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I'm Still Here
Part 4
xxx
They manage. Not great, in John's opinion, but good enough.
It won't be long now, that have been the doctor's words to John upon discharging Sherlock. Not long. Days, merely. Sherlock's heart is finally failing, the evidence for it clearly visible. Even for John, especially for John. Exhaustion, paleness, shallow breathing. Pain.
And yet, Sherlock's hanging on. Somehow. More or less.
It breaks John's heart to have to coax at least a bit of food into Sherlock even when he's still half-asleep or too exhausted to take more than a few bites. It breaks his heart each time he notices the swelling on Sherlock's ankles and shins, evidence of his failing heart. And his heart breaks each time he has to administer morphine as the only thing he can still do.
Oddly enough, there are the funny moments that hurt the most, the moments when he is almost able to pretend that everything is as it has been once.
When he's reading out files of cold cases to Sherlock, cases no-one has ever solved, and Sherlock, his eyes mostly closed, either on the sofa, if he can manage, or in his bed, deduces, just as he's always done it.
When they are watching telly - or rather, John is watching something, and Sherlock happens to be on the sofa, commenting in a hoarse voice, remarks that make John laugh or sigh in exasperation. At least until Sherlock turns silent, silent and still, and John finds himself in his armchair, his heart pounding in his ears, staring at his best friend's form on the sofa, nearly disappearing behind pillows and blankets. His heartbeat becomes even louder in his ears in the excrutiatingly long seconds it takes him to realise that Sherlock has simply nodded off, too exhausted to keep his eyes open any longer. Simply sleeping.
xxx
They don't do much, actually. Sherlock is too weak to do anything else than hobble, heavily leaning on John and panting, the few steps from his bed to the sofa or to the toilet, and John is eager to not leave him alone, not for long.
"You didn't… put milk in… your tea," Sherlock remarks once, his own cuppa in his trembling hands.
John tries to shrug it off. "We're a bit short of milk. My doctor told me months ago that I should be more careful about what I'm eating and drinking…"
"John," Sherlock mumbles. "'m not…stupid. Why don't you… go and… buy some milk?"
Alone the thought of leaving makes John sick. Almost violently, he puts down his mug and causes the tea to spill. "I'm fine without milk in my tea," he says, still intending to avoid the topic.
Sherlock gives a quiet wince as he carefully sits up a bit. "You don't… don't have to sit… here… all the time…," he breathes. "'m not… going any… where."
Of course John notices the thin sheen of sweat forming on Sherlock's forehead. "But how do I know that?" he mutters more to himself, but Sherlock has heard him.
"John…" he begins again, interrupting himself for the sake of breathing.
No, is all John can think. "Fine," is what he says. "I'll go. I'll be back in a while."
He makes it down the stairs and almost collapses onto the first step.
He doesn't want to leave Sherlock. He doesn't want Sherlock to leave.
Not even for the tiniest amount of time.
That is why he is back upstairs only minutes later, approaching the sofa and his prone best friend.
What if he leaves and Sherlock dies during his absence? What if Sherlock is alone, in the end? No. This isn't going to happen, John decides. He is not going to let it happen.
"Back… already?" Sherlock greets him, sounding almost half-asleep. "Told you. Not… going anywhere."
The only sound John can make with the lump in his throat is a huff. Sherlock blinks at him sleepily as he readjusts the blankets.
"Neither am I," he tells his best friend. "Not even for milk."
xxx
Sherlock is covered in cold sweat after John has woken him up from a nightmare that has sent him shifting and his pulse racing, the second one that night.
"'m fine," Sherlock all but stammers while he attempts to control his breathing.
"Slowly, Sherlock, slowly," John reminds him, his voice steady, as are his hands he is resting on Sherlock's shoulders to prevent him from trying to sit up. His insides, however, are leaping up and down, with his heart in the leading role.
A nightmare. As if it hadn't been bad enough already.
By the time Sherlock has calmed down enough for John to relax a tiny bit, he is still drenched in sweat and cold.
Softly wiping the greying hair from his friend's face, John makes a decision. "Stay here. I'll be back in a minute."
He is, in fact, faster than that, bringing a cloth und a bowl full of lukewarm water.
Sherlock doesn't tense as John starts to wash his face and neck and then arms as gently as possible, removes his soaked shirt and replaces it with a clean one. He complies, yes, but barely supports John's actions, simply being too drained, too exhausted.
"You… don't have to do… that," he says flatly, his head resting limply against John's shoulder as John fiddles with the t-shirt.
"I know," is John's only reply. "I'm your friend, remember? You won't get me to leave you."
Even in the semi-darkness of the bedroom he can see Sherlock's tiny smile.
John remains seated on the bed, not wanting to let go of Sherlock, somehow being haunted by the irrational fear that Sherlock might break if he put him back down on the pillows.
So he doesn't.
xxx
"Bad night?" Sherlock asks in the morning, noticing John massaging his neck and shoulders.
John shrugs.
His friend attempts to stare at John, to lock his gaze on him. "You should… sleep in the nights…" he states.
Sleep. How could he sleep?
"It's not heal… thy," Sherlock continues, "and you can't… help me… any…"
"Shut up," John interrupts him. "Shut the fuck up. Do you know what you're talking about? Do you seriously think sleep matters to me now? You're my best friend, and I will be damned if I leave you alone now!"
Once again, Sherlock is silenced, taken aback. "John…" he mumbles feebly.
"I said: Shut up," John repeats, not looking at his friend. Avoiding his gaze, in fact.
"I… John…" A cough interrupts him, a cough which sends shivers down John's spine. Now he does turn to look at Sherlock, almost unearthly pale.
"Breathe," John tells him firmly.
But of course Sherlock makes for speaking as soon as he is able to draw breath again. "I… I think I… feel… honoured," he manages. "You…"
John flinches when another coughing fit seems to begin, causing Sherlock to make a horrible wheezing sound. All John can do is sit there and watch, gripping Sherlock's hand, willing him to breathe.
Which he does, finally.
"No need… to… to worry," Sherlock chokes out, his skin clammy and cold, his hand slack in John's. "Got the… best… doctor… I could… wish… for…"
And although Sherlock's eyelids flutter and slip close only seconds later, John knows that he will never forget those words. Because he understands what Sherlock has meant, understands even those words Sherlock didn't say.
And he also knows that he will stay, until the end, no matter how much he is aching. Aching all over, even inside.
xxx
