Final chapter. Only the epilogue to go.

Enjoy.

Never By Halves

17

When Sherlock woke, his mind was clear. He remembered, distantly, pain, and cold, and Moriarty, and other people, people he didn't know, and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade, and Mycroft, and... and John, but his recollections were dimmed, hazy, and they made no sense.

Moriarty was dead, or was supposed to be, should be, had put a bullet in his brain, and John, John had a family now. John had a family now.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes, forced his heavy lids apart. He was in his bedroom, his bed, in 221B, and the room was empty. Stupid, his brain reminded him, stupid. Of course the room was empty.

He had dreamt of John, he remembered now. John had been here, with him, in his dream, a dream birthed by his running a temperature, certainly. John had been here, and John had called him his best friend. And it had to have been a dream, because it couldn't have been real.

Because he was a danger to those he loved, and because he had vowed to keep John safe.

He had vowed to keep John safe. John Watson is definitely in danger, Moriarty's voice echoed through his brain, and the words were like ice water in his veins.

The case. Of course. The last vestiges of sleep, of haziness, dissipated at once when Sherlock remembered the case, and the memory expelled all other thoughts. The case, the most important case of them all. He had to solve the case. If he wanted to keep John safe, from Moriarty and the remnants of his web, he had to solve the case.

The world around him spun for a moment when he pushed himself into a sitting position and flung the sheet and the atrocious afghan on top of it away. He was, he noticed with detached surprise, not wearing the rumpled remnants of his suit and dress shoes, but rather loose cotton trousers, warm socks and a tee, a combination which he definitely did not remember changing into. Memories of John flared up again, as they always did, despite his attempts to focus, to concentrate, memories of John telling him that he was here, memories of John with the monstrously ugly afghan, creating warmth and comfort and being there.

With a brief headshake, Sherlock tried to get rid of his useless fantasies. Stupid, he told himself, so stupid. He didn't quite manage to suppress a cough when he got to his feet, and once again, his bedroom moved around him for a few seconds. He didn't wait for it to settle, to steady itself, but forced his legs to take a step forward, and another; he did not, he decided, have time for his transport's antics now. There was a case, the most important case of them all, and he had to solve it, now.

He was not prepared for the sight of John Watson when he entered the living room, seated in his armchair in the living room – John's, always John's – and sipping tea.

Sherlock's slow steps faltered; he blinked, once, twice, but the John apparation remained where it was and kept looking remarkably real. The memories flashed through his mind again, of John, with him, of John, taking care of him, of John, telling him: of course you're my best friend, of course you are. John in his armchair flicked a page of the newspaper he was reading, utterly oblivious to Sherlock standing in the doorway, and everything about him was so John that Sherlock knew, simply knew, that his mind, however vast and brilliant it was, could never come up with an illusion that accurate. For a moment, he didn't dare to move, barely dared to breathe. He hadn't thought it could be, had assumed that, even if he had been here, at some time, John would have left already, would have gone back to Mary, to his wife, his family, and...

"You're still here." His voice was hoarse and deep from lack of use, and the words were redundant, completely redundant, because it was obvious, obvious though inexplicable. Stupid, Sherlock told himself again, stupid.

John looked up from his newspaper; a frown formed on his face, only to be replaced by a look of something, something Sherlock couldn't decipher; hope, maybe, or content, within the duration of a few heartbeats. "Sherlock!" John said; the newspaper was lowered and then discarded. "Of course I'm still here," John said then, and the frown, a smaller version of it, returned.

Of course. Of course, John said, and he said it as if it was completely normal, as if it went without saying. Sherlock didn't quite know what to do with this information.

Why, why would John even be here, when he had a family, when he had a wife and was to be a father? Why would he choose to spend time in Sherlock's flat, with him, when all Sherlock had ever done was to cause him pain and suffering, when John's affiliation with Sherlock had almost cost him everything? Why?

John's eyes were on him, Sherlock noticed all of a sudden, scanning him, and the expression in them was not one of contempt, or anger, or frustration, but, curiously, one of worry. Worry... for him?

Course you're my best friend, a memory of John's voice echoed through Sherlock's mind, but he knew, he knew, it couldn't be. Not any more, not when John finally had everything he'd ever wanted and Sherlock was the only danger to his perfect life that remained.

A cough interrupted Sherlock's process of thought for a moment, and then the realisation hit him. Of course. Of course. He had, as far as he was able to remember and to deduce what he couldn't recall, fallen ill, obviously, and because he was a doctor, and because he cared about people, because that was what John Watson did, John had come to 221B, had stayed with him, had not left him on his own. The memories were still hazy, memories of John, but they were real, Sherlock realised, because John had been here. The knowledge that John would leave now, now that Sherlock was fine again, hurt, but John deserved it, deserved all the happiness and love his family would give him. Deserved not to be saddled with an addict who craved danger and violence, who endangered everyone he loved.

John's eyes were still on him.

Sherlock averted his gaze, cleared his throat, which turned into a cough, and sat down in his armchair, opposite of John's. "Weren't there...," he began and didn't look at John, on purpose. Didn't want to see the moment the worry in John's eyes turned into something else, something Sherlock deserved a lot more than concern. "Weren't there... other people, before?"

John's frown deepened, and Sherlock wanted to take his words back, wanted to take them back because he had done something wrong, probably, because now John would leave immediately, would remember why it was best to stay away from Sherlock Holmes, why...

"You remember that?" John asked, and the expression in his eyes did not change.

"I remember Mycroft being annoying." The words were out of his mouth before he could think, before he could stop them, but John didn't look appalled, didn't frown, but chuckled. Chuckled.

"Of course you'd say that," John said. "But he was actually very helpful."

Sherlock did his best to stifle a cough. "Was he really," he muttered. He must have been quite ill, he concluded, or else Mycroft wouldn't have bothered to take the way to 221B upon himself.

This time, John's face did turn serious. "Yes, he was," he replied. "Your brother was worried about you."

Distantly, Sherlock recalled John saying something similar, recalled John telling him that he cared about him, that Lestrade, that Mrs Hudson, even Mycroft, cared about him. It was a pleasant thought, he had to admit to himself. People didn't generally care about him; they only cared about his brain, about his intelligence, and what he could do for them. But John Watson... John Watson had always been a marvel.

"Sherlock," John said now. His face hadn't lost its serious expression, but his eyes were warm. "We need to talk."

Sherlock did his best to appear indifferent. "Oh," he said. His voice was shaking ever so slightly, he realised, even though he tried to sound disinterested. "We do?"

John leaned forwards in his armchair. "Yes, we do," he reaffirmed.

Sherlock wanted to close his eyes. Because he knew. He knew what John was going to say, and he knew that it wasn't going to be easy for John, because of who he was, but he also knew that it had to be said. He knew, and it made sense, perfect sense, was obvious, logical, and still, it hurt. "No, we don't," he said, his voice clipped, and got to his feet. He didn't look at John; couldn't look at John.

High-functioning sociopath, he reminded himself as he stifled a cough. High-functioning sociopath.

John caught his arm before Sherlock could get away, and Sherlock froze. A steep line had formed between John's eyebrows, and Sherlock had to look away again. "Sit down," John told him, and Sherlock did.

John pursed his lips. Annoyed, Sherlock concluded, John was probably annoyed. Or frustrated. With him. Because of him. Always because of him.

"Would you please listen to me?" John asked, and Sherlock found he could only nod.

John had come when Sherlock had been ill, Sherlock forced himself to remember; John had been here when he had needed him. John cared about him, for some reason, despite everything; the least he could do was to let John go. He swallowed drily, coughed once. No, he couldn't, because John wasn't his to let go. Because John and Mary belonged together, and even Sherlock wasn't selfish enough to come in between John and his family.

"So," John began. He cleared his throat and flexed his jaw, the way he did when he found something difficult. Sherlock focussed on John's left hand, the fingers clenching and unclenching, instead of John's face. "You know that I'm not going anywhere, right?"

At that, Sherlock looked up, involuntarily. That wasn't quite what he had expected.

John was looking at him. "You do know that... don't you?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. He didn't know the right answer to John's question, didn't even know exactly what it was that John was asking. John couldn't mean it literally, because of course he had to go somewhere, back home, back to work, but metaphorically...

John leaned forwards again. The frown was back on his forehead. "Because I'm not," he said. "I'm not, Sherlock."

Sherlock still didn't think he understood. "You'll go home," he pointed out. "You have a family now."

John kept looking at him. "Yes," he agreed. "But that doesn't change the fact that you're my best friend."

Sherlock could only blink. John had told him before, of course, when he'd asked him to be the best man for the wedding, but since then, everything had changed. The mistakes Sherlock had made had almost cost John everything, and even though John's words – yeah, of course. Course you're my best friend – were seared into Sherlock's memory, he didn't know, wasn't sure, if they still applied.

John seemed to wait for something. When it didn't come, when Sherlock didn't say anything, his face fell, and he shook his head. "How can you not know that?" he asked.

Sherlock swallowed and averted his gaze. "I've made the experience that people generally prefer my absence to my company," he said.

"Yeah, well." John's voice was low, quiet. "I'm not people."

No, he wasn't. Sherlock almost had to smile. "I know."

John gave a nod, and a tense smile flickered over his face. "Good," he said, his voice hoarse. "Then you should also know that you won't get rid of me so easily."

Sherlock didn't say anything, didn't look at John. Picked at a loose thread in his tee instead.

"Sherlock." Strained, Sherlock noted, John's voice sounded strained, impatient. "Sherlock," John repeated. "You're my best friend. There's no use in trying to push me away. You're stuck with me."

Sherlock coughed. John Watson is definitely in danger, Moriarty repeated in his head, and Magnussen's words – Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake, and it will destroy the lives of everyone he loves – echoed through his mind. "You don't understand," he said quietly.

John's eyebrows drew together. "What?" he asked. "Sherlock. What don't I understand?"

Sherlock pulled in a deep breath and forced himself to meet John's gaze. "I'm dangerous," he admitted. His voice was hoarse, his chest tight and he felt like he couldn't breathe. But he had to say it; John had to understand. "People around me, people who are close to me... they end up hurt, or dead." He remembered Moriarty's games: the pool, the semtec vest, the three snipers, one for John, one for Mrs Hudson, one for Lestrade. He remembered Magnussen: the bonfire, the mistake he had made, the mistake that had almost cost John everything. John deserved better, so much better, deserved happiness, peace, a family, but Sherlock had only ever brought him pain and grief and suffering. "If you don't stay away from me," he went on, forced the words out through his narrowing throat, "I will get you killed." Sooner or later, and while he could, maybe, maybe, live without John, he would not be able to live with John dead, or with the knowledge that it had been his fault. He could not, and he would do whatever it took to never let that happen.

John, to Sherlock's surprise, was shaking his head, his nostrils flaring. "Nope," he said. His voice was brimming with barely suppressed anger. "Nope. That's not how it works. You're my best friend, and I will not let you cut me out of your life like that. Nope."

"John-," Sherlock began, but John cut him off. "Remember what you told me when we first met? At our very first case?"

Sherlock swallowed thickly. Of course he remembered. He remembered John's reaction to his deduction, John's 'amazing' and 'fantastic' when Sherlock had expected to be told to piss off; he remembered the breathless laughter in the hallway of 221B; he remembered John shooting the cabbie, to save him, him of all people.

John was staring at him expectantly. Sherlock lowered his gaze. "Could be dangerous," he mumbled.

John gave a curt nod. "Yes," he croaked. "Could be dangerous. And I came anyway."

Yes, John did. John had saved him then, the first time of many. "You didn't have a family then," Sherlock tried to object.

"No, I didn't," John agreed. "But that doesn't change anything. You're still my best friend."

Best friend. Best friend. Best friend. Best friend of the kindest and bravest and wisest human being he had ever had to good fortune of knowing. John Watson's best friend.

No, Sherlock forced himself to remember. No. He could not endanger John, not ever, not again, and with Moriarty back, maybe... "If Moriarty's back...," he began, but once again, John didn't let him finish. "Then we'll deal with him," he said. "Together." He smiled, another tense, strained smile, but it reached his eyes. "The two of us against the rest of the world."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. "Mary," he croaked.

John shook his head. "She'd tell you the exact same thing."

No. No matter how much he wanted to, how much he longed for John, always, he couldn't let John get involved, not again. "It's too dangerous," he said quietly.

John's next words surprised him. Of course. Of course. John Watson always managed to surprise him, always. John kept him right. "I don't care," John said. His voice was strained, and there were lines on his face, lines that didn't belong there, and Sherlock could only listen. "I can deal with danger," John went on. "I can deal with Moriarty, but I can't deal with you dead." His voice cracked, but he went on. "Not again. So just... stop trying to push me away. It won't work."

Sherlock's heart twinged. He did not deserve John, never had. John was his conductor of light; John was brilliant; John saved the life, had saved his, so many times; John kept him right. John Watson was the best human being he knew, and his friendship – being his best friend, apparently – was more than Sherlock would ever deserve. "John," he whispered.

John looked up at him. "You promised to be there for us," he croaked. "For Mary, the baby, and me. So just... let us be there for you, too." He cleared his throat, looked away for a moment. "Can you do that? For me?"

For John. Sherlock swallowed thickly, doing his best to stifle a cough. For John. Anything for John, always. And maybe... maybe he could. Could keep John safe, and still be part of John's life. Maybe. Maybe.

John was waiting for an answer. Best friend, John's voice was saying. How can you not know that? And: I can't deal with you dead, not again. Best friend. Best friend. The two of us against the rest of the world.

Of course, when John asked something of him, there never really was a choice.

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yes," he whispered.

When John smiled this time, it was a real smile, real and warm and relieved, and Sherlock had to smile, too. Then John made him a cup of tea and some plain toast, and he stayed; he stayed until Sherlock had finished his tea and nibbled at the toast and the room was losing focus around him and his eyes were threatening to fall shut.

John stayed, and John told him: "Back to bed with you", and John steadied him on the way to his bedroom, and brought him a glass of water when Sherlock couldn't stop coughing once he was lying down, and said: "Sleep. I'll be in the living room."

It would change, he was aware of that, was not stupid enough to deny that. It would change once the baby was born. Naturally. John would not have time for him then, would want to spend time with his wife and his child, but that was all right. That was all right.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

That was all right, as long as John was safe, and happy, and when John needed him, for whatever reason, he would be there.

Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought - it would mean a lot.