Sincerest apologies to all of you who're still reading this. Good news: only two more chapters (not counting this one) and one epilogue to go. How long can it possibly take?

Enjoy.

Never By Halves

15

He surfaced to reality to the feeling of something cold on his forehead, something startlingly cold, and wet.

"It's okay," John's quiet voice said somewhere above him, somewhere in the dark Sherlock couldn't bring himself to pierce by opening his eyes.

John was here, somewhere, and it… it was enough.

"Sherlock," John said again, and if there had been more to his sentence, more, Sherlock didn't hear it, because he started coughing, because another cough ripped itself free, and he didn't want John to witness, to see how he was gasping and spitting and… but he couldn't. Couldn't even open his eyes.

He didn't understand why John was here. Or where here was. John… John had a family, a family that was safe and not threatened - at least not if he succeeded in finding Moriarty's henchman who was responsible for the video, found him and eliminated him, and… A family. Safe. A wife, a child. John shouldn't be wasting his time here, with him, after everything he had done, after how he had disappointed John, hurt him, had disappeared for two years.

Then there were hands on his shoulders, and an arm around his back, and Sherlock's world, although still drenched in darkness, shifted, warmth pressing against him, as if to ease his cold, his shivering.

"Breathe," John's voice told him. "Not too deeply."

Sherlock breathed.

Then there was something on his dry lips, something cool and hard, and John told him: "Careful", and: "Drink."

Sherlock's eyes still wouldn't open as he swallowed, swallowed cool, moist liquid, wetting his dry mouth and soothing his throat, swallowed again, and again.

"Slowly," John's voice said next to his head, and the liquid disappeared for a while, long enough for Sherlock to almost fade back into complete darkness again.

He swallowed reflexively, the warmth still around his back and neck, swallowed for a second time, took another sip.

John stopped when he started coughing, spit out the mouthful of water he had not yet swallowed, and the grip around him tightened a bit.

"John," he mumbled, and coughed. And didn't know what he had wanted to say. Didn't know if he could have said it, even if he had remembered. Go home, maybe. Thank you. Or: I'm sorry. How's Mary?

He didn't know.

He didn't know, but his eyes opened, let a bit of gloominess inside, instead of simply darkness, a bit of John, John's arm, fumbling around somewhere.

"John," he said again, breathed it, and couldn't even tell if it had only been in his head, or if it had been out loud.

"I'm here," John's voice said, and returned to somewhere near his head. John's face, dark eyes, lines on his face, swam into focus for the duration of a heartbeat, and then was gone again, gone into the darkness that was about to envelop John.

And again: "I'm here."

"Good," was everything Sherlock could think of, and it wasn't what he had been thinking of earlier, he was sure of that. But it was… fine, maybe. Fine.

"Sherlock," John's voice said, later, maybe, probably. "It's okay, Sherlock."

Only then he realised, dazedly, that he was coughing, again, coughing, and that it hurt, and…

Fabric surrounded him, was around him, fabric that felt familiar, that… afghan, Mrs Hudson's afghan. Blanket. Warm. Warmth. John.

Wetness returned to his forehead, drenching him, dripping to his closed eyes, running down his temples, and John's voice.

"It's okay," he said.

Fingers, fingers on his throat, pressing somewhere, John counting, mumbling under his breath.

Sherlock coughed again, in the dark, John's fingers still on him, and everything moved again, he moved, on the mattress, because of John's hand, his cheek touching his pillow, his arms and hands, heavy, so heavy, too heavy, guided by John's strong ones.

"Go back to sleep," John told him, and Sherlock let himself go.

-o-

He woke because he didn't feel as if he could breathe. It was dark around him, very, dark, and everything hurt. Ached. Burned. His muscles, his head, his throat. His chest, his legs, everything.

And he couldn't stop coughing.

"Here," a voice said next to his head, and hands appeared on his shoulders, moving him, hands, an arm, holding him upright as he coughed and coughed.

"Here," John said again, and a glass appeared in front of Sherlock, in front of his mouth, and everything he had to do was to open his mouth and swallow. The water felt… good, cool, calming, and he sucked in another sip, tried to catch his breath and stop coughing.

John was still here, his sluggish mind registered as soon as he found he could breathe again, John was still here, with him, with him. Hadn't left. Yet. Why, why hadn't he why? It meant… good, and… relief, and…

"Better?" John's voice, face hidden by the gloominess and the dizziness that was Sherlock's entire being, asked.

Better. Always better with John. Always John, always. "Yes," Sherlock whispered and did his best to ignore the raw flesh that was his throat and his vocal chords, that constricted with every word he said.

John, here, with him, at Baker Street. Baker Street, John.

"Here," John said for the third time; the glass again, the glass against his lips, and John, telling him to swallow, and drink. Sherlock drank and slumped when the glass disappeared.

"How'd I... get here," he mumbled, tried to wrench his eyes open, tried to see, at least far enough to make out shapes, and objects. Bedroom, he knew that much, he was in his bedroom. Hadn't been before, he thought. Hospital, something about a hospital.

"Mycroft," John replied quietly. "His people were very helpful."

Sherlock exhaled. John was here, here, with him, and... he shouldn't be. The thought dissipated as he felt himself shifting again, being shifted, back to lying down. Cold crept up his spine and into his very bones, cold making him shudder and shiver and that made his vision swim.

John's hand, gone from his shoulder, appeared on his head, somewhere, his forehead, his cheeks, and Sherlock closed his eyes, his eyes that had barely been open, concentrated on taking flat, shallow breaths to avoid coughing, bringing up phlegm and mud and…

"You're burning up," John mumbled somewhere in the dark, and, if he had had the energy to do so, Sherlock wanted to correct him. He couldn't burn, or burn up, that was physically impossible, and he certainly didn't feel at all like being trapped in a fire, rather like being stuck in a freezer, slowly reducing his body temperature and leaving nothing of him but frozen flesh.

"Mh," he made instead, because everything else simply took up too much energy, and since it was John with him, John would surely understand. John always understood, always, saw things about people nobody else saw, understood him, cared for him.

Thank you, he wanted to say, had never wanted to say something more urgently, but it came out as a cough, a cough that didn't end and that even John's hands everywhere couldn't do anything against.

He was lying on his side, Sherlock realised belatedly when his eyes opened a sliver, on his side, in his own bed, and there was something on the back of his hand. IV, he mused. Doctor, John was a doctor. The coughing eased, and Sherlock sucked in air.

"How's… Mary," he whispered, allowing his eyes to close.

"Ssh," John made, and it would have sounded horrid with everyone else, would have seemed wrong, childish, utterly ridiculous. It was fine with John, because John knew him, and cared about him, maybe, and was a doctor and wanted to help people. Wanted to help him. "Don't talk," John said in a hushed voice. Something cold appeared on Sherlock's forehead, something utterly cold, and wet, and he shivered.

John was still here. John had been here, in his flat, and had taken him somewhere, in his car, and then had vanished, and then... everything was hazy after that, but John was still here. "John," he whispered, incapable, unable to say anything else, and simply hoped that it was enough, that it told John that he was glad he was here, relieved that he wasn't alone, that John hadn't left, that John was with him, although he shouldn't be.

"Sleep," John's so familiar voice muttered next to his ear, strong fingers pulling the blanket he was covered with up to his neck, the same strong fingers ghosting over his neck, pressing against it for a few seconds. "Sleep," John said again, and again, Sherlock found himself unwilling to refuse.

-o-

Hands found their way into his heavy nothingness, hands on his shoulders.

John's outline blurred in front of him as Sherlock blinked his eyes open, his heavy eyes, his head pounding in tact with his heart.

"John?" he asked, and suddenly John smiled at him, tightly, smiled, the expression soothing away the lines on his forehead for a moment and emphasising those around his eyes.

"Yes," he replied, and added, his voice wavering: "Your fever's down a bit."

Fever. Fever…

"'s cold," Sherlock could only mumbled hoarsely, forcing his eyes to remain open, to keep looking at John. Blanket, there was a blanket around him.

Lines back, lines back on John's face as soon as his soft smile had disappeared, lines, and circles around his eyes.

"Drink," John told him and presented him a glass, assisting him. "Drink, and then go back to sleep."

"What 'bout you," Sherlock mumbled and tried to ignore the dryness at the back of his throat, the tickling, the uneasy scratching that was soon going to evolve into a full coughing fit, leaving him breathless, and gasping, and his head swimming, and more lines on John's face.

John's answer, if there had been an answer, was drowned out by the coughing that overtook him, that didn't want to be stopped, coughing which turned into almost retching, which filled his mouth with mucus and mud and phlegm, forced him to swallow the mushy substances.

The lines were back when his eyes opened again.

"Sherlock," John said, staring at him, eyes serious, face serious, voice gentle, and hard. "Does your chest hurt?"

Sherlock tried to breathe. Tried to swallow. Tried to say something. Couldn't. Tried again.

"No," he croaked. Chest, no. "Everything hurts." Chest, head, lungs, stomach, arms, legs, head, throat…

Stupid, he had been stupid, because John didn't look pleased. Images appeared in Sherlock's frazzled mind, hazy fragments of John's face, blurred lines, blurred nose, swimming skin, John's face looking at him, John's hand holding him, John's voice. Memories, cloudy, obscure memories.

"Were you… here all the... time?" he whispered and tried to suppress a violent shiver that threatened to take over his body. John was… good, John with him was good, but… if John's family needed him, if John wanted to be with his family, then he shouldn't have stayed, shouldn't have felt the necessity to stay with him.

John's hand was firm on his shoulder. "Yes," he said. "Yes, of course. Where else would I be?"

Sherlock blinked. "John," he said, wanted to say, almost choked on the word. Kept his eyes on John, barely. John Watson, always John. "…promised to… there… you and Mary…" Coughing splintered his sentence, splintered what he had to say, what John needed to know, coughing cut him off, stopped him, weakened him. "…happy with… Mary… not… be here… friend…"

Best friend, John's voice said in his head. Course you are. You're my best friend.

No, John would tell him once he understood, not any more, no, he wasn't, was a murderer, was…

Sherlock's eyes closed against his will.

And then John's hand was back on his face, cheeks, forehead, throat, John muttering under his breath, saying: "Ssh." And: "It's okay, Sherlock, okay, I'm here." And: "I'm here. I'm here. Go back to sleep."

He kept mumbling, to himself, to Sherlock, words that were supposed to mean something to Sherlock, but that didn't, because he couldn't, just couldn't. "…okay… you'll be… sleep… relax… here…"

John was here, so it would be fine.

Thank you for reading. If you find the time to leave a review, it would be immensely appreciated. (I know, I know, I'm practically begging shamelessly, but to know that people still read and maybe still enjoy reading this story is literally the only thing that might motivate me to keep writing, and I DO want to keep writing... So, ignore my rambling - basically: I hope you've enjoyed the read.)