Bad dream one night, resulting in a one-shot.
Mentions of blood. Contains angst.
Enjoy.
One In A Million
Mary can see it all in her husband's face. His grief, his worry, everything.
Can see that he, for once, doesn't believe in Sherlock Holmes.
And yet, there is nothing she can do.
Missed the spinal cord, she has been told, not by John who hasn't left Sherlock's side, but by Greg, Greg who has been the one to call her in the first instance, not her husband. Missed the spinal cord, didn't destroy any major blood vessels, but ripped through the trachea and the esophagus, damaging the vocal chords, too.
She isn't a doctor, she doesn't really know what to do with those terms, but the doctor's face has told her as much: It is not looking good.
She has been inside once, for only a brief amount of time, feeling like… disturbing the silence between two best friends. She has left again because it is difficult to bear - watching both Sherlock, closer to death than to life, probably, and John, gripping his best friend's hand like a lifeline, his face contorted in worry, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's too pale face.
Shot in the neck, not accidentally, but on purpose, by a man even Mary has met on two or three occasions, by a policeman supposed to protect civilians, not execute them.
Because like an execution it has appeared, Greg has told her, shocked, frozen, the bullet clearly meant for Sherlock.
Mary doesn't even know what has happened to the… not murderer, not yet, but… assailant. To the man who attempted to kill Sherlock.
John hasn't laid a finger on him, Greg has informed her also, but only because he has been too focused on Sherlock, too concentrated on making him keep breathing, on making him hold on long enough until an ambulance has arrived.
Sherlock has been conscious, throughout all of it, that is what frightens Mary the most. She doesn't even want to imagine what it must have felt like.
She can certainly see in John's eyes what it must have looked like. Sherlock, choking on his own blood, probably, threatening to suffocate, in enormous pain, losing blood too quickly despite no vital vessel having been hit, frightened.
Frightened.
She can especially see that bit in John's eyes, in his posture, in how he cradles Sherlock's motionless hand close to his body, to provide a tiny bit of comfort at least, even in Sherlock's unconsciousness.
Sedated, she knows, artificial coma, and yet it is not certain if her husband's best friend - her friend, too - will ever wake again, or will ever be able to breathe on his own again, lest alone speak.
Speak.
Mary is aware of how much this is tormenting John who feels guilty because he has not seen it coming, because he has not been able to protect Sherlock, to shove him out of the way, to… When she only thinks about what her husband must be going through right now, sitting in there, in this room, tears start to well up in her eyes.
One in a million, another doctor has informed her. The chance of survival in such wounds is one in one million, and yet Sherlock has survived. Has survived so far.
Mary is unwilling to believe that he will give up now.
But then, it may no longer be a question of being willing to give up or determined not to, but rather one of how much more Sherlock's body can take, how much more until his transport, as he keeps referring to it, simply shuts down.
And if this happens, not even John will be able to do anything against it, Mary knows. And it will rip him apart.
Of course he has seen people die before, in Afghanistan, his comrades, maybe even from wounds similar to this one. Has seen them bleed out, suffocate, die in agony, die quickly.
He has even watched his best friend die once, commit suicide directly in front of him, and Mary has of course noticed what this has done to John.
Losing Sherlock a second time, witnessing his final seconds, his struggle, his…
She cannot tell with certainty that this will not break her husband. Because it will, probably.
John is about to break already, desperate, sure, almost sure, that Sherlock will never recover, that he will die, will not even wake up. She can see it all, so very clearly, by simply watching John stoop over the bed, cling to the pale hand.
John doesn't believe that Sherlock is going to survive that.
oOo
He does, however, because his vitals do not decline, his heart does not simply stop, and although he still looks like death warmed over, the doctors decide to lighten the sedation.
It takes time, a lot of time, as Mary witnesses from outside of the room, but finally, Sherlock does wake.
As soon as he is asleep again, only minutes later, John emerges for a few moments, almost beaming at Mary, relief softening his frown lines, because he, too, has realised that this is a first step.
Extubation would be the second one.
John still doesn't leave the hospital, doesn't even leave the room, most of the time, only for one quick meal in the cafeteria during which Mary always joins him, during which he, in between a few bites, apologises for not being there for her, for not spending time with her, for not…
Mary always tells him to shut up because she knows that, if anything at all, John's presence might be able to help Sherlock, and his recovery is what she longs for, too.
She doesn't even know if John believes her, but then, she is too worried to care. Too worried about both Sherlock and John. One without the other, she has realised as soon as Sherlock has come back from the dead for the frist time, is nothing.
Weaning begins, and, against all odds, Sherlock seems to be doing fine, seems to get used to breathing again.
John cries in her arms by the time the ventilator has been replaced by a simple breathing mask, and Mary feels inclined to join in.
None of them mentions that Sherlock hasn't even tried to utter a sound up to this point, hasn't even tried to complain or to deduce, to say anything at all.
Maybe will never do so again, the thought keeps nagging at Mary's hope.
oOo
Days pass.
Days in which John does nothing else but sitting at Sherlock's bedside, and in which Sherlock doesn't do much more but sleeping. Sleeping is good, John tells her whenever he comes outside for a bit, to pull her into a hug and not let go again, sleeping means gaining strength, recovering.
He never mentions that he finds it unsettling, that Sherlock is sleeping too much, that something might still be wrong.
He doesn't need to say so, because Mary can see it all in his face.
oOo
One week passes, and they both keep worrying, and Sherlock keeps sleeping, still breathing with assistance, but breathing.
It is not until then, until John and Mary once more are standing in the corridor passing by Sherlock's room, exchanging a few quick words about how Sherlock is, how Mrs Hudson is doing who is worrying sick about her tenant, about what will happen to the one responsible, that something happens.
John glances towards the room every few seconds, scanning Sherlock, scanning the readings on the monitors, scanning the sleeping and frail figure.
Mary needs all of her skills to convince him to accompany her to the cafeteria, to finally eat something.
It is, as it turns out later, a good decision. Or at least not a wrong one.
John immediately stiffens and threatens to crush Mary's fingers as a nurse suddenly comes striding towards them, determinedly, but not running.
Dead, is the first thing that, ironically, comes to Mary's mind, too late to do anything, that's why she's not in a hurry.
She doesn't even need to look at John to understand that he's thinking the same.
Before John, however, can open his mouth, the nurse has addressed them: "The patient's asking for you."
John freezes opposite of Mary, and Mary feels a smile spread on her face.
"Asking," John croaks, his fingers now trembling against Mary's.
The nurse nods. "Yes, asking. You are 'John', aren't you?"
Time seems to slow down as Mary studies John's face.
Fear, worry, brows knitted together, jaw set.
Then surprise, hope fluttering, his nostrils flaring, his jaw still set.
Followed by realisation as the nurse mentions his name, realisation, by utter joy, his eyes widening, his lips trembling, his breathing coming in quick, short gasps.
Realisation.
Mary smiles and attempts to blink her tears away.
It doesn't even take two seconds before John is on his feet, his meal forgotten, his face still purposefully composed.
"Sorry," he chokes before not too softly pushing the nurse out of the way, breaking into a run before he has even left the cafeteria.
oOo
Mary follows more slowly, a few minutes later.
This time, after one nurse has told her it's okay, she changes into scrubs and carefully, very carefully, enters Sherlock's hospital room.
John has been crying, she can easily see that, his eyes are red and raw, and there are drops of liquid on the covers.
She smiles. And approaches the bed fully.
"Hey," she whispers, sitting down on the edge of the bed since John is occupying the only chair in the room.
Sherlock's heavy eyelids flicker as she carefully rests her hand against his cheek.
"Ma… ry," he manages, not more than a whisper, incredibly quiet, and incredibly hoarse, but it is enough.
For John, who keeps squeezing Sherlock's right hand and has it pressed against his cheek, and for her.
"How… long… un… til…," Sherlock breathes quietly, slowly, moving his eyes downwards.
The neck brace.
John chuckles breathlessly for a moment and shakes his head. "A bit longer, Sherlock," he croaks, for the first time since it has happened pronouncing his best friend's name without his voice breaking.
A bit longer.
Mary looks at John, then back to Sherlock, his eyes closed once more.
She smiles and, surprisingly, John's lips flicker into an echo of a smile, too.
"He'll be okay," she whispers into his ear, and he nods.
"We've missed you," is the last thing she mumbles, bending down to Sherlock and breathing a soft kiss to his forehead - for once he is too weak to recoil and protest -, before she gets up and leaves again, determined to give her husband and his best friend a bit of time on their own.
oOo
She watches from outside once more, John's relieved expression, the life that has suddenly returned to his eyes, his hand still firmly gripping Sherlock's.
One in a million.
One without the other - unthinkable.
But then, John should have known that Sherlock would be the one.
Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think.
And a short remark for those of you who were wondering: Yes, it is possible to survive a shot to the neck, with a lot of luck. All my knowledge concerning this is, however, based on a few newspaper articles about people who had enough luck.