Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^

Thank you to Brown Eyed Girl-62, sweetmarly, and browni/brunette for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!

Trigger warning: CPR and patient death described.

Chapter 9: Should Be

The compressions distorted the rib cage to an unsettling angle. John would have called it unnatural, except the rib cage was naturally flexible. It wasn't built for the beating that CPR normally delivered, but a broken rib was almost always better than death.

He counted the compressions in his head, pausing at the appropriate times for the resident beside him to give the patient the recommended two breaths through the CPR mouthpiece and bag. As a younger doctor he had half mumbled the CPR count during training drills, but with experience he learned he was only wasting necessary breath. The force and focus needed to manually attempt to force a patient's heart back into rhythm was a workout and, if he was fortune enough to have assistance, his partner should be counting compressions as well.

John remembered feeling sick the first time he had witnessed CPR on a patient. Everything about the situation, the sharp stoic orders issued by the attending, the cracking of ribs, and the rapid compression of the rib cage, spoke of the seriousness of the moment; a life hung in the balance. That patient had not made it, and John remembered empathizing with the doctor who had to make the call; there was no harder call to make.

John pulled back when a nurse called, "Clear!" and lowered the shock paddles into place. His patient's body bowed with the intensity of the shock. Everyone in the room held their breath for a moment…but no steady heartbeat materialized. John resumed compressions and ordered more epinephrine and other medications. The patient, Jane Morris, had been recovering from a hip replacement surgery. She was seventy three, but in good health. It was an extensive surgery however, and there was always the risk of complications.

When John paused to allow the patient to receive two breaths he glanced and the clock and frowned. They were going on fifteen minutes… He had called time of death many times since his early days, but it was never easy… One more shock.

John pulled clear when the nurse called out and anxiously watched the heart monitors…nothing. "I'm calling time of death," John announced clearly, then glanced at the clock once more, "10:38am."

There was a collective sigh and one resident muttered a quiet but emphatic, "Damn!" which John whole heartedly concurred with. He squeezed Jane's hand once, and then reached down to lift the sheet over her head. He was pleased to see there was relatively little cleanup to attend to. The residents and staff in attendance had quickly ferreted needles into waiting sharps containers and the paper and plastic of wrapping into the bin.

"I'll tell the family," John announced, and many of the staff around him nodded or murmured their thanks. Several nurses squeezed his shoulder as he passed. John nodded with a pained smile each time and returned the gesture. Losing patients was never easy, but it was part of the job. A healthy, well-balanced team was there for each other, and John had no doubt he would hear about this in the break room several times as people processed their memories and emotional reactions to the death. John would too, but first he had to inform the family.

Mrs. Morris was survived by her husband, Matthew, their two daughters Martha and Janet, and five grandchildren. Matthew and Janet were waiting in a nearby lounge, having been detained when they'd come to visit Jane. John sighed and tried not to count his steps as he transversed the short hallway to said lounge.

Twin faces of worry met his gaze as soon as he stepped into the room. Both Mr. Morris and Janet rose immediately and walked towards him. Janet's eyes were filled with tears before he even spoke.

"I'm Dr. John Watson," he introduced himself, shaking both of their hands. He wanted to them to understand what was happening as best as they could, but he also didn't want to draw out their suspense, which must be agonizing. "I was part of the medical team working with Mrs. Morris. I'm very sorry to inform you that she just passed away, likely from complications from her surgery."

As soon as the words 'I'm sorry,' were out of his mouth Janet burst into tears, sobbing loudly into her father's shoulder. Mr. Morris was quiet, but his face crumpled and his eyes filled with tears as well. John guided them both back to their seats and spoke softly with them for a few minutes. He explained that the exact cause of Mrs. Morris's cardiac arrest was unknown, but listed the most likely culprits.

"I want to request an autopsy," Mr. Morris said quietly, but adamantly. "We need to know what happened."

John nodded solemnly. "I'll see that it's ordered right away." He assured them both that they could remain in the lounge as long as they needed to, and that they could also flag down a nurse in the next twenty minutes if they wanted to spend anytime saying goodbyes before Mrs. Morris was transferred to the morgue. They both nodded and thanked him. As quietly as he could manage, John left the room.

As soon as he had sat down in the break room, John fished out his phone and called Mary, hoping to catch her on a break.

"Hello, John," Mary greeted him after the third ring, "How are you?" John could hear the smile in her voice and he felt his features softening in response, only now realizing he'd been frowning since he left the Morris family in the patient lounge.

John sighed before speaking, prompting Mary to ask, in a much more focused voice, "What's wrong?" Her concern caused a fleeting smile to dance over his features. Mary was a very dependable and loyal person, both qualities he found highly attractive.

"I lost a patient about twenty minutes ago."

"I'm sorry, John," she said in a sigh, her words breathy. "How did the family take it?"

John shrugged even though he knew she couldn't see him. "As well as could be expected."

Mary hummed softly in response. "Have I told you that Sarah finally brought on some more staff to help fill in your hours."

"How are they doing?" John asked, grateful for the change in topic. Mary likely would have told him about this over dinner, but, working in the same field, she knew the importance of taking a break and distracting yourself after tough calls.

There was a long pause before Mary answered, "I think she specifically advertised for a mad doctor."

"Oh?" John asked, intrigued. Mary was a seasoned nurse and not many things shook her or surprised her.

"Dr. Hutchison," Mary sighed in exasperation. "She's a skilled doctor and she seemed to be a lovely person with good boundaries at first, but now… Every time I turn around I see or hear her whispering to Sarah about this staff member or that one. I only caught small snippets of their conversation but it seems like every time someone so much as glances at her, she takes offence!"

"For what?" John asked, leaning back in his seat, and cradling his phone close to his ear with one hand.

"I don't know! It sounds like she misinterprets the looks she gets or what people say to her. I'm not saying that being a new doctor on staff can't be difficult, but I think she's inventing these insults in her head. Just today, I overheard she was insisting that Dr. Delany was the only mature person on staff! I don't think she'll last a month at this rate."

John's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "Don't let her catch you talking like this, then."

Mary chuckled softly. "No worries on that front, I'm walking back from lunch now, I'm still blocks away from the clinic. How is Mr. Hawthorne doing?"

"Better," John replied with a smile. "He's calmer most days, and talks about the future more often now. I think he's trying to focus on where he can best use his knowledge."

"No doctors without borders for him eh?"

John shook his head, thinking of the poor conditions, limited supplies, and the types of conditions such doctors often faced. "No, but a good doctor here at home is always needed."

"True enough," Mary agreed. There was a brief pause before she added. "Do you want to grab food out tonight?"

"Sounds good. Where would you like to go?" John asked.

"There's a nice little Italian place close by," Mary offered. "I think it's called…. La Piazza."

"I'll get a candle for the table, it's more romantic."

"I'm not his date."

John swallowed and nodded, willing the memory away. "I'll meet you there an hour after my shift?"

"I'll be there," Mary confirmed. They said their goodbyes and ended the call. John stretched, looked around him, and let out a long breath. The day was far from over, and it was time to get back to it.

Mary met John outside the restaurant. She had changed from her work scrubs into a soft pink dress with black leggings; he could see the edges of the dress peeking out around her tan coat. She greeted him with a hug and ushered him inside, out of the bitter winter winds.

They were seated by the fireplace, and John was more grateful than was reasonable that the table did not have a candle. Once their drinks were ordered, they were left to peruse the menu at their leisure. After a few moment's Mary's voice broke the silence, "You've been at Charing Cross for a while now, is it everything you hoped it would be?"

John nodded and smiled reflexively. "I'm very happy there. There's always something new happening, it's challenging and rewarding, and I have the opportunity to help mentor the residents."

Mary sipped her water and stared at John over the rim. Her gaze was penetrating. John saw the muscles of her throat work as she swallowed, then she spoke. "But?"

John frowned. All the things he had said were true…but no job in the world could simulate the cases he worked with Sherlock… and it wasn't just the cases he missed. His chest tightened and he found himself looking down at the table top. He was trying so hard to move forward, but Mary, one of his newest friends, had seen through him in an instant.

Mary's hand came forward to cover his and John forced himself to look up, blinking quickly. "I'm sorry if I'm bringing up a sore subject." She leaned forward towards him, speaking softly. "I know what it's like, trying to start over again in a way you never expected. Not in exactly the same way," she admitted, "But I know enough to understand the pressure you might feel to put on a good face, both to ease your own pain, and to, by any means necessary, convince the rest of the world to stop looking at you with pity or concern." Her fingers curled around John's wrist and her thumb began to move slowly back and forth over the skin of his arm. "I'll change the topic if you'd like me to, but I wanted you to know that you could talk if you wanted to. I don't judge and I'm very good at keeping secrets."

John nodded, returning her gentle smile with his own, grateful for her understanding. He hadn't really talked about his circumstances to anyone. Work wasn't the place and so many of his friends: Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, all their lives were too closely tied with Sherlock's… It wasn't that he never meant to speak with them again, but recently the thought of speaking to them had been too painful.

Mary slowly withdrew her hand as the waiter approached to deliver their wine and take their orders. John hadn't intended to speak, but when they were alone again the words were out of his mouth before he could think better of them.

"I've been trying for years to get people to mind their own business when it comes to Sherlock and me, but it never worked…" He shook his head and paused to sip his wine. "I don't know why I ever thought it would."

"You mean how people insinuated that you were a couple?" Mary asked

John nodded, staring fixedly into his wine glass.

"How was it, really?" Mary's voice was still soft, and her face was calm.

John sighed, his eyes clouding with memories. "We were everything but, if I'm honest. At least I think we were." His voice was as soft as Mary's had been, reflecting the hurt he still felt. "We spent all of our time together. If I wasn't running mad all over London with him, or sometimes farther, then we were at home and I was trying to convince him not to blow up the flat."

Mary chuckled softly and John couldn't help but smile at the image. "I don't think that was his actual goal, but Sherlock and his boredom took a toll on everyone and everything in their wake." John continued.

"I remember reading about the thumbs in the fridge on your blog," Mary replied, sipping her wine again.

John smiled fondly, despite himself. "And the eyes in the microwave." For the love of everything sacred John never suspected he would ever miss body parts in the kitchen…but despite his gratitude at the reduced blood borne pathogens risk… he did miss it, and everything else about Sherlock.

"That's why you started cutting back hours at the surgery?" Mary asked "Because of the time you spent with Sherlock?"

John nodded. "He never stops working when he's on a case, he won't sleep or eat for days sometimes."

"Which meant you wouldn't either," Mary supplied helpfully.

John nodded again, and then smiled ruefully. "I needed to sleep sometime, so I cut my hours." Resentment and self-doubt bubbled up inside John at the recollections. Sherlock had never asked for or even encouraged John's attentions, and still John had been so run away with his feelings, so resigned to a close friendship and partnership, that he'd willingly stretched himself thin for someone who, as it appeared, did not care about him in the slightest.

"Was there any quiet time between cases and experiments?" Mary asked, and John shuddered.

"Those were the worst times. It was everything we could do to prevent Sherlock from smoking himself to oblivion or shooting holes in the walls to alleviate boredom."

"Did he really?" Mary asked with a wry smile, which John couldn't help but return. Sherlock had forever warped his sense of humor.

"He really did," John confirmed, "With my gun no less; he shot a smiley face into Mrs. Hudson's wallpaper."

Mary almost grinned at him over her wine glass. "And the police were too familiar with him to respond to gunshots at 221B?"

John shrugged, his expression somewhat wistful. "More or less."

Mary's hand was on John's again, squeezing softly as she asked, "What separated you from him?"

John flinched at the words, almost pulling away. Mary started to apologize, but John held up a hand to stop her. He'd seen enough patients, and suffered enough of his own painful experiences, to know that avoiding painful experiences was counterproductive more often than not.

"He asked me to leave." The words were clipped as anger and resentment resurfaced.

"It's distracting. I thought I could ignore it, but it's always in my way."

"Just like that?" Mary asked, leaning forward on her folded arms.

"I don't want you here anymore!"

"Just like that," John agreed reaching for his wine, hoping it would fortify him.

"Damn," Mary muttered softly, staring at the tablecloth for a moment.

"It was past time," John assured her. "He has his work, and as fun as it was working with him, I do have my own career to think about."

Mary's face softened as she looked up at John. "It's not easy, losing someone you love."

John immediately flushed with anger and embarrassment. "I don't love Sherlock Holmes," he insisted. The refusal was automatic and adamant. He knew it wouldn't stop people from speculating, it never had, but being honest about this part of it, to anyone else right now felt like too much. He'd been honest with Mary about everything else, but this part of the injury was too fresh, too raw. He couldn't go there right now. Maybe when he no longer loved Sherlock… but not now.

"John Watson, look at me." Mary's words were sharp.

John's eyes found hers slowly, reluctantly.

Mary searched John's face, pinning him with her gaze and seeming to look through all the layers that weighed him down. "I know that you loved him the first time I met you." She smiled slightly and shook her head. "You should've seen the look on your face when you said his name."

John's lips parted in a pained grimace. Everything in him revolted at the idea of a confession, when his last confession had resulted in so much pain, but Mary had been true to her word, and had never once seemed to judge or pressure him. At length he replied, "Love isn't always enough, Mary."

She lifted her hand and her fingers caressed his cheek as she whispered sadly, "No…but it always should be."

John lifted his hands to Mary's and held them, unable to respond, but grateful for her company.

John stared at the ceiling, once again chasing sleep. His dinner with Mary had gone well. She was excellent company and despite the charged discussion early in the evening, their time together had not felt awkward or strained. Even so his mind kept coming back to what they had discussed. Images of his partnership with Sherlock danced through his head, reminding him of everything he'd lost.

John rolled onto his side, and his eyes flickered up to his phone, currently resting on the small cabinet beside his bed. He thought of all the people that he'd been ignoring. Other than Mary he hadn't spoken to anyone outside of his work in weeks… It really was time to fix that.

With a resigned sigh John reached out and picked up his phone. It was late, but Greg often worked late, and even when he wasn't working he kept his phone close in case a sudden call came in. Sherlock's words from so many years ago rose up, unbidden, as so many memories had before:

"That's why she's going to leave him, you know. She's not satisfied being his second priority."

John had seen Sherlock's point, even then, but that had only made him think less of Greg's now ex-wife. Greg sacrificed so many things for his job, and all because he genuinely wanted to make the world a safer place than it was. John knew his perspective was skewed. He had…did love Sherlock for his similar devotions, but John had also been with Sherlock the majority of the time that he was working, and he had…different expectations than a spouse would.

Unwilling to delve any further into that line of thinking, John scrolled through his contacts until he saw Greg's name. Greg had sent John scores of texts and calls since his separation from Sherlock, and all of them had gone unanswered. They'd started out simple enough.

John, you okay, mate?

John, please pick up the phone.

Seriously, why aren't you with Sherlock? What's going on?

Whatever this is, I don't like it.

Greg's messages never became urgent, probably because Sherlock and Mycroft both had been able to assure him that, while John continuously failed to return Greg's messages, he was, in fact, safe. More or less. What John hadn't expected was Greg's shift from prying to concern for Sherlock.

You should see the state of the flat, John… it's worse than it ever was before you joined him.

I don't think Sherlock's eating… he's lost weight again.

John, I can't even get him to take cases now; something is seriously wrong…

John had seen these texts, but he hadn't let himself dwell on them. Sherlock was none of his concern, not any longer. …If Sherlock had been truly isolated, John's conscience might have prevailed upon him to do more, but as it was Sherlock had Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and Mycroft looking out for him. Mrs. Hudson was much more formidable than most people would give her credit for, Greg had been looking after Sherlock for years, and Mycroft, for all of his foibles, really did love his brother, and would never, if it was within his power, let anything happen to Sherlock.

For his own sanity John had looked at those texts as little as possible, and had deleted the voicemails before he could even listen to them. Sherlock had survived for years without John, John's absence could hardly mean so much to him now, especially since he had dismissed John so easily.

John's suspicions had been quickly justified by some of Greg's most recent texts.

Sherlock is acting strange… He was working a case for me today and he thanked Molly for her help.

John, Sherlock actually came with me to file a report the day I asked him! What's going on with him?

Now I know he's ill, the new detective on-scene contaminated some evidence and he didn't even complain!

John thought very little of these most recent texts. He didn't see anything in them beyond Greg's desire for an explanation and, perhaps, a desire for a return to normalcy. If Sherlock thanked someone, was cooperative, or didn't verbally eviscerate someone, it was probably because that was the most expedient thing to do for the case, or because he was distracted by something he deemed "more important."

John sighed softly and typed out a message.

Hey. Sorry I've been out of touch lately.

Less than a minute later, John's phone pinged with a response.

John! Good to hear from you! Where have you been hiding?

What, Mycroft hasn't told you?

Greg and Mycroft had been a couple for some time now, but John suspected only their closest friends knew. They were both very discrete. They fit well together, both were highly focused on their career, and both worked in the endless effort to save Sherlock from himself. They seemed happy, and John was glad for them. Slightly resentful of their good fortune at the moment, but glad all the same.

…I only asked if you were safe, John. I didn't want to invade your privacy, but you were just suddenly gone.

I know, I'm sorry. I switched jobs and I moved, there's just been a lot of changes recently.

There was a long pause, and John's gut twisted with unease. He didn't want Greg to pry, even though John's abrupt departure and complete lack of communication somewhat warranted an explanation, especially since Greg had become a good friend over the years.

Greg, however, seemed to be feeling merciful, as his next reply was simply:

Do you want to watch a game down at the O'Brian pub sometime?

John smiled in relief and gave a quick reply.

Sounds good. How about this Saturday.

See you at 7?

See you then.

Good to hear from you, John. Have a good night.

Night. :)

John set his phone down and rolled over, trying to find a comfortable position. The ache that he'd grown so accustomed to, however, was still there, and sleep did not come easy.