I am sorry for the delay, but it took me ridiculous eight drafts to find something I was content with. The other versions were too detailed, too superficial, too happy, too grave, too long... (It's still long, by the way).

Well, here it is, then. The final part.

Not Meant to Be

34

John woke him in the next morning, softly, carefully, in typical John-manner, helped him change into more comfortable clothes and insisted on breakfast which Sherlock managed to gulp down, and then sent him back to bed, his and Mary's bed - and Sherlock obeyed. Obeyed because he was, as he realised, too tired to protest, and too comfortable in the bed, and because he realised that John was the doctor, that John was right.

It felt like mere minutes to Sherlock until John woke him again, around noon, and brought him lunch. And when Sherlock almost fell asleep over his plate of pasta, John told him to stay awake, told him a new physiotherapist would stop by in the afternoon, to meet Sherlock, to get a first impression of him, and that he needed to keep up his exercises, everything with a pained expression on his face.

Sherlock understood.

Understood that John thought it necessary, and that it would cause John further pain, more pain than he already suffered, if he refused.

He tried to be polite to the man entering later, for John's sake, not entirely sure, though, if he succeeded, and concentrated on the stupid tasks he was given. And managed not to faint, despite the thumping in his head and his ears and his chest, and the swimming in his brain.

After the man - Sherlock didn't even remember his name - had left again, both John and Mary urged him to eat dinner as well, causing him to nod off in his chair in the dining-room.

John helped him to their bedroom once more, and although Sherlock attempted to protest, attempted to tell John that he would be fine on the sofa, that… John did not listen.

And Sherlock let it be.

For three days, he did everything John told him. Ate, slept, ate, slept, drank, slept, walked.

For three days. Everything.

Then John suggested rehabilitation, leaving for some kind of facility, working with professionals… and that was when Sherlock decided it was time to improve. To get better.

"No," he told John on the way to his appointment with yet another doctor. "I'm not going there."

John's face, normally open to read, remained neutral, but for a second, just a split-second, Sherlock could make out relief.

"Fine," John answered. "You know, Mary's cooking is far better than anything you could possibly get there."

Sherlock grinned at him.

Mrs Hudson appeared rather frequently, bringing biscuits and food and even stew once, fussing over him, and, oddly enough, fussing over John and Mary. Sherlock always wondered who was supposed to eat the amount of food presented to him - he could not, not all of it, although he always did his best as soon as he caught John's gaze.

He was progressing, in fact, slowly, as it felt to him, still disgustingly prone to fainting if he got up too fast, or if he had not eaten enough, if he had slept too little (John, however, tended to make sure that it did not happen too often, and always stayed with him after it had, pretending to read in a book or a magazine, but holding it upside down and in fact watching Sherlock).

Fainting, blacking out, feeling dizzy… It almost became normal to first drink a glass of juice before he could even think of getting out of bed in the mornings, to sit up slowly and remain in that position for a few minutes until he felt steady enough to rise to his feet, to try standing.

Almost.

Because it still bothered him, all the time, and he tried his best not to complain about physiotherapy and appointments with doctors and check ups because he knew he needed it.

He caught his first cold almost immediately after having been discharged from hospital, leaving the sterile environment doing his immune system, apparently, no good.

One morning, he woke with a sore throat - which he tried to hide from John, just as John tried to hide the newspaper displaying a picture of him leaving the hospital and a headline saying something along the lines of "master detective permanently damaged?", both of them failing because John, having become rather adept at deducing him, realised that he might be sick.

He was fine, though, really, despite John's worry and his insistence to rest and do nothing, fine except for even more fatigue, a runny nose, a persistent cough and the sore throat, plus a low-grade fever which disappeared within one night.

His second cold, however, knocked him out for a few days, rather being a bout of flu than a common cold, causing a fever, coughs and chills, and, as Mary told him later when John had gone to bed, utterly exhausted, triggering him to black out and start seizing, almost scaring John to death and very nearly prompting him to call an ambulance. Which he didn't, in the end, because Sherlock finally came to and appeared, despite his vitals being awful, lucid and… likely to be alright.

Sherlock continued to feel feverish for a few days after wards, for once content with sleeping and resting, too tired to do anything else.

It was then, after he had recovered, after he had stopped coughing every two minutes, after he had stopped feeling cold at first and then too warm only moments later, that John and Mary assembled around him, comfortable on the sofa in the living-room, to tell him something.

To tell him something he knew already - he knew, because one could hardly not notice it.

John looked happy, that was all he could focus on, happy and relaxed and…

Whatever he might have wanted to say originally, whatever he might have said a few months ago, it all melted away when he saw the expression on John's face.

"I assume you're going to need your bed," he said as soon as John had awkwardly started voicing an explanation, feeling… yes, feeling, foolishly enough, sad. Because he would, inevitably, lose John, lose a part of John.

"Need…" John echoed confusedly, furrowing his brow like he always did.

Sherlock forced himself to smile. "Yes," he replied. "Mary should not sleep on the sofa when her… condition progresses."

John's face went through an almost comical phase of changing expressions, comical if Sherlock had looked at him, had not looked away, trying to tell himself that it was stupid to feel… lonely.

But of course, John Watson surprised him once more - pulled him into a vicious hug that made Sherlock dizzy and rendered him unable to breathe, and did not let go.

"You… you saw, didn't you," John muttered hoarsely. "You observed and… Oh, Sherlock. Hang on. How long have you known?"

How long. "A week, maybe?" he suggested, remembering that it had been during one of his fevered nights, when Mary had been by his side, wiping his face with a cool cloth while John had been on the phone with Mycroft, arguing about admitting him to hospital or not.

John giggled breathlessly. "You know, we didn't want to tell you yet, because we thought it might interfere with your recovery, but… how could I ever think we could keep anything from you?"

Sherlock did not know what to do.

Thankfully, John simply kept talking: "I told you," he repeated, finally loosening his iron grip. "Told you before. You're brilliant. You can think. You… you figured out that Mary was pregnant and… you're going to be fine, you know? Just fine, and… thank you."

Thank you. What for?

Before he could ask, John went on, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "I hope you also deduced that you're going to have to be our child's godfather."

Sherlock blinked, taking in a quick gasp. "I… godfather?"

"Of course," Mary added, smiling. "I insist."

Mary. John's wife. Tolerating that John was there for him, was always there. And John himself, being there. And their child.

The world was turning around him, all of a sudden, and for a moment, he didn't know what was happening. "I… yes," was all he could produce, all he could force his vocal chords to form.

John beamed at him, grinning, his eyes shining. Happy.

Sherlock closed his eyes, wandering his mind palace and determined to save this moment inside of his John room.

John was going to be a father, Mary was pregnant and he was going to be fine. That was what he tried to hold on to.

Father. Child. Parents.

Change. Inevitable change.

"If you need me to…," he began one day, not looking at John who was sitting opposite of him, chewing his toast. Stupid. "I am aware that I already am a burden for you, and will be even more so once your wife requires your assistance, so I will concede to rehabilitation…"

"No," John interrupted him, swallowing the bite he had been chewing all at once. "No," he repeated, leaning forward. "No, that's not… no. No."

Sherlock blinked. "I…"

John even put his plate aside. "No," he said once more. "I was not… no." For a moment, he hesitated while Sherlock simply sat there. "Listen, Sherlock," John began. "I… I know that some things are going to change, and that I will… Jesus, I will be a father, Sherlock, can you imagine that?… But I will always, always, be there when you need me. I know what you're thinking - that I will be too absorbed in fretting over a pinkish baby, that I will forget you because this is my child and you're just… an acquaintance, but that's not true. I… Jesus, I don't even know how to say that without making it sound like a crappy declaration of love ," he attempted to joke.

Sherlock remained motionless.

"For all your massive intellect you can be really dumb sometimes," John finally croaked, clearing his throat. "I've told you before, Sherlock, and I'm going to tell you until you've finally understood: You are my best friend. You're…"

John's eyes hooked onto Sherlock's, staring at him intently. "Just no. I will not ever in my entire life forget about you. And you're not moving out when I know you're not ready yet. And I'm not letting you go to some kind of facility where there are only people who don't know you and who don't understand what you need and… no."

Sherlock blinked again. "I…," he said hoarsely.

"Alright," John cut him off, grabbing his knife so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "And now… eat you're toast. You look like you're about to pass out."

Sherlock simply stared for a moment.

John. Brilliant John.

"Alright," he repeated and started to eat.

Holding on to John, holding on to the hope that he would be fine worked, in fact, he began to feel bored, tired of resting.

And when John practically beamed at him when he mentioned, while spread out on the sofa, covered by a blanket, that he was bored, and then, humming softly to himself while busy trying to make pancakes for them, told him to do crosswords, Sherlock had the confirmation that John Watson would be fine.

As would he.

Fine.

And this, at the moment, was all that counted.

Of course he mentioned moving out again, going back to Baker Street, but both John and Mary were reluctant, pointing towards his still fragile health and his suddenly occurring bouts of dizziness.

Sherlock, remembering both Mycroft's and John's words, gave in.

When Lestrade came to visit one day, Sherlock almost jumped off the sofa. Only the thought of what John was going to say if he fainted - again - because he had got up too fast - and he would, he unfortunately was sure of that - and the thought of how embarrassing it would be to have this happen in front of Lestrade - stopped him.

"It's nothing dangerous," Lestrade told him, with John sitting nearby. "A series of bank robberies, but we're kind of stuck, so if you'd take a look at the files, it would be very…"

"Yes," Sherlock croaked before Lestrade had even finished his little speech. And then remembered. And looked at John. And waited.

Looked at John who smiled. "Yes," he said. "Three conditions. One: You're still recovering, so you do what I tell you. Rest. Two: No running around, no crime scenes. Three: You will eat, and I will not accept 'I don't eat when I'm working', alright?"

Smirking and slowly sitting up, Sherlock nodded.

It was their first case, not a cold case file Sherlock was allowed to study, but a real case.

John was running around with his laptop at two crimes scenes, taking in the details for Sherlock who stayed at their flat, sitting on the sofa, concentrating on the screen, even forgetting about his headache.

Transport. Just transport, after all, and bound to obey the commands of his brain. Again. Finally.

"You look better," Mary once said while making herself comfortable on the sofa, too, a bowl full of crisps in her hands. "Much better."

"Really," Sherlock muttered, concentrating on the laptop.

Mary kept staring at him, he noticed. "OK, I'll put it differently, then," she announced. "John looks better."

This caused him to tear his gaze away from the screen, only distantly aware that John was talking to him.

John. Looking better. "You think so?" he made, scanning her. John's wife. Wife.

"Yes," she confirmed and continued to eat.

And only then, when he looked at her, he understood.

It took three more days, solid thirty-two hours of sleeping and two more dizzy spells - without blacking out - until the case was cracked.

Solved it, together with John and Lestrade's help - faithful, brilliant John who was always there, by his side, providing him with food and nutritients and help and information -, much slowlier than usually, but he solved it. Figured out which gang was responsible, deduced it.

Solved it.

Deduced.

Solved.

As soon as Lestrade took off to make use of the information Sherlock had given him, he felt so lightheaded for a moment that his legs would have given out on him, he realised, if John hadn't pulled him into a bone-crushing hug at the very same moment.

The lump appearing in his throat all of a sudden was almost too large to enable further breathing, Sherlock found, especially when he realised that John was trembling, John was… crying.

Crying.

"John…," he mumbled, feeling utterly helpless, powerless.

John only clutched him more tightly, squeezed every bit of air out him he had had still left in his lungs.

By the time he finally let go, Sherlock was dizzy enough from the lack of oxygen to clutch John's arm and sit down immediately.

"I'm sorry," John mumbled, his eyes still moist. "It's just… a case, Sherlock. A case."

Sherlock nodded. A case, yes. Case. "Dinner?" he asked, curving his lips into a smile.

John giggled.

Nonetheless, almost one entire month passed - one month with no more seizure, two more collapses - until John agreed to let him return to Baker Street. Agreed, reluctantly, agreed because Mary told him that Sherlock would be fine, that it would do him good.

221B.

Home. Truly home.

On his own. Being fine. Healthy.

Well, close to.

"Promise me you'll do nothing stupid," John had urged him. "Don't do too much, be careful, remember to sleep and to eat regularly and to contact your physiotherapist, and call me as soon as something happens. Remember to take your medication, and check your blood-pressure and…" A shadow flickered over his face before he added: "And don't even think about taking cases without me."

Curving his lips into a smile, Sherlock had nodded. "Wouldn't dare to," he mumbled. And he wouldn't. Not this time.

John had studied him once more. "I've already called Mrs Hudson," he explained. "She's absolutely thrilled, she'll help you settle in again, and she's promised me to check on you, but you can always call me, as soon as…"

"He'll be fine, John," Mary interrupted him, Mary with the growing… lump on her body, smiling at him. John exhaled slowly and then grinned faintly. "I know. Just…," he had addressed Sherlock once more. "Just be careful."

Sherlock had nodded. "See you in a bit, John," had been all he had said before he slowly climbed into the cab, a cab he had hailed by himself, for the first time in a very long time.

And now he was here, in front of 221B, staring at the familiar door, at the numbers, at the dark wood.

Home.

His phone chimed as the cab sped off.

You alright? J

Slowly, he made a step towards the door.

Perfectly. S, he typed.

Sure? J

John was being quick today. Still worried, then.

Yes. S

He still had a headache, he still felt a bit unsteady on his legs, he knew he was weary already, due for a nap, and he could not remember anything that had happened in the night of his accident or the few days prior. Deemed it unlikely that he ever would, in fact.

And yet… he was alright.

The door knob beneath his palm felt… familiar. Oddly familiar.

OK. J

Sherlock took a deep breath, inhaling the waves of scent eliciting from Mrs Hudson's window.

I'm coming over nonetheless. J

Sherlock smiled as he read the text.

Fine, he replied. Mrs Hudson's made biscuits, I think.

Then took another deep breath, pocketed his phone and pushed the door open.

Seconds later, it closed again, Sherlock Holmes having disappeared behind the door, displaying the familiar letters of 221B.

When John Watson arrived in a cab about half an hour later, unlocking the door with his own key and letting it fall shut again, everything was as it was supposed to be.

Finally.

This is then end, then.

Well, almost. An epilogue's to follow, of course.

Thank you for reading.