We're slowly getting to what was my original inspiration for writing this story... More of John, and more of Mary, simply because it feels wrong to ignore her.
Enjoy.
Not Meant to Be
5
He had managed to call Mary, having to ring her twice before she even answered her mobile.
Hearing her voice had eased his heart a little, at least until the very moment when she had asked what had happened, why he sounded so croaky.
John had told her.
Mary had dropped her phone, only to pick it up again and ask John too many questions.
"John… shall I come home?" had been her final one. "I would have to tell the children that something has happened, something in my family…"
Family. John had pressed his eyes shut and swallowed dryly. Family. Mary was his family, and Sherlock. Always.
"No," he had nonetheless choked out. "I'm fine, Mary, and… no. I don't… I don't think I will be doing much else than sitting in this bloody hospital for I don't know how long. Just… just enjoy your trip."
"Enjoy?" Mary had echoed, clearly horrified.
And after a few more comforting words, John had hung up, all of his energy having left him.
Now he was back, right in front of the door that would take him to Sherlock, and his left hand was trembling viciously.
He pushed the door half open until he caught his first glimpse of Sherlock, causing his insides to churn once more. There were no words for John to describe how sick he looked.
Unfortunately, he coded once…
Alone the thought of what Sherlock's body had gone through in the past few hours, the thought of the strain that must have violated his entire being, made John want to sink down on his knees and simply cry. And take it all away from Sherlock. Make him alright.
Instead, he quietly closed the door again, headed for another public restroom, locked himself in there and wept.
x
He did go back to the room, in fact, after what felt like hours, wiping away the tears from his face and putting on a mask, impenetrable, showing a man in distress and worry, yes, but nothing else.
When he sat down on the chair again, almost hesitatingly reaching out for Sherlock's hand and then gripping it even more tightly, he nearly lost it, nearly couldn't stop the tears from falling once more.
He had been a soldier, yes, and a doctor, but nothing had prepared him for this. For his best friend being in critical condition in a hospital bed, and for himself not having the faintest clue what the hell had happened.
That was the worst part, maybe.
"What's happened to you," he whispered slowly, flatly. Resignation. Shock.
He was in shock, probably. Wasn't it funny? Why would he be in shock if his best friend-
Softly rubbing the back of Sherlock's hand, John remembered the call in the middle of the night. How frantic he had been, how panicked, how anxious.
The dread of anxiety was still looming above his head, quietly, waiting, waiting for a moment of weakness. But that was it. No hope, no exasperation, no anger. Not at Sherlock, not at anyone else.
Because he didn't know what had happened.
And it ripped him apart, inwardly. Made him go all numb, numb and frozen.
John swallowed dryly and studied Sherlock for a moment. Motionless, still. So absolutely still.
Sherlock looked the way John felt.
Dead.
x
He couldn't even bring up the energy to feel surprise when Mary suddenly stood outside the room, waving slightly, gesturing for him to come outside, nor could he wonder how much time had passed if she was here already.
Letting go of Sherlock's hand, having warmed it up a tiny bit in the course of the hours, he stood on wobbly legs and made his way towards Mary, his Mary, breathing in her scent as she threw her arms around his neck.
"Oh John," she whispered in his neck, her breaths tingling his skin."I came as fast as possible. What… Is he going to be alright?"
Dark spots were colouring John's vision as he tried to think about a possible answer. "Mary…," was all that came out of his mouth, more an exasperated sigh than a real word.
"John?" she returned, and all of a sudden, he was able to hear to concern in her voice. Concern for him? Why for him? Why not for Sherlock?
Sherlock…
"Sherl…," he mumbled, his knees suddenly giving way beneath him, causing him to stumble against Mary and almost knock her down in the process.
"Oh my god, John!" she yelled, gripping his arms. "John, John, wait, sit down, I'm getting a doctor!"
His head was spinning as she slowly pushed him on a chair to sit. Doctor… he didn't need a doctor, he needed…
He needed to know.
"I'm fine, Mary," he managed. "Really, I'm fine. This, er… it was… Just been sitting for too long, I s'ppose."
She didn't look convinced, of course not. "But…," she began, sitting down next to him, searching for his hand and squeezing it.
"No, really," he insisted, focusing on breathing. In, out. Inhale, exhale. Nothing else. "I'll be fine, really."
Both of them remained silent for a few moments, John staring at his shoes, his old, worn shoes, the only ones he had been able to find in the haste of the night, Mary's gaze locked on him.
He needed to know.
Softly stroking his thumb over Mary's hand, her warm hand, for a few seconds, he finally turned his face to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry, Mary, but there's something I have to do. I have to leave for a few minutes, to do something important."
Her eyes became wide, and for a split-second he dazedly wondered if she assumed that he was intending to kill himself.
"It's fine," he quickly reassured her, his own voice sounding raspy in his ears. "I just need to phone somebody."
x
Mycroft Holmes was, as usually, quick to answer his calls. It took John only two rings until he was greeted by the familiar voice of Sherlock's brother.
"John," he began smoothly as always. "How can I help you? Any news on my brother's condition?"
John's throat narrowed considerably when he heard these first words. "No," he choked out, not even wondering how Mycroft knew or why he wasn't here. "You know what happened?"
He probably imagined to hear the barely perceivable shaking of the voice on the other end of the line. "My brother had a rather unpleasant encounter with a sidewalk, yes, I have heard so," Mycroft replied coolly.
"You saw it?" John hissed between gritted teeth. "There must have been a CCTV camera somewhere near."
The silence on the phone told him all he needed to know.
"I want to see," he demanded, his voice trembling.
"John," Mycroft addressed him almost softly. "I am aware of your deep concern for my brother and your affection, but I assure you that…"
No, John's mind screamed at him, no, you're not! You're not here, you don't know how it feels to-
"I don't care what you want me to do! I want to see what happened to my best friend, you understand? I want to see it! I need to…" John's voice failed him, his outburst leaving him breathing raggedly and his heart beating wildly.
He barely missed Mycroft's short answer due to all his panting.
"Fine. Be prepared to have a car pick you up."
Steadying himself against the wall with one hand, John ended the call.
Thank you for reading!