar cadence, pierced through the darkness that was enveloping Sherlock. He wanted to frown, wanted to open his eyes, but couldn't even move. Heavy, everything was too heavy. "'strade?" he managed to mumble, a question that was followed by another cough ripping through him.

"Yes," the other voice said.

Blurred outlines, he could see blurred outlines, nothing more, of John and of Lestrade. What were they doing here, he wanted to ask, was there a case, was there work to do, something on Moriarty, something else. "...case," was the only syllable his dry throat was able to produce; he coughed again.

"Go back to sleep," John said, John, whose face looked drawn and tense and full of lines of stress, maybe, or anger that didn't belong here. Sherlock couldn't help it; his eyes closed, and John and Lestrade around him faded until they were gone.

(-)

Something burned in him, in his intestines, burned against the cold around him; something burned in him and took his breath away.

Something burned in his lungs as he tried to breathe, burned in his chest as his lungs expanded, burned in his throat as no breath came, but convulsions, spasms, worsening the throbbing in his head, the pain in his torso and the soreness in his throat.

Moriarty was back again. Half of his face was missing, blown away by his own hand, but he was here, laughing, smiling, grinning. "John Watson is definitely in danger," he said. Pulled out a gun. Aimed it at John. Pressed the trigger.

And Sherlock was drowning, drowning, drowning, and couldn't move, although he had to, although it had never been more important to move, to reach Moriarty, reach John, John, always John...

John, he wanted to call out, get down, watch out, anything at all, but his throat was filling with water, or maybe blood, and he couldn't make a single noise, couldn't do anything to warn John.

"Miss me?" Moriarty said, and Mary added: "You don't tell him. You don't tell John." And then the bullet hit, and...

There was a hand on his shoulder, shaking, shaking, shaking it softly, and another voice, not Moriarty, not Mary, not the sound of a bullet hitting flesh, a familiar voice, saying his name. The voice was growing more insistent, and the hand kept shaking, and finally Sherlock managed to move his eyelids, make them quiver, open his eyes. Open his...

It was dark around him, dim, his surroundings bathed in shadows, but Moriarty was gone, and he recognised the face in front of him.

Recognised it, familiar, had known it for years, friend, maybe... Lestrade. Lestrade. The realisation was followed by a cough, a cough that tore through him, tore him open and made him want to close his eyes and go back to the other voices, the voices in his head. Almost, until he remembered Moriarty and his words and his gun.

"Sherlock." Lestrade. Lestrade was talking, quietly, to him, staring at him. His face... angry? Lines on his forehead, lines, his mouth hard, and eyes hard, and... not angry, because Lestrade always crossed his arms over his chest when he was angry, but his hands were on Sherlock's shoulders now, so... "Are you okay?"

Okay… Of course he was, why shouldn't he? Sherlock blinked slowly, trying to get rid of the dark spots threatening the edges of his vision. No, not again, not again. I'm fine, he wanted to say, and only managed to produce a weak sound, a noise that hurt his throat and tickled and morphed into another cough.

Whatever Lestrade said next was swallowed up by Sherlock's melting brain. Sherlock tried to understand, tried to make sense of it, of everything. Because he had to understand, had to see through things, because that was what he did, and if he couldn't do that any more, then what good was he? What good…

Machine, John's voice said, interlaced with another voice, a stern voice, and a grip on his shoulder, the voice exclaiming: "Sherlock!"

Talking, had been talking to him, wasn't allowed to lose track, needed to answer. "Mh," he made, didn't know what he was answering, hoped that it was enough. Moriarty loomed at the edges of consciousness, and Sherlock could see that his gaze was now focused on Lestrade, too. Three bullets, three gunmen. Your only three friends in the world are gonna die.

Not real, not real, not real. It wasn't real. Couldn't be real. Not real. Hands, there were hands on his shoulders, Lestrade's, real, firm hands, to...

The hands moved, away from his shoulders, and cold lunged at him, attacked him, and then arms were around his shoulders once more and around his aching chest, arms moving him, and...

"Drink," Lestrade told him, firmly. It was the coffin maker, Sherlock wanted to say, but couldn't form the words.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said again, and something hard, cool, appeared on his lips, and his head moved, somewhere, upwards, maybe, and then, again: "Drink."

Liquid sloshed around his lips, water, cool, moist, and Sherlock swallowed, reflexively, stopped, swallowed again.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said once more, and there was something in his voice that told Sherlock that he hadn't done well enough, that Lestrade wasn't pleased yet, had disappointed him.

Disappointed…

He wondered where John had gone, if he was back, back with his wife, with his child, finally, if he had finally realised that Sherlock would only cause harm and destruction, and that John was better off far, far away from him. All the hurt that I caused you...

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice repeated, and Sherlock didn't even protest, didn't point out that Lestrade was repeating the same word, over and over again. Fabric – pillow, a pillow – was back beneath his face, fabric around him, warmth around him.

Lestrade was blurring in front of him, his face, the lines on his face, everything was blurring, disappearing in a swirl of dark colours. It didn't feel good. Sherlock swallowed, held his breath. Couldn't cough. Wasn't allowed to cough. "'s John," he mumbled. Not here, of course not here. He let his eyes close, finally, because there was nothing to see anyway. John, at home, or at work, which was good, good, and...

"He went to... Mary," Lestrade's voice answered. "... 's on... way back."

Mary. Of course. Wife. John's wife. Of course. "...had to," he slurred. "...had to... tell him..." Pain shot through his chest, pain that had nothing to do with the urge to cough, and he could feel the sticky wetness of blood on him, soaking his coat, could feel the disorientation and weakness and impending shock from blood loss. Surgery, it had been surgery, he reminded himself. Surgery. Perfectly planned. Perfectly safe. Perfectly fine.

Sherlock tried to move, to shake off the pain and the blood, but his limbs were too heavy, far too heavy, and nothing happened; his muscles did not obey, did not contract.

His throat attempted to force out words, John's name, maybe, anything, but he couldn't, couldn't talk, and the agony in his chest only spiked again, left him breathless, dizzy even with closed eyes, shivering with cold, and coughing, coughing, and he needed to breathe, to chase away his lingering light-headedness, needed to...

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, "calm down."

Calm, he was calm, Sherlock wanted to say, perfectly calm, but couldn't, because he didn't have any air left to speak. He was breathing, quickly, harshly, and he could feel his heart thumping against his ribs. "'strade," he managed to slur; Lestrade's hand, he could feel hazily, was back on his shoulder.

"What?" Lestrade was saying. "What do you need?"

Need. He didn't need. Alone was what he had, alone protected him. Didn't need anything. He coughed again.

"Christ, Sherlock," he could hear Lestrade mumble. Swearing. Never good. Must have done something wrong. Must have made a mistake that could destroy the lives of everyone he loved. Three bullets, three gunmen. And John. Always John. "You need to calm down. I'm calling John."

John. No need to, he wanted to say, had to say, because sleep, all he needed to do was sleep, and he would be fine, fine... but the darkness was inviting him, and Sherlock gave in.

(-)

He saw faces, faces of people dead, of people alive and not here, heard voices, of people dead, people alive, teasing him, mocking him, complaining about his weakness, about his uselessness.

Lestrade's voice had disappeared, didn't appear again, because Sherlock was back where he had been before, in the dark, with other voices around him.

"'course you're my best friend," John was telling him again, and Mary added: "You don't tell John."

Don't tell, don't tell...

"Caring is not an advantage," Mycroft added, looming above him. "Narrow it down. You always were so stupid. Don't be stupid."

"You were very slow," Mary went on.

"Because Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake, and it will destroy the lives of everyone he loves."

One mistake, mistake, mistake… endangering John, John… Wasn't allowed to make mistakes, wasn't…

Memories surface from the farthest corner of his mind, memories of voices around him familiar voices, John, Lestrade, but it wasn't enough.

"Narrow it down!" Mycroft shouted, and Sherlock tried to comply. No mistakes, nothing, not endangering John, John…

"You always were so stupid," Mycroft reminded him, and John: "You machine!"

Sherlock tried to ignore it, tried to escape, but couldn't, couldn't. Could never escape. Six months of undercovers work in Eastern Europe, six months. Six months left. The East Wind takes us all in the end. Six months left. But John, John was safe. Needed to be safe.

Pain raced through his chest, radiated from it; Sherlock stiffened, wanted to curl around the pain, close it in. He coughed, could feel himself trembling.

John, back with Mary, he tried to remember. Lestrade had said that. Had been here, Lestrade, had been here. And John, with Mary. Safe.

"John," he tried to whisper, a hoarse, rasping sound that was enough to send him coughing immediately, that irritated his throat, his airway, his lungs.

Needed… to… stop, needed…

"I'm here," John's voice said. "It's all right. I'm here."

New, that was new, Sherlock's hazy brain registered. Machine, John normally said, machine, best friend, you cock, solve the case.

"I'm here," John repeated.

Sherlock tried to blink, tried to open his eyes. Coudn't make out much in the gloominess surrounding him, nothing but weird, distorted shadows, silhouettes, dark edges, frames, darkness and twilight. Bedroom, he realised dimly, he was in his bedroom, bed. Bedroom... Sherlock's brain let the thought slip away unfinished as his body stiffened with another cough that gripped him.

I've never felt it, Moriarty said in his head. I've never felt pain. You always feel it, Sherlock. You always feel it. The pain of John leaving. And he will. He will, Sherlock.

He would. Of course he would.

"I'm here," John said again. Sherlock didn't understand, but it sounded like John. John, always John. "I'm here."

"Sleep," John added, and so Sherlock did.

Thank you for reading; I hope you liked it. Reviews... might remind me that I have some writing to do?