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And now, as always, enjoy.
Not Meant to Be
13
It didn't feel like John. It felt… different. Different.
Not John.
"Sherlock?"
The voice wasn't John's either. John… The last time he remembered, John had still been here.
Slowly, he dared to blink his eyes open, meeting other ones, but not John's. Not John… Mary.
He felt… not good. Tired. Everything hurt. And cold. And no John.
"J…," he began, interrupting himself to breathe. "Where… J'n…"
Mary squeezed his hand. "John is taking a shower, Sherlock, he will be back soon. He…"
What?
"John…," he made again, more understandable this time. And more urgent. "Where…"
"It's OK, Sherlock," he heard Mary again. "He'll come back, I promise. It's OK, it's fine…"
No, it wasn't. Not without John. Where had he gone, and why hadn't he told Sherlock? He didn't understand.
"J'n…," he whispered again, allowing his eyes to close.
If John wasn't here, then there was no reason to be awake.
xxx
John didn't feel refreshed after his shower. Really not. The full impact of his worry was crashing down on him again as soon as he entered Sherlock's room, as soon as he resumed his position in a chair next to bed, and exchanged a quick glance with Mary.
"He woke for a bit," she told him quietly, looking down at their friend. "Asked for you. He sounded…" She drew a deep breath. "He sounded panicked, and… and confused, and when I tried to explain to him that you weren't gone, that you would come back, that all was fine… I don't think he understood."
John remained silent at first, tempted to curse himself for giving in to the urge to take a shower. "And then?" he finally asked.
Mary shrugged. "He went back to sleep, I think. Or…"
Or lost consciousness, was what she had hesitated to say.
John rubbed his stinging eyes. "And still nobody knows the reason for his symptoms," he concluded bitterly.
Mary reached over and grabbed his hand, too. "Maybe…," she suggested carefully. "You said he was dreaming, maybe… maybe he was having a nightmare, and what you witnessed was some kind of… panic attack. Anxiety attack." She hesitated for a moment. "It just… It would seem possible, to me. He's always calmer when you're here."
But I was, John wanted to say, but didn't, in the end. Because maybe, Mary was right. And because if she was right, there was an explanation, a kind of, and what had happened yesterday evening would no longer be a herald of nearing death.
"Maybe," he simply replied.
x
"...and so, Mr Holmes, after your basilar skull fracture - which caused intracranial haemorrhage, bleeding in your brain," the doctor announced, his tone close to imprudent, talking about something that didn't seem too important right now, "which we had to stop surgically, but we were able to mend the damage and indeed stop the blood flow. As I said, after..."
John bit back a sigh and concentrated on Sherlock rather than on the doctor. Sherlock who was supposed to listen but looked as if he could hardly keep his eyes open, lest alone follow a complicated and rather frightening explanation containing lots of medical expressions. Not a problem for Sherlock, normally, but right now, after that night and in his condition and after having been woken rather rudely by the doctor... John honestly wasn't sure how much Sherlock actually understood, not even now, five days after he had woken up.
"…you started to show symptoms yesterday which closely resembled those of bacterial meningitis, so…" The doctor went on, not paying particular attention to Sherlock.
"…both the CT scan and the blood tests proved that it was not meningitis, however…"
As the doctor continued his speech, John watched Sherlock's eyelids droop with worry. It might have been amusing, once, seeing Sherlock nod off due to tedium, but right now, the only thing John could think about was that Sherlock was too… too… was too weak, too sick, to remain conscious for prolonged periods of time.
Particularly not after the last night.
His vitals were almost back to normal, heart rate still a bit high, blood pressure still low, but the fever was gone entirely, as was his difficulty with breathing.
Not meningitis. What then?
Nobody had a plausible explanation for the sudden appearance - and disappearance - of symptoms, not physically, at least. Mary's suggestion was still ghosting around in John's head, even now, more than two hours after she had left.
"…no serious complications, so far," the doctor's voice pulled John back into reality all of a sudden, not noticing that Sherlock had fallen asleep.
No serious complications. It was true, from a medical professional's point of view, no pneumonia, no ending up in vegetative state, no meningitis, just false alarm.
Not serious complications. It sounded so fine, so encouraging, but to John, it felt different. Maybe it was simply because the last night had left him shaken, had left him wondering what would have happened if they hadn't noticed the allergic reaction in time, what if…
Sherlock wasn't in immediate danger, yes, but he was far from fine. So far from fine.
Alright, as some doctor had put it. Alright. John still grimaced at the thought of this choice of phrasing. Clearly not.
Alright normally didn't entail difficulty talking, the words not coming out of Sherlock's mouth the way he had intended them to, and it didn't entail difficulty coordinating one's movements, moving at all. And alright wasn't Sherlock tiring so very easily, being awake for only a short amount of time.
Alright.
Time, John was told again, time. And: "Nothing physiotherapy and a speech therapist can't fix." And although John was likely to agree as a doctor, it still did nothing to ease his worry.
Then there were the headaches, having grown more prominent the third day, causing Sherlock to whimper now and then, and even in his sleep, leaving him restless then and tossing. Likely to subside, too, eventually, the doctors had said. And if they didn't... Well, pain medication. Medication Sherlock was now receiving anyway, to ease his headache.
"…unfortunately, you developed an allergic reaction to one of the antibiotics which led to…," the doctor's voice reached John's ears again.
Allergic reaction, yes. A so far unknown allergy to cefotaxime, causing a variety of symptoms which would have, untreated, led to an anaphylactic shock, as John was well aware of although nobody had had the guts to tell him. Sherlock did seem better now, the next day, asking Mary for John and John for something to drink after Mary had left and, surprisingly enough, for Mrs Hudson during the two times he had been awake, and repeating John's name over and over again. Awake, but never for very long, appearing terribly exhausted. Exhaustion, confusion, weakness.
Time, he reminded himself once more. Time.
Time and no further intricacies.
x
The doctor had left hours ago when Sherlock slowly came to again, not entirely coherent and still dazed.
"J'n?" was the first thing he whispered, causing John to squeeze his hand.
"I'm here," he replied softly. "You've got another visitor, Sherlock," he told his friend quietly.
Sherlock's eyes flickered open for a second. "Mol…," he began, not finishing.
Molly, sitting opposite of John, clearly feeling uncomfortable, tried a shy smile. "Er… hi. John… John and Mary told me about what happened… er… last night," she ended lamely, clutching her handbag. "So I thought… best to stop by again."
"John…," Sherlock mumbled, frowning. "Mol… ly, where… whe 's J'hn?"
John tightened his grip, shooting Molly an excusing glance. "I'm here, Sherlock. Right here."
"Mh," Sherlock made, inhaling faintly.
Molly bit her lip. "Maybe I should give you…"
"Molly?" Sherlock mumbled in the same instant. "You here… nice…"
John had to bite back a smile when he saw her blushing. "Oh, er… thanks," she finally settled on, not letting go of her handbag. "Is… he's still half asleep, isn't he?" she whispered, staring at John.
John found he could only nod. "Think so," he answered quietly. "Last night was… hard." Raising his voice a bit, he addressed Sherlock again: "We're here, Sherlock. Try to sleep, hm?"
Sherlock's fingers twitched, his eyelids flickered. "John," he muttered, sounding a tiny bit more awake. "Mh… don'… feel…think… feel funny…"
"Ssh," was all John could think about.
x
Feel funny. Next time, he should take Sherlock's words more serious.
Although 'funny' wasn't exactly the word John would have used.
He had been worried before, anxious, scared, terrified.
But what really shocked him now, after Sherlock had woken up, after the last night, was the first seizure. Seizure. Symptoms of unknown origin first, then an allergic reaction to medication, now a seizure. He had, of course, seen people seize before, had even treated them, but seeing it happen to Sherlock in a hospital bed had been... frightening.
Sherlock was awake when it happened, long after Molly had left again, trying to ask John something. "J'n, where…," he began, then, abruptly, cut himself off, an utterly confused expression on his face for a split second before his eyes rolled back into his skull and he started thrashing in his bed. Close to a panic again, remembering the last night, John's hand immediately fumbled for the call button and pressed it, after a moment of absolute terror trying to shield Sherlock's already far too battered head, to stop him from injuring himself further.
One minute and three seconds later, everything was over, Sherlock slumping all of a sudden and lying limp.
The doctor who had arrived taped a plaster to the back of his hand where he had managed to rip out the IV needle, set up a new line and injected something, John missing what it was because he still was too… too shocked. Again. And unbelieving.
Seizure. Medication, again. Without an allergic reaction, hopefully. Hopefully. John would have prayed to every single god he knew of if he had believed that it was of any use.
Sherlock woke hours later, in the middle of the night, terribly confused and incoherent, not having the faintest idea of what had happened.
It broke John's heart, witnessing Sherlock like that, simply… lost.
"J'n," he kept repeating over and over. "J'n… what… J'n…"
"Shh," John told him each time. "Ssh. You're fine. I'm here. Just sleep."
When Sherlock did, not being able to force his body and mind to remain alert, John let out a sigh he had been holding, allowed his head to sag and himself to blink the tears away.
Seizure.
He knew that seizures - or even epilepsy - were, if not common, then not unlikely after serious head injuries such as Sherlock's, and nonetheless hoped with all his heart that this was going ot remain a single occurrence.
Luck for once.
It was the second night in a row John spent in agitation, unable to sleep, worrying to no end.
Thank you for reading! As always, you're welcome to leave some feedback.
Oh, and for those who worry: Don't get too desperate, there will be rays of sunshine!