Not Meant to Be
4
Basilar skull fracture, the doctor had told him. Leading to intracranial haemorrhage and increased pressure on the brain.
Epidural haematoma. Blood collecting inside of the skull, inside of Sherlock's skull, putting pressure on his brain.
Pressure. Brain.
Not good.
Surgery had been successful, the doctor had informed John, successful meaning: we cut his skull open and removed the cause for the bleeding, stopped the bleeding.
Although John knew, although he was a doctor, the thought of Sherlock undergoing craniotomy almost made him physically sick. Again. The only thing that kept him from vomiting was the knowledge that he would never be allowed to see Sherlock if he started bringing up bile and spitting it directly onto the doctor's shoes.
Successful, yes, but had it been in time? Nobody seemed to know how long Sherlock had already been lying there, in this alley, his skull almost cracked open, without medical help, without any help at all.
Quite a while, John's intuition told him. Maybe too long.
Possibility of brain damage. Depending on various factors… John had stopped listening, not wanting to know. If any of it was true, there was absolutely nothing they could do now. The doctors had stopped the bleeding and sutured and glued with fibrin sealant, had done what they could. Had saved Sherlock's life, in fact. More than once.
"Unfortunately, your friend coded once, during surgery," had been the doctor's words.
John had almost choked on his own tongue, a feeling of absolute threat overwhelming him.
"It was close for a while, but finally we were able to stop the bleeding, decrease the pressure on his brain and stabilise him."
Touch-and-go, John's brain provided him with. Sherlock's life hanging by a thread.
Still, probably.
Certainly.
He hadn't asked the doctor any questions, hadn't wanted to know anything else, hadn't wanted to hear any details. Not about how many attempts they had needed to restart Sherlock's heart or how large the amount of blood had been or how likely recovery was.
He didn't think he could bear the answers.
"The entire ordeal put quite a strain on his heart, I'm afraid, but of course we will monitor him closely over the next few days. He's sedated and receiving medication now, ant…"
Again, John had stopped listening, not wanting to know how many different types of medication were currently coursing through Sherlock's system, how many different types of medication his body needed to not stop functioning.
He had only wanted to see him.
Comatose, yes, of course, artificial coma, the doctor had told him. Actually seeing Sherlock like that felt entirely different. Even to him, a former army doctor. Maybe especially to him.
As John sat there now, as close to the bed as possible, he couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe that Sherlock was in fact supposed to be alive. Not the way he was looking.
More like a corpse than anything else.
What had shocked John the most, ironically, hadn't been his pallidness or the coolness of Sherlock's hand in his. No, it had been the raccoon eyes, the dark rings around Sherlock's closed eyes, consisting of blood having swept from the fracture in his skull, accumulating there. Black eyes, basically. Only that in Sherlock's case they were undeniable evidence for his skull fracture.
Biting his lips, John allowed his gaze to wander a tiny bit, to where Sherlock's ears had to be, now covered beneath the giant bandage neatly wrapped around his entire head. His shaved head. In some way, John was thankful for the gauze because seeing Sherlock in hospital, without his hair, might have even been more terrifying than seeing the bandage.
His ears. The same kind of haematoma would be found around his ears, John was sure of that. More evidence of the injury he had sustained.
Basilar skull fracture.
The image of Sherlock lying on the sidewalk, cerebrospinal fluid mixed with blood leaking from his ears and his nose. For god knew how long. Out in the cold, in the drizzle that had gone down in the night.
"God, no," John mumbled hoarsely. He didn't want to think about it anymore. He didn't want to see pictures inside of his head anymore. He didn't want to look at Sherlock, pale and bruised and still as a corpse. At all the tubes and wires around him and the tube in his throat making him breathe.
And yet, he couldn't stop himself. Because looking at all of it, looking at Sherlock and the readings belonging to all the machines and wires and tubes, was the only thing that assured him that his friend was still alive.
His pale, cold, limp hand certainly didn't.
Complications. The doctor had listed possible complications, among them meningitis. The only one John could remember. Meningitis.
"Don't get that," he whispered to Sherlock, stroking his hand - the parts of it not occupied with needles and IVs. "Don't contract meningitis. Don't even think about it."
Think. Another topic John didn't want to think about. Didn't want to think at all.
What if Sherlock wouldn't be able to think anymore? What if the damage done to his skull and brain, so brilliant brain, was too much? What if he would never be able to talk to his best friend, to the man he knew his best friend to be?
Sherlock wouldn't come out of this unscathed, something in John told him, the medical part of him. Most likely not, the half of him worrying about his best friend corrected. Nothing was decided yet.
"Time will show…," the doctor had begun, John having heard only the first few words.
Time. Until Sherlock woke. Was allowed to wake. If he would at all. Maybe it had been to much…
No, not if. Of course he would. John's grasp on the cool hand tightened until he assumed to be crushing Sherlock's bones, just as the grip of fear on his heart did.
Time. Time for Sherlock to recover.
John had to force himself to keep in mind that Sherlock wasn't the one to have slipped into a coma, but that it had been the doctors' decision to sedate him, to give him time to stabilise. Yet somehow, it didn't make any difference, not to him. Either way it wasn't guaranteed that he would wake up.
"You're missing the case, you know," he mumbled, reaching out with his shaking right hand. Reaching out to gently touch Sherlock's cheek, white and porcelain and fragile. Just not like Sherlock.
Not being able to stand the cold skin his fingers were stroking, he withdrew his arm, wrapping both his hands around Sherlock's, uselessly trying to warm it up a bit. For his own sake, probably.
And he still didn't even know what had happened. How Sherlock had ended up on some sidewalk with a bashed in head.
John barely bit back a bitter chuckle. Only about twelve hours ago, he had been talking to Mary on the phone, beaming about how they were about to take a new case…
Mary.
John continued sitting next to the bed until he couldn't bear it any longer, and then got up and left the room.
Thank you for reading (again!) and being supportive in general - I highly appreciate it. And of course, you're highly welcome to leave some feedback.