What can I say? I'm... grateful. Really. Thank you.

Enjoy.


Not Meant to Be

28


John told him.

John told him what had happened.

And Sherlock listened, quietly, trying to process, trying to concentrate.

Case.

Investigating.

Homeless network.

Junkies.

Shoving.

Kerb.

Head.

Skull fracture.

Intracranial haemorrhage.

Left.

Having been left.

Alone.

Night.

Rain.

Left for dead.

More than four hours.

Wiggins. Homeless network.

Ambulance.

Hospital.

Craniotomy.

Cardiac arrest.

Sedation.

Sedation turning into coma.

Possibility of brain damage.

Waking.

"And then…," John ended slowly, taking carefully controlled breaths, "you woke up, and you recognised me and seemed to be yourself… All I wanted was you to get better, and so I decided that there was no necessity to tell you anything…" His voice broke.

A case. Junkies. The sidewalk. Alley, lying in an alley. For more than four hours, his skull broken.

The probability of…, Sherlock's brain began, but he didn't want to know. He didn't.

Lying there. Left there.

Although it was unreasonable, although he had been unconscious then, would never remember anything that had happened in that night, it felt… frightening. Frightening, lying there, left to die. Almost had died, as John had told him.

Surgery. Sedation. John being there. Coma.

Coma.

Coma.

Sherlock found it difficult to process the thought, difficult to capture that he had not been able to do anything, that his brain had… shut off, leaving his body to die if it hadn't been for hospital equipment. Not breathing. Mechanical ventilation.

Mechanical ventilation.

Distantly, he felt a shudder run up his spine.

Intracranial haemorrhage. Lying in some alley.

He had been found, by sheer luck. If nobody had happened to pass this street in that night… He would be dead now, dead, and it would just have been unfortunate. Nothing more. How stupid.

John's fingers were still pressed to his wrist.

Data, data, data. Process data. Think, he ordered himself, ordered his brain, wanted to, wanted to…

"Junkies," he finally mumbled, the first thing that came to the surface of his mind, the first thing that caught his attention for more than one millisecond. "How very fitting. Junkies nearly kill an ex-junkie. Neat."

Not good, the other part of his brain, still working properly, told him. And indeed, John looked as if he was about to slap Sherlock.

"I am deeply sorry to have you relive this again," he settled on an apology, focusing hard on forming a full sentence, on not disappointing John.

Not the right thing to say, too, probably. Although his brain was mere steps away from going into overdrive, although Sherlock felt like simply collapsing, simply shutting everything out, he still noticed the look of hurt cross John's face.

"Shut up, Sherlock," he ordered, his hand squeezing Sherlock's tightly.

Sherlock did.

Coma.

Bleeding for four hours.

The alley… craniotomy. Sherlock was, distantly, fazed by the fact that he had survived surgery, after more than four hours of bleeding, and that he hadn't contracted any kind of hospital acquired infection that killed him a few days after surgery. Fazed, yes, and… and horrified at the mere thought.

Not for the first time, of course not, but with a sudden shocking clarity the thought hit him what all of this had to have meant for John.

John, his friend. Best friend.

John… Sherlock's brain reeled and wheeled and rattered around him as he thought further of what it might have done to John. John, John, his faithful blogger, friend, best friend. Who had waited for him to wake up, waited for the nightmare to end… and who still dreamt, as he remembered now, nightmares, of him, most likely. Of him, dead, Sherlock assumed.

"John…," he mumbled, without any intention what to say. John, simply John.

John appeared as if he was about to cry.

"How do you know?" Sherlock mumbled, asking the second thing that came to his mind. Apart from all the other things.

John flinched. "Mycroft told me," he answered swiftly, too swiftly.

The room was spinning around Sherlock, as were the words and images inside of his head. "And how did he know?" he asked.

John had turned pale, Sherlock suddenly became aware of, despite his dizziness. Dizzy. Again. Stupid. Bleeding. Junkies. "Sherlock, is that important now?" he murmured flatly. "Can't we talk about that tomorrow, when you're better?"

Better. Better. Better.

Recovery. Incapacitation.

Recovery. What a weak word.

Shoving himself into a sitting position hurt, made him gasp, made his head explode. "That's the point, John," he muttered nonetheless, investing all of his remaining energy to do force out the words. "Nobody knows if I'll be better tomorrow. For all I know, I could be dead by tomorrow, dead because some vein in my brain chose to burst, or I could not remember anything we talked about."

Bitter, he sounded bitter, although he wasn't… or was he? He did not know, did not know anything, could not think…

In the silence that followed Sherlock was able to hear his own heart hammering painfully in his chest. Headache. Headache. Bloody headache. Bloody accident…

"I read your chart," John's cold voice startled him. Cold and soldierly, professional. "After you were admitted. If it had been any longer, one or two or three hours, you would have been dead. Your blood pressure," John had to clear his throat, "your blood pressure was down to 53 over 26, and you were… there wasn't much life left within you," he ended, his voice breaking. "After you had woken, one night, you suddenly started to show symptoms which led the doctor to suspect meningitis, and I… I thought it was over. Again. Really over. I don't care if you're yet too weak to walk or if I still have to catch you every time I accompany you to the toilet - I don't care, I mean… I don't mind, I… you know - because you're my best friend, and I am perfectly aware of how close it was. How very nearly you could have died. Multiple times. And let me tell you this," he said while moving from his chair to the edge of the bed, still gripping Sherlock's hand, "I will not have you give up now."

For a moment, Sherlock couldn't breathe. Didn't know what to think, didn't know how to go on, how to cope, how to…

"John…," he whispered, trying in vain to block all other thoughts out. Too much, too much… Pressing his eyes shut didn't help. "John, 'm sorry…," he mumbled, pathetically, but couldn't help it. He didn't know why he was saying it, but then, what else was there to say?

He had known that it had been close, that he very nearly had died, that something bad had happened, something that hadn't been his fault, but to hear this… It shocked him. It truly and utterly shocked him. And he didn't even know why, because he hadn't been conscious to witness any of it. Didn't remember it, didn't remember anything.

Stupid, it was stupid, sentiment, but he could not help it.

Didn't remember.

Except for John. For John's voice.

"John," he croaked raspily, opening his eyes, "your night… mares. They're 'bout me, aren' they?"

Of course they were. Deduce, Sherlock, deduce. He had, and yet, he had to be sure. Be sure, be sure…

John hesitated only a second. "Yes."

Yes.

All of his strength suddenly leaving his body, he collapsed forwards, collapsed until he sagged against something warm, something… against John, bonelessly, mindlessly, enjoying John's warmth, his smell, his voice… John's arm wrapping around him.

Sherlock barely noticed that tears started to leak out of his eyes, silent tears, disappearing in John's jumper. "And I can't remember…," he whispered weakly, barely finding the energy to breathe by now. "Can't remember, can't think…"

Everything John had told him was swirling around in his head, worsening his headache, making him nauseous and dizzy, making him want to scream and shout and…

John. John was holding him.

"You can think," John's voice suddenly appearing, soft and comforting, oddly enough, as always, piercing through the darkness in Sherlock's mind and chasing it away. Or holding it back. "You can think, Sherlock, and if you don't remember… it's normal, it's… You need time. You need to give yourself some time. You remembered your name, you remembered Mrs Hudson, our first case, Greg, Molly, Mary… so many people, so many things, Sherlock, you remembered all of them. And," his voice started to quiver, "you remembered me."

Drawing another shaky breath, Sherlock pressed his watering eyes shut. Of course, he wanted to say, of course I remember you. Always, John, always, how could I forget you of all people?

"You remembered me," John went on before Sherlock had gathered the strength to utter more than a sob, "and although I know it's selfish and egoistic of me, you gave me all I had hoped for. Because you remembered me. And when you tried to whisper my name directly after you had woken, I… I somehow felt that we could make it right again. Make it all better. I've told you before, you won't get rid of me. Not now, not…" His voice broke.

"I've never experienced something like that before," John choked out while Sherlock could feel his hands, softly rubbing his back. "I've never felt such… such fear before as in the days you were comatose. Seriously, Sherlock… I thought I was going to lose you, and… and…"

Fear. Haemorrhage. Bleeding. Intracranial pressure. Coma. Fever. Pain. Not remembering. Headache. Headache. Exhaustion. Recovery. Stagnation. Complications. John. John. Junkies. John. Skull fracture. John.

So many things… so many…

Sherlock could not sort anything, could not cataloguise anything, could not analyse. Could only sit and witness in horror what his brain was doing, out of control, trying to process information which was, he felt, at this point unprocessable.

John.

John.

Thinking.

Brain damage.

Thinking.

Incapacitation.

Recovery.

Recovery.

John.

Telling him.

Alley.

Skull fracture, bleeding…

Stop it, Sherlock wanted to scream, wanted to shout, unable to do anything. Unable to escape.

Maybe John had been right, he thought with a sudden feeling of overwhelming panic. Maybe it had been too early, maybe, maybe, maybe…

Calm, calm, calm.

John. John was here. John was holding him.

Fine. Alright. He was alright.

John, John was still holding him, rubbing his back soothingly. His cheek… on John's shoulder, on John's jumper.

Whispering, soothingly, nonsense. Comforting. Comforting.

When he took his first conscious breath, Sherlock suddenly realised that it sounded more like a sob. Sob. Sobbing. Expressing great emotional stress and… No, stop it. Stop.

"It's alright," John mumbled, probably for the hundredth time in a row. Oddly enough, although Sherlock had always deemed such sentiment ridiculous, it felt comforting, it felt… good. Because it showed that John was here, and that John cared.

Sobbing, his body was still sobbing. He was sobbing.

"John…," he whispered, his throat raw. "Sorry…"

Normally, he was in control, always in control, but now…

"Don't be sorry, you brilliant idiot," John's voice reached him again. "You woke up, you came back to me, and I'm… I'm…"

Exhaling, Sherlock closed his moist eyes, sagging fully against John. "I know," he breathed. "I know."

John giggled breathlessly.

Sherlock joined in.

He would need time, time to… order and analyse… and think, and… and cope, and he would need John, but… but it was… a start.

"I hope no… no nurse… is coming in… now," he breathed flatly, still in John's arms.

John giggled again.

This time, Sherlock barely had the energy for a weak smile. "John," he whispered, not knowing what he wanted to say. Not knowing what to do against all the uncertainty, the fear, the shock, the insecurity, the doubt. With all those emotions. Brain surgery. After-effects. "Just…," he choked out, feeling John's hand around his neck, his warm hand… Hold me, John, he wanted to scream. Don't ever let go, please, John… "Don'… Just… just… would you… give me… a moment?" he managed to force out, sounding pathetic, nonetheless. Stupid, so stupid. And weak. Not even able to cope with what had happened, terrified, without any reason, and sobbing. Sobbing.

He didn't oppose when John's grip tightened, when he didn't let go. "Of course," was what John mumbled, hoarsely. "I… er… it's… fine. All fine."

It wasn't, Sherlock thought while he squeezed his eyes shut firmly and focused on breathing. Breathing in John's scent. But John always made everything appear less horrible.


Thank you for reading.