I don't own any of the characters.
Enjoy.
I'm Still Here
He has never thought it would end like this. He has never thought that one day he would have to make a call in order for his best friend to be hospitalised. Well, not that it is surprising in general, but it hasn't happened in a while, and since they are no longer chasing criminals on a regular base, it simply isn't supposed to happen anymore.
But, apparently, it has.
He should have known for a while that something was amiss. Shortness of breath, even just due to climbing a few stairs, looking absolutely fatigued and exhausted. The pills he has found once in the bathroom, laying at the sink as if forgotten. But then, his time as a practicing doctor has been over for a while, and one never knows with Sherlock Holmes.
He remembers his initial reaction after he finally has found out. Shock. Disbelief. Followed by the realisation that it has to be true. The only possible explanation.
Heart failure. The heart losing its ability to provide body and organs with both blood and oxygen. The heart his best friend has always denied to possess is failing, giving up. Just like that.
And now John is sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a cold and too bright hospital corridor, not waiting for news anymore, but simply for the end.
xxx
Heart failure. He still finds it difficult to believe.
They have had a long conversation about Sherlock's condition, he remembers, shortly after John has confronted him with the truth.
Medication, beta-blockers, nitrates, diuretics, nothing seems to be taking effect any more, and it's only a matter of time.
"Have you ever… ahem… considered a transplantation?," he has thrown in, without thinking it through, simply looking for a way out.
Sherlock had almost laughed at him. "Transplantation? Really, John? Who'd put me on that list? At my age, with my history of drug abuse and smoking? Really. Ridiculous."
And he has been right, as much as it hurts John. This one time, there is no way out.
xxx
John has moved back in again, not out of pity, as he ensures Sherlock. And it's true, his motivation is not rooted in compassion. Fear. John is afraid. It is the fear that his friend will simply fade away, die alone in his flat, suffer on his own, with nobody around to be there for him. It is the fear of letting Sherlock down, of leaving him, one last time. John can't bear the thought of himself not being with Sherlock in his last few minutes.
Moving back to 221B feels like moving back into his own past. Their past, the days when they both were so much younger. Young and healthy, full of energy, hope and recklessness.
The symptoms have increased slowly, but steadily. Living upstairs is no longer less than an inconvenience, no, it takes effort on Sherlock's side to manage the stairs to their - once his, now their again - flat. It even takes effort to breathe at night, as he has told John one evening, quite late, and this simple remark, not even meant to be a complaint, has left John almost frightened to death. What if Sherlock simply stopped breathing in his sleep? Three pillows are now helping him to breathe at night.
Maybe it would have been for the better, he thinks now. Quick. Painless. Easy. Without suffering.
Because suffering it has been, what John has seen. Sherlock on the floor, unable to draw breath, gasping for air. Cold, clammy skin, low blood pressure. Acute decompensated heart failure.
The ambulance seemingly has needed ages to finally arrive. In time. This time. John doesn't even want to think about the next time. Or the time after that.
He hides his face in his hands. And he knows that, rather sooner than later, he will have to face the death of his best friend.
No. Not now. He needs to focus on the moment, not speculate about what might or will happen. Sherlock is alive, he is being helped right now. In good hands. That is what John has to believe in.
xxx
John is not surprised that it has taken Mycroft not even an hour to arrive at the hospital.
Mycroft still seems his usual self, as always, even now, in old age, dressed in a suit, carrying an umbrella, everything still impeccable. Apart from his long since grey hair and the deepened wrinkles in his face, he might still be the same man he has been years, decades ago.
"Thank you for phoning me," is his only greeting to John.
John simply nods. Mycroft has known about his brother's condition, of course, for a much longer time than John. He has never completely figured out Mycroft's position nowadays, but he still seems in charge of something, still powerful and of high renown. It can always be helpful to have Mycroft here.
They sit in silence. It is difficult to find words when there is nothing left to say.
Surprising or simply devastating, it doesn't take one of the doctors - so young, John cannot help but think - long to approach them, with information. John stiffens - what news can there be now? Redemption is beyond, the only hope that is still left is the one for painlessness.
"He's sleeping now," the nameless young man informs them. Sleeping. Because of pain medication and sedation, as John assumes. "If you'd like, you can see him."
xxx
And so John moves from the long corridor to the hospital room, his gaze never leaving the only bed inside and its occupant.
It is not only now that he realises how frail Sherlock has become, how old and tired, simply tired, he looks. Worn. Ill. His face is almost gaunt, the shadows under his eyes dark and deep, his hand with the IV cannula thin, too much so now. Watching him breathing is reassuring, on the one hand - no respiratory distress any longer, but then… there's a mask over his face, clouding unsteadily -and that's the worst part - which each exhale.
He is not in pain, thanks to the medication which has been administered. Palliative care. Nothing more. Not yet on the verge of death - of which he will not be coming back this time -, but nonetheless dying, ever so slowly.
Suddenly, John feels like choking. It hasn't been too difficult to keep his emotions under control, back at home, in 221B, but now, here, with no-one watching him except for Mycroft in the chair close to the window, he has to fight tears and grief back.
"I guess I…uh… I just need a bit of air," he tells Mycroft. "I'll be back any second."
And so, with a last glance at Sherlock, he leaves the hospital room and walks down a few corridors, blinking hard and biting his lip. It is so hard to face the fact that he is about to lose his best friend.
xxx
When he comes back a few minutes later, when he opens the door of Sherlock's room again, he perceives something which has never been meant for his eyes. Just a short glance, that is enough.
Mycroft Holmes, the former British government, has shoved his chair close, as close as possible, to his little brother's hospital bed and holds one of his hands. Sherlock's eyes flicker to John as he is about to enter, and a half-smile crosses his face when John turns back and retreats to the corridor.
They are just brothers, after all. No matter their family name or history, their intellect or anything which might have been between them in younger years - Sherlock is still Mycroft's little brother. And John knows, has probably, deep in his heart, known for a long time, that Mycroft will miss Sherlock almost as much as John will.
xxx
When Mycroft emerges again and reappears in the cold corridor, he has only one sentence to say: "He wants to go home."
A final wish. A parting wish. John presses his eyes shut to prevent the tears from falling. Finally, he nods slowly. "Then we will take him home."
xxx
Sherlock tries to smile at John when he approaches the bed once again, Mycroft having left in order to organise Sherlock's discharge from hospital. The oxygen mask is still on his face - not a good sign, John realises at once. If somehow possible, Sherlock would have taken it off immediately. Breathing must be challenging, now.
John smiles, too. "Breathing isn't so boring anymore, is it?" Banter. Don't talk about anything serious.
Sherlock's smile deepens beneath the mask, but exhaustion quickly takes over. He closes his eyes for a moment. John grabs one of his hands. Whether for Sherlock's comfort or his own - he doesn't know. And, right now, he doesn't even care anymore.
"Mycroft has told me," he continues. "We're going home."
John feels Sherlock's weak grip. "Thank… you," he mutters from beneath the mask.