Hello, you beautiful people! You're amazing, all of you. Thank you so much!

So, here's the next chapter. One more and one epilogue to go after that. Enjoy.

Never By Halves

16

John closed the door to Sherlock's bedroom quietly. He released the breath he had been holding and ran a hand over his tired eyes. Sherlock was still sleeping peacefully, and his temperature hadn't gone up again. That was something, at least.

Mrs Hudson was watching him when he came back into the living room. "How is he?" she asked, her worry evident in her voice.

"Sleeping," John answered, sinking down heavily in his armchair opposite of Mrs Hudson. Sleeping. God. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He needed to sleep, too.

"Why don't I make us some tea, dear," Mrs Hudson suggested, already getting up from where she had been sitting in Sherlock's armchair. She patted his shoulder when she passed him. "You just sit here and take it easy for a bit."

Tea sounded brilliant. John stifled a yawn and leaned back. Mrs Hudson had been back from her visit at her sister's for two days now, and she had provided him with an endless supply of tea, coffee and food. He didn't know what he'd have done without her. "Mrs Hudson," he sighed. "You're a saint."

She gave his shoulder another light pat, then busied herself with the kettle in the kitchen. "He really should have taken things easier after... after...," she muttered. "But no, he's always working, and never slowing down, and look at him now."

John swallowed, pursing his lips. "You know him," he said. "He's Sherlock. It's what he does." Solving crimes, chasing criminals, coming back from the dead. Always one step ahead. Invincible.

Mrs Hudson tutted softly under her breath. "Yes, but...," she began. "You haven't seen him these past weeks, John. I can't get any sleep any more, he's always pacing up here in the nights, and... there's something different about him, since..."

John didn't move. His left hand clenched into a fist. Sherlock had talked in his fevered sleep, incoherent mumbling, most of the time, but some of the things his best friend had said had made John want to hit something.

"He misses you, you know," Mrs Hudson went on. "He wouldn't admit it, of course, but it's true."

John pursed his lips. "He doesn't have to," he replied. "I'm married, yes, but he's still my best friend."

Mrs Hudson turned towards the kettle and poured boiling water into a tea pot. "Oh John," she made. "You don't have to tell me."

To that, John didn't know what to say.

Mrs Hudson, however, didn't seem to expect an answer. "But he'll be all right now, won't he, John? And soon he'll be driving me up the wall again. Shooting the walls, experiments in the kitchen, playing the violin in the middle of the night..."

The fingers of John's left hand were still tingling. Yes, Sherlock would be all right. It had been almost four days since John taken discharged him from hospital, barely lucid and against medical advice but with Mycroft's apparently unlimited resources at hand. Sherlock had been running a high temperature for the first three days, had slept fitfully, had, when he'd woken, been barely coherent, but last night, his fever had broken, had gone down and stayed down, and Sherlock had been sleeping – a dreamless sleep, it seemed, dreamless and restful – ever since.

"It's good that he's here," Mrs Hudson said all of a sudden. John turned his head to look at her. "Hm?" he made.

"It's good," Mrs Hudson repeated and put milk and sugar on a tray, "that's he's here, and not in hospital. He's always calmer when you're with him."

John managed a tight smile. He didn't know how many times he had almost taken Sherlock back to hospital in the past four days, when the coughing didn't seem to stop, or when his temperature spiked, but... He couldn't. Not after Magnussen, after Sherlock's near-exile, after what he'd heard his best friend mumble in his fevered dreams.

Mrs Hudson brought the tray from the kitchen and put it on the table next to John's armchair. "Here," she said, "your tea."

"Thank you, Mrs H."

Giving him a smile, Mrs Hudson sat back down in Sherlock's armchair. "How's Mary?" she wanted to know.

Mary, yes. Mary was at home, fine, and keeping John updated via text. She was running out of crisps, she had informed him at eleven in the morning, and was going to have to resort to pretzel sticks instead, to her great displeasure. Apart from that, she was also bored, and worried, and when John had stopped by to check on her, tell her that he was going to stay at 221B for a few days because Sherlock needed him, her first instinct had been to accompany him. In the end, they had managed to agree that it was better for the baby if she stayed at home, far away from any kind of illness she could catch.

John snapped back to the present when he realised that Mrs Hudson was watching him, waiting for an answer. "Good," he said finally. "Good, she's... good."

Mrs Hudson nodded knowingly. "First child," she commented. "That's always special."

The sound of footsteps on the stairs saved John from having to think of a reply to that. Footsteps which, as it turned out, belonged to Greg Lestrade. Greg Lestrade, who had stopped by frequently in the past four days and who had been with Sherlock when John had briefly been at his and Mary's flat.

"Mrs Hudson," Greg greeted. "John. How's the patient?"

John managed a tense smile. "Better," he said. "Temperature's gone down; he's asleep."

Greg blew out a breath of air. "That's good to hear. He really likes a touch of drama, doesn't he?"

Mrs Hudson got up from her armchair before John could answer. "Tea, Detective Inspector?" she wanted to know. "I've got biscuits, too."

Greg scratched his head. "I don't want to bother you."

"Oh, no," Mrs Hudson tsked and walked towards the kitchen. "You're not. Take a seat, I'll make you a cuppa."

A grin broke out on Greg's face, and John almost had to smile, too.

"So," Greg said finally, settling into the armchair Mrs Hudson had vacated, "he's really doing better?"

Better, yes. Finally. John nodded. "Yeah."

Greg gave another half-grin. "So he'll be back to his annoying old self in no time, eh?"

"He should really take it easy," Mrs Hudson chimed in from the kitchen.

Oh, Sherlock would. John was going to make sure of that. And he was going to have a serious conversation with Sherlock, as soon as Sherlock was aware enough to once and for all understand what John was saying. What John needed him to know.

"Oh, by the way," Greg said all of a sudden, "I think I saw one of Mycroft's cars in the street downstairs."

And indeed, less than three minutes later, another set of footsteps sounded on the stairs, and in came Mycroft Holmes, the British government himself, impeccably dressed as always. "Doctor Watson," he greeted. "Detective Inspector. Mrs Hudson."

Her smile, when she returned from the kitchen, a tray with a cup of tea and biscuits for Lestrade in her hands, was considerably more frosty this time. She only directed a brief, stern glance at Mycroft, then turned back to Greg with a smile and placed her tray on the table. "Here," she said. "I've been to the shops this morning. Bought those biscuits. They're Sherlock's favourites..."

While Greg thanked her and started munching on a biscuit, John turned his attention back to Mycroft. Sherlock's brother was still standing in the doorway, twirling his umbrella almost pensively.

John swallowed. "Mycroft," he said. "Take a seat." No matter how annoying he might be at times, Mycroft had, after all, helped John. And, John was pretty sure of that, he did care about his brother. He was here now, after all.

Mycroft forced a thin smile onto his lips. "No, thank you, Doctor Watson," he declined politely.

"Oh, come on," Greg exclaimed, taking another bite from a biscuit. "Just sit down."

Mycroft remained where he was for a moment longer, then, to John's surprise, he cleared his throat and smoothly stepped towards one of the free chairs near the table. "So," he said once he was seated, both hands still around his umbrella. "How is my dear brother?"

John's jaw clenched, automatically. "Better," he replied, hoarsely. Better, but not... not good. Not fine. His throat narrowed at the reminder of how ill Sherlock had been. "His temperature's gone down, and the congestion's let up a bit, too."

Mycroft nodded minutely. He lowered his gaze for a second, before clearing his throat again. "Do tell him to take better care of himself," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "Mummy would be so upset if something happened to him." He looked at John. "But then," he said, raising one eyebrow, "I never doubted your ability to watch over my brother."

John didn't know what to say to that. He cleared his throat, then gave a stiff nod. He would. If Sherlock wanted him to or not. Awkwardly, he pursed his lips. "I, er...," he began and stood. "I'd better check on him, just..."

Mrs Hudson smiled at him. "Go on, dear."

John nodded again and started walking through the kitchen, when, before he had taken more than three steps, the door to Sherlock's bedroom opened and Sherlock stepped out, rumpled and pale and slowly, but on his feet, walking.

John's heart clenched nonetheless, and worry shot through his veins. Sherlock was better, yes, was on the way to recovery, but that didn't mean he was supposed to be gallivanting around yet. "What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock raised his head; his eyes, blood-shot but no longer as hazy, as glassy, scanned the kitchen and the living room, and bewilderment was written on his face. "What are all these people doing here?" he replied. His voice was deep and hoarse from sleep, but his words weren't immediately followed a harsh coughing fit.

An indignant huff came from Mycroft. "People?" he echoed; he sounded appalled.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Mycroft?!" he croaked. "What the hell do you want?"

Greg swallowed the final bit of his third biscuit. "We've come to check on you, you bastard," he said.

Mrs Hudson nodded in affirmation. "You had us all worried, dear," she chirped.

John took a step towards his best friend when Sherlock coughed, swayed ever so slightly and reached out with one hand to support himself against the wall. "Not him, though," he croaked, shakily pointing in Mycroft's direction.

Mycroft curled his lips into a crisp smile. "Brother dear," he said. "Believe me, I have indeed better things to do than sit in your dump of a flat when there are elections to be held in... Nevermind that." He tapped his umbrella on the floor and raised one eyebrow at Sherlock: "You certainly have looked better, brother dear."

Sherlock wanted to scowl, John could see that, but instead, he coughed.

Mrs Hudson tutted under her breath. "Enough now, you two," she said. "Mycroft Holmes, we all know you were worried." Then she turned to Sherlock, her hands in her hips. "And you, Sherlock Holmes. I know you're glad to see him."

Mycroft gave a thin-lipped smile, while Sherlock this time did scowl, only to break into another cough.

Okay, John decided. That was enough. He stepped closer to Sherlock. Faint tremors were running through Sherlock's arm, the arm he was using to brace himself against the wall. "Back to bed with you," he told his best friend.

Sherlock shook his head. "'m fine," he tried to claim, but his failure to stifle another cough belied his words.

John pursed his lips. "You're not," he said. He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder; Sherlock didn't protest. "Come on," John added. "Back to bed."

Sherlock didn't resist when John gripped his upper arm instead of his shoulder and gently steered him towards his bedroom. His steps were slow, and his eyelids were, as John noticed when he risked a side glance at his best friend, drooping already. "Tell Mycroft that he should fire his personal trainer," Sherlock mumbled sleepily. He coughed briefly. "He's gained... weight again."

John couldn't help a small smile. "I will," he said.

Sherlock started coughing again, and this time, the bout lasted longer. John swallowed thickly. "Come on," he encouraged quietly. "Just a few more steps."

Sherlock allowed John to lead him towards his bed, where he sank down heavily. John's heart twinged, at Sherlock's exhaustion, at his weakness.

"Lie down."

Sherlock's eyes were closed before his head hit the pillow. He still didn't look well, not by any stretch of imagination. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed by dark circles and his breathing still sounded too loud, too harsh. Too painful.

Instinctively, John reached out, pressing his palm to Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock's eyes fluttered feebly. John swallowed against the lump in his throat. "It's all right," he mumbled, even as another cough gripped his best friend. John removed his hand from his best friend's forehead and pulled the sheet and Mrs Hudson's afghan up to Sherlock's shoulders. "Sleep," he said. With a pat on Sherlock's shoulder, he made to leave.

Sherlock's voice held him back. "John," he croaked. He coughed briefly. "Is there... is there a case? Why... why are they all here?"

John's jaw clenched. For someone who was brilliant, a genius, Sherlock could be unbelievably stupid sometimes. "Sherlock," he began; Sherlock's eyes, hazy with exhaustion, were locked on him. "They're here because they were worried about you."

A frown appeared on Sherlock's forehead. John wanted to hit something when he noticed the disbelief, the confusion, in Sherlock's expression. "We all were," he added. Didn't know how to go on, for a moment. But they needed to have this conversation. "We..." He had to clear his throat. "We care about you. We..."

He interrupted himself when Sherlock coughed again, longer, this time, a fit that had him squeezing his eyes shut and left him trembling once it was over.

Not now, John decided. "We'll talk later," he croaked. He gave Sherlock's shoulder another brief squeeze. "When you can keep your eyes open."

"John," Sherlock mumbled. "You should go home."

John swallowed, tightening his grasp on Sherlock's shoulder. I am, he thought. I am. "You're not getting rid of me so easily," was what he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock exhaled and went limp beneath John's grip. An odd smile appeared on his lips. "...wouldn'... want you to," he slurred thickly. "'s always you, John. ...'s always... you..."

John stood frozen for a moment. His throat had closed up, and his voice wouldn't work at first when he tried to speak. "You're my best friend, too," he managed to croak eventually.

But Sherlock's breathing had already evened out in sleep, and his face, the lines of pain, the frown, had smoothed out. He looked... he looked peaceful.

John swallowed drily. "You're my best friend, too," he repeated, quietly. Sherlock didn't stir. Still, John remained where he was for a bit longer, watching his best friend, before he finally turned around and headed for the living room again.

Thank you for reading. I hope you liked it; if you find the time, please let me know what you thought!