Chapter 14:

Shockingly, I awaken back in the hospital. I'd thought for sure I was a lost cause, but somehow I escaped the frozen pond and made it back here. Dr. Mortimer and my parents are all here, staring down at me like I'm the most fascinating thing in the world. I see them breathe a collective sigh of relief when I open my eyes, and wonder just how long I was out of it.

"Oh, thank goodness," my mother splutters, embracing me in a bone-crushing hug. My chest is sore from filling with a foreign substance, and her squeeze does nothing to alleviate that pain, but I allow it. She must've been so worried.

"I don't want the lungs," is the first statement out of my mouth.

"John, why not?" my father asks earnestly.

I give them the same reason that I gave Sherlock at the park: "It's not worth it. They'll only give me five years at most."

"But you've waited your whole life for this," my mother adds.

"A certain someone taught me that quality of life is more important than quantity." Pretty much everything Sherlock's ever done has reflected that philosophy perfectly.

"But these new lungs will give you both," a familiar voice says. I glance at the entrance and see Sherlock himself standing there, portable oxygen in tow. His lips are a disturbing blue color, and he looks like he should be tucked up in bed, yet he's here. He probably fought his way through a slew of nurses just to get here to convince me to have this life-changing surgery. "I'm going to stand here until you agree to accept them," he announces. I can't say no. I don't recall exactly what happened, but he must've had something to do with it. By the looks of him, he nearly sacrificed his own life to save mine. I can't repay that by refusing his wish for me. As much as I hate what this will do to us, I know that I must agree.

"Okay," I mutter. "I'll have the lungs." I think I see my dad subtly pump his fist in victory, but my focus is on Sherlock's smile. He nods knowingly, and I'm sure I've made the right choice.

~0~

I have no recollection of what transpired at the pond after I passed out, but the hospital must've sent people to fetch us because the next thing I know I'm awake in my room surrounded by a flock of concerned-looking nurses and doctors. I'm still hopelessly woozy, but even so my thoughts immediately jump to John. I reach up to remove the oxygen mask from my face to ask about him, but Molly stops me. She's frowning at me, and I know I should be ashamed of what I've done, but I can't find the strength to feel remorse.

I can tell she wants to ask me about what happened, but she's worried I won't be able to answer. Once again, I reach for the mask, and this time she allows me to pull it off. Almost immediately, I miss the supplement. My lungs are practically screaming in protest, but I ignore them and force my voice to function. "John?" It's horrifically slurred and hoarse, but Molly catches my meaning.

"He's alive," she informs me. If I could, I would've sighed in relief. As it is, I can already feel consciousness slipping away in the absence of the extra oxygen. Molly pulls the mask back over my face and I relax slightly at its return. Another nurse passes Molly a piece of paper and pen, which she in turn hands to me. She's not going to let me do any more talking.

"What happened?" she inquires. I'm not sure I'll be able to stay awake long enough to write that all out, but I do my best to summarize it concisely. My hands are shaking from exhaustion, so my writing is nothing more than a messy scrawl, and I skip some words and conjugations to conserve my strength, but I think it's enough. I write one sentence fragment at a time, and Molly either nods her understanding or asks a yes/no question for clarification.

"Walk to park. Ice break."

"You went out onto a frozen pond?" she questions. I nod solemnly. I know it was a stupid decision, but we were so caught up in the magic of the moment.

"J fall in. I pull him out."

"You dove into the frozen pond to rescue him?" I nod again. Molly sighs in exasperation, and I manage a weak smile at my stupid heroism.

"J no breathe. I breathe for him." Molly reads that last statement several times, considering the possible implications. I know it was risky, but at the time I had no other choice.

"You gave him mouth-to-mouth?" she confirms. I nod meekly. I don't even feel them begin, but suddenly tears are streaming down my face. There's no way in hell John didn't contract B. cepacia from me forcing my own air into his lungs. CFers aren't supposed to get closer than two meters; not only did we break that rule a little bit, we threw it in the trash and burned it to ashes. I forced myself as close to another human being as I can get, and John's going to pay for my recklessness.

The tears continue to come, and my breathing weakens as I start to sob. Molly sits down beside me and wraps her arms around me. Hiccoughing, I bury my face in her shoulder. She rubs comforting circles on my back as I choke and cry. At this rate, I'll pass out again in the next few minutes. Spent lungs like mine aren't equipped to sustain sobbing, and I can feel my strength draining.

"Sherlock, you did nothing wrong," Molly assures me. "You saved John's life." I might have, but at the same time I also ruined it. What if they deny him the lungs because he almost certainly has B. cepacia now? I'll never forgive myself. I want to ask Molly about this, to confirm that John will still get the lungs, but I don't think I could muster enough breath for a single word. Eventually, my sobs ease and Molly releases me. I've never been one for physical contact, since neither my parents nor Mycroft were very prone to hugging. In fact, this might be the first real hug I've ever received, and I find that I don't want her to let go.

A hideous whimper escapes my throat and I start to shiver, grasping for the warm body that is no longer there. Then, I feel a heated blanket being tucked around me, which feels like nothing I've ever felt before. The thought didn't even occur to me that I'm probably hypothermic from being outside, soaking wet in the middle of winter. I grab the blanket and curl up even tighter, feeling sleep creeping up on me. "Get some rest," Molly encourages. She pats me on the shoulder before departing. I barely register her touch before I'm fast asleep again.

I awaken again feeling a little bit better, but still worse than I have in a long time. Martha is in the room with me, and I can tell she's on an assigned watch shift. What, do they think I'm a flight risk? "Where's John?" I ask her urgently.

"He's still sleeping," she says. "It was close, but he'll be okay." I know immediately that I have to go see him, to be there when he returns to consciousness. I have to apologize for giving him the worst disease a CFer could ever receive. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pull the oxygen mask off. I notice the difference, but I don't immediately feel like passing out. I move to stand up, but Martha has marched over and puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"To see John."

"Nope. Not right now," she insists. "You are staying right here until Dr. Mortimer is satisfied you're not going to crash."

"I'm not going to crash, I'm fine," I tell her, fighting against her hold. The desire to see John is so overwhelming I feel like I've been hollowed out inside. Making sure he's okay, seeing him with my own eyes; that's the only thing that will fill the gap.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are far from fine."

"Please, I have to see him," I beg. I look up at her and put on my best 'sick innocent little kid' expression. It's gotten me out of countless punishments in the past. I even go so far as to pout my lower lip a bit. If it were Molly here guarding me, she wouldn't give in for anything. Molly wouldn't hesitate to sedate me if that didn't bring risks of impaired breathing, so she'd probably resort to handcuffing me to the bed. However, this is Martha, and she's much easier to manipulate.

"Fine," Martha relents. I silently whoop with victory. "But you're bringing oxygen." She pulls the canister out of the corner of the room and threads the cannula behind my ears. I grin and thank her for letting me go before busting out of the door and down the hall. I see a small crowd inside John's room, so I don't even bother knocking.

I hear the tail end of an argument about accepting the new lungs. "A certain someone taught me that quality of life is more important than quantity," John says.

"But these new lungs will give you both," I tell him. He looks even worse than I feel, tinged blue and breathing heavily. He ponders, and I remind him that, "I'm going to stand here until you agree to accept them." He can see how weak I am, and I'm stubborn enough to do what I promised until I fall over from exhaustion. I know John won't let me do that. He accepts, and I smile excitedly.

I'm shooed out of the room so they can prep John for surgery, and I have no choice but to return to my own room. I know exactly how lungs transplants work, and it'll be hours and hours before there's any news on John. I sit down on the bed and glance at Martha, who's still sitting watch in my room.

"Why are you here?" I ask her. I don't mean to sound rude, but control over the tone of my voice is always wonky at best when I'm struggling for breath.

"Molly said you'd break out to go see John," she says. "She wanted someone here to stop you."

"Why'd you let me?"

"I could see how important he is to you. I thought seeing him would be worth the risk." I draw in another rattling breath and look down at my hands. My fingertips are still bluish from lack of oxygenation. Maybe the brief trip to John's room was more than I can handle, but it was definitely worth the risk. He's getting the new lungs, and he's going to live a longer, healthier, happier life. If he doesn't get B. cepacia.

Martha comes over and switches the nasal cannula for the full oxygen mask, and I collapse back against the pillows. I don't even register how long it takes me to fall asleep, but when I awaken again, it's not to Martha, but to John's friends James and Mike.

"How long has it been?" I ask them. I sit up slowly and pull the mask down in order to speak. Finally, I don't notice a drastic difference in my breathing without it. I glance at the nearest clock and see that it's been five hours since John agreed to have the surgery. "News?"

James and Mike shake their heads. "Why are you in here?" I ask them. They should be in the waiting room with John's parents.

"Molly told us that you could use company," Mike informs me. "She said she'd come and get us when John's out of surgery." Though I don't even know them all that well, I find that I do enjoy their company. It's certainly preferable to waking up alone with no way of getting information on John. We don't have much to talk about, but sit instead in companionable silence. Molly's arrival startles us all, and we look up at her eagerly awaiting news.

"John's finished; it all went great," she says. I release a breath I didn't even know I was holding. She ushers James and Mike out of the room, but motions for me to stay put. Usually when that happens, it means I'm in trouble.

"Sherlock, we tested John for B. cepacia," she begins. I bite my lip, knowing that the odds are not in his favor. "I have no idea how, but he seems to have avoided infection."

"What? How?" It's unbelievable. I literally pumped his lungs full of contaminated air.

"I don't know, but as of now he does not have it. We'll check him again over the next week or so just to make sure it stays that way. But you saved him." I don't know what to do with this information. It's more than I could ever hope for. Not only does John now have new lungs, he's healthy and uninfected. He'll get five more years, and probably more, since he's so anal about keeping up with his treatment regimen.

"I also have your latest test results." Molly's tone has turned solemn, but she can't tell me anything I don't already know. Besides, I'm so overjoyed to know that John is in the clear, she could tell me I have terminal cancer and I'd still be happy. "The Cevoflomalin isn't working."

"I know that already. I knew that from the start," I say.

"I know, but we were all holding out some hope." She looks sad, and in that moment I realize that she doesn't want me to die, that she truly cares about me. I step forward and wrap my arms around her, comforting her as she did me mere hours ago.

"I'll be okay," I tell her. I may not have much time left, but I'm going to be damn sure to make the most of every second. But only once I've tied up some loose ends here. After Molly leaves, I grab my laptop and create a special project for John. Once I finish that, I head over to the recovery room and ask where I can find him. A nurse directs me to John's room, and I enter quietly. His parents, James, and Mike are all there.

The mechanical hiss of a ventilator draws my attention to John himself. He lays absolutely still, his entire chest swathed in bandages. An endotracheal tube protrudes from his mouth, keeping his new lungs functioning while they adjust to their new body. He looks sicker than I've ever seen him, but I know this is the first step in a recovery that will make him healthier than ever before. His hand begins to twitch, and I know that I can't stay much longer. If I see him awake, I'll never be able to turn around and leave. But for John's sake, I must leave. My continued presence will only hold him back from the amazing life he could have.

"Goodbye John," I whisper.

~0~

I hear a voice whispering, and it draws me out of the deep sleep. "Goodbye John," it had said. I open my eyes, seeing only the stark white ceiling above me. I feel my regimented breathing and figure I must still be on a ventilator. Having a machine breathe for me while I'm awake is a tad disconcerting, and I feel briefly out of control. I want to sit up so I can see more than just the ceiling, but I can't do so alone. Someone understands what I want, and I feel the head of the bed raise slightly.

Around me, I see my parents, James, and Mike, all smiling. I keep scanning the room, looking for one more face, but he's nowhere in sight. "Where's Sherlock?" I want to ask, but talking is out of the question until I'm free of this tube. I remember how ill he looked when I last saw him, blue and shivering, and I fear that he died while I was in surgery. If that's the case, he died saving my life, and I will never forgive myself.

"Sherlock was just here, but he had to go," my mother informs me. I mentally sigh with relief, but wonder where exactly he has to be. I had hoped he would be here for me as I wake up. "He left you this." My mother grabs my laptop and sets it on the bed where I can see it. She pulls up a message from Sherlock and an attached video. I reach out and grab my father's hand as the video plays and Sherlock starts to talk. I watch him take a deep breath to steel himself, cough, and then shake his head to refocus.

"John Hamish Watson," he begins. I've always hated my middle name, but hearing him say it is like listening to an orchestral symphony. "I'm sorry I'm not there at the moment, but we both have some pretty important business to take care of." He idly scratches the back of his head. "You have new lungs now, and you have to focus on recovering, and… I'm afraid I will just be a distraction. Not only that, but I'm a danger. By some miracle, you've escaped B. cepacia so far, but we can't keep playing this game of Russian roulette. If we're together, it's only a matter of time before our resolves crumble, and when that happens, you'll certainly catch what I have. And I can't do that to you."

The first tears fall gently down my face as I realize what he's saying. This is a goodbye video; Sherlock isn't coming back. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.

"I wish our circumstances were different, I really do. If we had any hope of living a life together, believe me, I would've stolen you away ages ago. But unfortunately we have to deal with the cards we're given, and our hands are simply not compatible. I hope you don't resent me for leaving you like this, but I had no choice. Every moment that I stayed with you, it got harder and harder to walk away. If I'd stayed any longer, I wouldn't have been able to leave at all. I love you, John. I love you enough to deny myself the opportunity to be with you. Without me holding you back, you're free to explore the world with healthy lungs. Please don't hold on to the memory of me; go out and meet new people, fall in love with someone who can give you what you want. And now that you can breathe better, go blow some pigs' houses down." He manages a weak laugh, which only makes my tears fall harder.

The video ends, and I hate him for not making it longer. He's leaving me forever, with nothing more than a few minutes of footage. I want more. Not only that, I want him here for real. I want to be able to properly cry right now, to sob and shout and scream, but I can't. All I can do is sit in silence, tears pouring down my cheeks, and try to come to terms with the fact that this is the last chapter in the story of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

I realize that John just said this is the last chapter, but that's not entirely true. Of course, there will be a brief epilogue, just as there was in Five Feet Apart. Once that last chapter is published next week, I probably won't be able to post a new work for a while. Maybe I can crank out a Fragile ficlet, because I have about 3 half-finished ones, but I'll be spending most of my writing time wrapping up and editing my next full-length story: Sole Mates. I haven't yet written its summary, but I can say that if you enjoyed Fragile you might like this even more. Hopefully I'll be able to provide a summary by the time I post the Two Meters epilogue, but even if I don't I hope you'll still check it out when it's eventually published. Thanks for reading!