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So, next part. Enjoy.
Not Meant to Be
3
John's hands were numb from having them balled to tight fists all the time. He didn't stop. At least he still had control over his hands, could stop them from shaking.
Control. Control was good. Control kept him from breaking down completely.
He had lost all control over his thoughts and his insides and organs long ago, allowing them to hurt and twist and churn.
He still didn't know what had happened, why he was here, sitting and waiting, why Sherlock was here, somewhere.
All he knew was skull fracture and surgery. Two words, combined, which had almost sent his entire world crashing down.
It didn't make sense. All of it. "Unconscious upon arrival," the woman had told him earlier, "vitals more or less stable. Hypothermia. Arrived with a young man who seemed to know him and who also had called an ambulance. Stated he found the patient lying in an alley, bleeding and soaking wet, unconscious."
A young man. John's brain simply wouldn't provide him with information who this person could have been.
Investing, Sherlock had texted him. Homeless network.
A young man who seemed to know him. A member of Sherlock's homeless network? But why? Had he been the one to hurt Sherlock? How had his best friend ended up in some alley with his head bashed in?
His head. A shudder ran down John's spine when he remembered the woman's words. Skull fracture. Surgery.
Most skull fractures did not require surgery. Unless…
John's breath hitched in his throat each time he dared to produce this thought. Unless there was some kind of haemorrhage, some kind of bleeding…
Desperate to shut everything out, he hid his face in his hands, unclenching the fists. How many times had he gone through the same circle of thought now? Always ending with bleeding, bleeding in Sherlock's bloody brilliant brain.
It couldn't be. It simply couldn't.
Hypothermia, the woman had told him.
Why, why that? How long had Sherlock been lying where he had been found, how long until help had finally arrived? And what damage had this done to his brain, to his head? What damage had it done to him…
If John had insisted on going with him, on being part of the meeting with the members of the homeless network, maybe this wouldn't have happened. He wouldn't be here right now, terrified and too worried to breathe.
Desperately, he rubbed his hands over his eyes. When was the last time he had seen Sherlock, face to face? The day before yesterday, in the evening, talking about the case Lestrade had offered.
The case they had intended to start working on tomorrow, together.
"God, no…" he mumbled, not even fully aware that it was him.
It was taking so long. So long. Too much time without news, without any update on Sherlock's condition.
For all John knew, he could already be-
No. No, this couldn't happen. Not again in the same way.
Forcefully, a picture he had never wanted to think about again shot through his mind. Sherlock on the sidewalk, blood pooling around him, running from his nose and ears and temple. It couldn't happen again.
Funny, actually, if it should. Funny in a terrifying, horrible, sickening, stomach-churning way. God, what was he even thinking about?
"No," he whispered for a second time, trying to convince himself. But what he had learned back in Afghanistan - that you couldn't make fear disappear so easily -, was still true. Unfortunately.
"Sir, are you alright?" a nurse suddenly addressed him, making John flinch.
"Me, what?" It was difficult to shove the picture haunting him aside, to focus on the woman in front of him. "Yeah."
He didn't even realise if the nurse disappeared again, the only one he could see was Sherlock.
Sherlock, his best friend. Who might as well be dying.
Abruptly, John leapt to his feet, rushing to the next public restroom, and vomited into the toilet bowl, ridding his stomach of all its contents.
But not ridding himself of the images.
John had resumed his position in the chair, head resting against the wall, his hands balled to fists once more, when someone approached him.
"Mr Watson?"
John's head shot up. "Yes," he managed, not bothering himself with correcting the man. A quick glance at his watch told him that it was half past nine in the morning. 9 o'clock. The time when Sherlock and he had intended to meet, in their old flat. To investigate together.
"You're waiting for news on Mr Holmes?"
This time, John's voice failed him; all he could muster was a faint nod. Desperately, he attempted to judge the man's expression, his face, the way he held himself, anything, to get any information on how surgery had gone.
Futile.
Instead, he was seeing spots in his vision, spots dancing around the edges of his eyesight.
Just get over with it. Spit it out.
The fear he had felt all the time was suddenly increasing, spiking, the tension in his chest making it impossible for him to breathe. What if he was never going to see Sherlock again? John bit his lip.
"First of all, we were able to complete surgery successfully," the doctor informed him.
It took John a few seconds to actually process the information. Complete. Successfully. Alive. Alive.
John was grateful that he was already sitting down. Otherwise, he would have crumbled to the floor right in front of the doctor, the relief sending his knees buckling even in his sitting position.
"You're his medical attorney, is that correct? Very well. I would like to explain to you…"
John simply nodded again, not even listening fully, and followed the doctor on weak legs to a small room with one desk and three chairs. Unceremoniously, drained of all energy, he flopped down on one.
And kept thinking solely of Sherlock while the doctor was explaining something to him, something to which John only listened half-heartedly.
As soon as there was a first chance of interrupting after having heard the most important facts, he interjected, barely keeping his voice from trembling. "Can I see him?"
"He's still in a coma," the doctor reminded him.
John's voice was hoarse as he answered. "I don't care."
And finally, he was given the permission.
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