Hello to everyone who has stumbled here!

This is a prompt fill for Catie501 - AND it's a story I promised to write for her about ten months ago, and now, finally, it is taking the shape I want it to take. You are looking at a sick!fic which will possibly exaggerate symptoms of a certain illness and which will, in the end, be rather long, I'm afraid. So, you have been warned.

"Never By Halves" takes place roughly two months after "His Last Vow" and deals - rudimentarily - with what you could call the "aftermath". Since it's 'just' a sick!fic, don't expect too much plot, nor too much angst (angst will come later, in another prompt fill which will be about a different situation post-HLV, and different in general).

Updates should be at least once a week, at least that's what I'm aiming at. The rough draft for this story has been finished for quite a while, and now it's all about polishing a tiny bit. Another warning, however - updates might be slower.

I neither own Sherlock nor the initial idea.

Thank you, Catie, for your prompt, terribly sorry for taking ages, and please enjoy!

Never By Halves

1

Sherlock first became aware that something was odd when the fourth cough in a row escaped him. A hoarse, scratching sound that tickled his throat and added to the dryness that had been lingering there since the previous evening, and that, to his annoyance, did not want to disappear.

He swallowed and did his best to get rid of the urge to cough yet again. Concentrate, he needed to concentrate. There was work to do.

Swallowing once more and clearing his throat only served to trigger the rise of another cough, and Sherlock closed his eyes for a brief moment as he held his breath and attempted to stifle the disgusting, rasping noise in his chest.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice, with a peculiar tone to it, cut through the silence, and Sherlock's eyes shot open. Belatedly, almost sluggishly, he realised that he had been kneeling next to the corpse for a few minutes now, magnifying glass in his hand, but not inspecting anything. "Everything alright?"

Sherlock let out a huff and refrained from clearing his throat again. "Naturally," he muttered and took a deep breath. Murder, dead woman in front of him, case. Focus. Focus.

Murder. Tight trousers, gruesome colour, jewellery, no rings, necklace. Asphyxiated, apparently, going by the marks around the dead woman's neck and throat, and…

"Got anything?" Lestrade interrupted again. This time, Sherlock stifled a sigh, as well as a cough, and got to his feet briskly, not wasting another glance at the body. The quick movement sent a sudden spark of pain through his skull, intensifying the headache that had started to pulsate more intensely through his temples earlier that day. Previously, it had merely been a dull and constant ache he had easily been able to push to the back of his mind, but now the throbbing, worsened through abrupt moving of his, was beginning to distract him.

Sherlock stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and straightened his shoulders. "What do you expect me to do?" he wanted to know. "Even Scotland Yard should be able to find out whom she was engaged to, and arrest him for murder.

Lestrade folded his arms over his chest and kept staring at him expectantly.

Sherlock cleared his throat and swallowed against the repeated urge to cough. Inconvenient, very much so, and odd, distinctively so. "It's obvious," he began, the collar of his coat brushing against the skin of his throat as he turned towards the body. Put your collar up , John's voice was saying in his head. "Murderer removed engagement ring, obviously. Untanned outline on her finger. Strangled - suggesting a passionate crime, not planned, fuelled by emotion, most likely fury, possibly love. Crime out of passion, not planned, missing engagement ring, plus her highly suggestive clothes - affair - it's her fiancé you're looking for. Obviously."

Amazing, John was saying in his head, show-off.

Doing his best to disguise his repeated attempt at clearing his throat as an annoyed sigh, Sherlock turned around to look at Lestrade again, Lestrade who simply stood there, arms still folded, scanning him with this unsettling expression on his face.

"What!" Sherlock hissed and barely refrained from rolling his eyes, a motion which would, without any doubt, only serve to increase his headache. He had been busy before Lestrade had phoned and had practically begged him to come and have a look, and he had agreed to come, God knew why, had come, only to find… this. A boring scene, a boring case, obvious murder, violent and therefore passionate, and the missing engagement ring. And then the annoying dryness in his throat, causing coughing and adding to his recently rather persistent exhaustion that was pulling at his limbs even now.

"Nothing," Lestrade answered belatedly, his gaze focused on Sherlock for a few seconds longer and then skittering to the dead woman. "Her fiancé, then," he said.

"Her fiancé, yes," Sherlock confirmed and pulled his scarf more neatly around his neck. Murder fuelled by the impulsive notion of anger and being betrayed - she had been an adulterer, obviously, going by her clothes -, no meticulous planning. Simple, really.

Another cough surprised Sherlock when Lestrade spoke up again: "So," he said, in an awkward voice that clearly suggested conversation, small-talk, "Where's John, then? How's the baby?"

Sherlock swallowed against the unpleasant feeling in his throat and gave a minuscule shrug. Inconvenient, very much so. He did not have time or energy to waste for his body's capers. "Still not born yet," he replied curtly.

"Ah," Lestrade commented unintelligibly. "And John?"

John.

For a moment, a brief moment, Sherlock allowed himself to dwell on the delusion of John next to him, examining the body, coming to his own conclusion that was, however inferior to Sherlock's own, always useful, valuable.

But no. With an abrupt headshake, he succeeded in chasing away that very resilient phantasm and focused on his mobile instead, fumbling for it in his coat pocket. "Fine, I expect," he told Lestrade while he was staring at the text he had received.

John, of course.

Care for take-away this evening? Mary has cravings. J

"You expect," Lestrade repeated.

Busy, he texted John. Give my love to Mary. S

"Yes," he replied distractedly, pocketing his phone again. "You know, with his job, his life. And no, before you ask, I haven't seen him recently. I'm busy."

Stifling the onset of another cough, Sherlock turned and started walking, away from the dead woman, away from Lestrade - who, unfortunately, followed him. "Listen, Sherlock…," he began, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's upper arm.

This time, Sherlock could not keep himself from rolling his eyes as he stilled. "For God's sake, Lestrade," he muttered, without investing the energy to actually sound exasperated. There was, it seemed, only so much time one's body could function with an hour or two of sleep at most, despite the days and weeks he had spent with almost no sleep during his two years away, while dismantling Moriarty's criminal web. "Really not the time for that now."

Lestrade's grip did not disappear. "So," he said, "how are you?"

Sherlock wanted to groan and wriggle away, but suppressed the urge to do so. Polite, John's voice reminded him. "Fine," he said non-committally, concentrating on this ludicrous and completely unnecessary conversation rather than on the pounding inside of his skull, and added: "Now let me go, I am busy."

"You don't look too fine," Lestrade replied quietly, and Sherlock had to fight the temptation to let his eyes drift close for a second, Lestrade's familiar voice surrounding him and enwrapping him. But no. Stupid. Stupid. He tensed instead and took a small step backwards, as far as Lestrade's grip would allow it. "What," he demanded, hoarsely.

"I haven't seen you around much since this… thing," Lestrade finally went on.

Sherlock swallowed against the dryness in his throat and closed his burning eyes for a brief moment. Sleep, he needed sleep. But no, he couldn't. Busy. Not yet. Not with… this thing.

"You know," Lestrade went on and at last released his arm, "even if he's after you again," he interrupted himself, and Sherlock could feel his fingernails dig into his palms, thankfully hidden inside of his coat pockets, "Moriarty, I mean, this time, you won't be alone. We're keeping an eye out for him, and John will…"

"Oh, for God's sake, Lestrade," Sherlock cut him off as sharply as possible without having to clear his throat. He hunched his shoulders against the cold wind, his trembling right hand fumbling for his once again chiming phone in his coat pocket. "Stop being dull or I will ignore your texts for at least a month. I'm fine, perfectly fine."

John, again.

Case? Need some help? I could stop by after work. J

No need to, he typed. Busy.

Sherlock shook his head curtly and stifled a cough. Busy. Work to do. And John had a family now.

Lestrade had not said anything, but kept looking at him. "You don't look too fine," he repeated, stupidly. "Maybe…"

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock interrupted him, his temples throbbing, his throat burning. "I suggest you focus on doing your job instead of having me do it and refrain from any further advices you clearly are not qualified to give."

The very moment he had uttered the words, Sherlock realised that he might have gone too far. He closed his eyes again, briefly, and willed Lestrade to simply let it go.

Lestrade, however, did not seem taken aback too much. "Sherlock," he began again.

Sherlock shoved both of his hands into his coat pockets and swallowed once, twice, stifled another cough. "I am busy," he repeated and turned his back towards Lestrade and the body.

Lestrade's voice, still with that weird quality to it, stopped him dead in his tracks. "You haven't heard anything from… him, have you?"

Him. This… thing.

Him.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and clenched his right hand tightly around his mobile phone, almost itching to hurl it against the next best police car. Forced himself to turn his head slowly, not jerk it around and cause fresh waves of pain to radiate through his skull and brain.

Blasted headache. He needed to concentrate!

"No," he replied curtly, his muscles tensing. Moriarty. Lestrade wanted to know if Moriarty - or whoever had been behind this video that had saved him from exile and death as a result of six months of undercover work in Eastern Europe - had contacted him, had maybe uttered a threat. "No," he repeated and did his best ignore the dry tickling in his throat that so annoyingly refused to leave his transport alone.

Lestrade kept studying him for a moment and finally nodded faintly. "Okay," he agreed. "Just… you know you can call me, any time."

Call Lestrade. John. Family.

"Are we done now!" Sherlock snapped, a cough building in his chest. He shuddered in the cool wind, despite himself.

Lestrade gave a sigh and nodded vaguely. "Yeah, done," he replied and gestured towards the dead woman. "We'll concentrate on her fiancé. Thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes closed for a moment, for the fourth time in as many minutes, only to fly open again as soon as Lestrade's voice reached his ears once more: "Sherlock… take care, alright?"

Without any further remark, Sherlock managed a curt nod and turned around, finally, away from Lestrade, towards the main road to catch a cab.

Take care, Lestrade had said. He swallowed and did, this time, not even bother to fight the urge to cough. Take care. There were more important things to be done.

Thank you very much for reading. Please let me know what you thought.