Next part. Thank you so much for all of your support.
Not Meant to Be
6
Mary was still sitting on the same chair as when he had left her.
"Alright?" she asked him softly, getting to her feet and hugging him.
John only nodded curtly.
"John…," she addressed him again, pressing her cheek against his. "I know you're worried, and… and you're terrified and…"
Mary. His Mary. And he had been treating her like… like… For the first time since she had arrived, he relaxed against her touch and hugged her back, holding her tightly. "I'm so sorry, Mary," he whispered. "You shouldn't have interrupted your trip, you know. It's…"
Mary sniffled against his ear. "How couldn't I? I care about him, too, you know."
John hugged her even more firmly.
x
John didn't resume his position close to Sherlock's bed again. Instead, they went to the cafeteria, Mary sitting directly opposite of him, staring at him intently.
"Aren't you supposed to be with him, to… talk to him?" she whispered eventually. John barely managed to swallow dryly. "What about," he mumbled. "He'd laugh at me." And he couldn't, somehow. Talking to Sherlock without Sherlock replying, without a snarky comment? No. Not good.
Mary smiled sadly and bent forward, gently reaching for his hand.
"Mary, I…," John cleared his throat. "I have to leave for a while, soon. Would you… would you stay here and call me as soon as anything happens?"
She didn't ask a single question although she couldn't know where he was going. "Of course," was all she said.
x
Due to his word, Mycroft had sent a car.
Staring out of the window, John felt strangely out of place, as if he wasn't supposed to be here.
Sherlock. Supposed to be with Sherlock.
Resting his forehead against the cool glass of the window, John closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
Couldn't help him now. But he needed to know.
As soon as John got out of the car, in front of some rather plain looking but nonetheless large building, someone was waiting for him, dressed in a suit, of course, waiting to take him to Mycroft. And John was grateful for that - he was sure he'd never found Sherlock's brother so quickly, and his legs didn't have the energy to do large walks.
"John," Mycroft greeted him, seated behind a giant and dark desk.
"Mycroft," John choked out in reply, hiding his trembling hands behind his back.
"Take a seat," Mycroft invited him, and unceremoniously, John flopped down on the only other chair in the room. Sherlock's brother seemed to scrutinise him for a moment, making John feel even more uncomfortable. "I see," Mycroft stated finally. "The brave army doctor, still determined to find out what happened, no matter if it is of any importance or not. Well then." He pointed to the laptop placed on the desk.
"Yes," John croaked, not paying much attention to Mycroft's harsh words, his hands now balled into fists. Whoever had done this to Sherlock, whoever… they would pay, he swore to himself.
Mycroft gave a sigh, but somehow, for a split-second, John imagined to see worry and… uncertainity behind his stony features. "These scenes were filmed by a security camera positioned on the corner of the street where Sherlock was found, opposite of his location," he explained. "It is rather blurry, but then, I don't think we will need it all too clearly."
John nodded shortly, swallowing dryly. "Just start it," he whispered hoarsely.
"As you wish," Mycroft answered and clicked on 'play'.
x
The scenery was dark, a street lamp sending dim rays of light from the right edge of the screen, illuminating the streets and the sidewalk rather insufficiently.
The clock displayed on the screen read 23.13 pm. Quarter past 11 in the night.
A few minutes after their exchange of texts.
Shouting was the first thing to happen, muffled shouting, without any understandable words.
John's heart performed a rather painful leap as Sherlock walked into the picture, coming from the right side, heading for the left, slowing down in the process.
Now matter how hard he squinted his eyes, John couldn't make out a detail about him, anything at all, the camera having been too far away from the scenery.
"Hey, you!" suddenly someone yelled, clearly directed at Sherlock. At the same time - Sherlock having reached the left edge of the screen now - three more people appeared, looking young and ragged.
"Are they…?" he dared to ask, but Mycroft simply shook his head. "Not now."
Someone was talking in the video, but the words were too quiet to understand them. John's hand grabbed the edge of the desk. Sherlock, Sherlock was the one saying something, Sherlock.
He nearly flinched as another voice shouted: "Listen, he says! We're three, he's one, don' you think?" The voice grew more quiet with each word, causing John to miss the rest. A threat, probably.
Sherlock stood tall, all mysterious with his coat and his collar turned up, John couldn't help to think, dark and independent, whereas the three men seemed to slightly sway on their feet.
"Are they stoned…?" John whispered again, but once more Mycroft interrupted him with a curt shake of his head.
Then it began.
John's finger clenched around the edge of Mycroft's desk as the first man tried to bump into Sherlock, only barely avoiding landing right on his face when Sherlock evaded him with a simple movement.
"Look who's comin'…" another one yelled, raising his fists and shaking them threateningly.
One was approaching Sherlock from behind. From behind, and Sherlock didn't seem to notice, entirely focused on the two men in front of him. Was that how…? He didn't dare to finish his thought.
In a quick movement, Sherlock's head shot around, allowing his attacker to throw a fist in his face, sending him stumbling backwards.
John watched Sherlock regain his balance, turn around again and being jumped at by two of his attackers, making him stumble again, almost trip.
A tiny bit of hope rose in John's heart as he saw Sherlock kick one of the men against the knee, hard enough to send him reeling on the concrete in pain.
"No, watch out!" John shouted and leaned forward when he noticed the third one, coming closer, succeeding in punching Sherlock in the ribs, causing him to bend over and gasp for breath.
And then another one lunged at him, at his right side, crushing Sherlock with his bodily weight. Crushing him until Sherlock hit the kerb of the sidewalk, until both of them were on the concrete.
John's blood was rushing in his ears as he watched the three attackers freeze for a moment. Slowly, very slowly, the one having pushed Sherlock down got up, trembling. Exchanged quick looks with his companions. Slightly kicked Sherlock with the tip of his foot. No reaction. Slowly bent down to Sherlock, hiding him from John's eyes for a few moments. Got up again. Said something to the others, his mouth moving. Kneeled down again, grabbed Sherlock's right shoulder and started shaking. Started shaking someone's shoulder whose head had just crashed against a kerb. John pressed his eyes shut for a second, hoping, praying, that there had been no damage to Sherlock's spine. Stopped shaking him, causing Sherlock's shoulder to slump forward. Looked back to his companions. Looked down at Sherlock again. Shook him once more.
For a few moments, the video seemed to freeze.
Then the one kneeling let go of Sherlock, all of a sudden, and sprang back, yelling at his friends: "Come on, come on, come on, let's go!"
Within split-seconds, the three of them were gone, two supporting the one with the damaged knee, hastily making their way around the corner where they had come from, leaving Sherlock behind.
Sherlock who was lying in the gutter as if an artist had placed him there. On left his side, his head resting on the kerb, his legs stretched out, his left arm twisted rather painfully, halfway hidden beneath his body, his right arm resting limply on the concrete. And his coat, covering him like artificially draped that way.
John was grateful for the darkness, hiding all the blood that must have been there.
Carefully concentrating on breathing, his risked a quick glance at the time. 23.34 pm. Half past eleven.
Hospital had called him at five o'clock in the morning, and the receptionist had told him, as John forced himself to remember, that Sherlock had been admitted about forty-five minutes earlier, at quarter past four.
Half past eleven. Quarter past four.
Four hours and forty-five minutes.
Four hours and forty-five minutes.
It wasn't raining yet, and yet Sherlock had been wet, according to one of the nurses.
Four hours…
John kept staring at the screen, at the time running slowly, without seeing anything.
Four hours and forty-five minutes.
"Is there…," he carked, his voice failing. After he had cleared his throat, he tried again. "What's happening next?"
Mycroft gave him a serious look and then clicked on 'forward'.
Forward.
Nothing was happening next, John realised, not for too much time.
He was sitting shock-still as he continued to watch, never taking his eyes off the prone form being Sherlock.
The night quickly became darker around him, rain starting to fall, softly, drenching everything, but Sherlock never moved.
Twelve o'clock.
One o'clock.
Two o'clock.
Three o'clock.
At quarter past three in the night, Mycroft stopped.
John kept staring at Sherlock, lying there like… like a broken doll or like something simply thrown away, and the thought of it made him want to growl. Made him want to jump up from his chair, rush back to hospital and cradle Sherlock close to him, not caring about all the tubes and wires and everything, and never let anyone else lay a finger on him. Made him sick.
Soon he realised why Mycroft had resumed to watching. Someone was coming, two people, slowly walking on screen, suddenly noticing Sherlock.
Exchanging a quick glance, their heads moving. Approaching the broken body. Grabbing his shoulder, too, shaking him softly, then resting fingers on his neck.
John prayed although he knew that there would be a pulse.
"He's alive!" the one kneeling suddenly yelled. "Call an ambulance, come on!"
A few seconds passed in which of none of them did anything. Then, the one still having his fingers pressed to Sherlock's neck, began frantically searching his coat with one hand, the other one coming to his help.
Looking for Sherlock's mobile, of course.
Successfully. One of them sprang to his feet again, dialling and then pressing the phone to his ear, pacing nervously.
Meanwhile, the other one on the concrete had started slapping Sherlock. "Come on, wake up," he demanded loudly, loudly enough for John to hear. "Sherlock, wake up!"
No reaction.
And yet, they had known him. Homeless network, then.
"Yes, hurry up!" the smaller one just shouted into the phone, then ended the call, crouching down beside his friend. And began tugging at Sherlock's coat.
A shake of the other's head. Removing his own jacket instead, spreading it over Sherlock, urging the other one to do the same. Retaining body heat. Hypothermia. Suddenly, it made perfect sense to John.
Minutes ticked by agonisingly slowly. The two youths just sat there, without their jackets, in the drizzle, two fingers kept reassuringly on Sherlock's throat, other fingers sporadically being held beneath his nose, until the sound of sirens blaring finally was to be heard in the distance.
The ambulance came to a halt on the right edge of the screen, paramedics jumping out, rushing to Sherlock, shooing the two men away, breaking into blurry activity.
And John was simply sitting there, watching what they had done for his best friend hours ago, watching, understanding, and nonetheless feeling numb.
They were moving him, putting a neck brace on him, an oxygen mask which was quickly replaced by an intubation tube being pushed down his throat, a cuff on his arm, probably to measure blood pressure… John simply sat there, watching, until they carefully loaded Sherlock onto a stretcher and wheeled it towards the ambulance, the taller one of the two members of the homeless network following.
The doors at the back of the ambulance closed, the vehicle sped away, the smaller one disappeared, too - only the darkish spot on the sidewalk remained as evidence of what had happened.
x
John took a shaky breath as Mycroft stopped the video and closed the laptop.
"How… how long has it been?" John asked, his voice trembling, his fists clenched.
Mycroft rested his elbows on the desk and his chin on his folded hands. "Up to the arrival of the ambulance or up to the arrival of Sherlock's… employees?"
"Until…" John had to clear his throat. "Until they… until paramedics…"
There were lines forming on Mycroft's forehead which had never been there before. "Four hours and fourteen minutes," he answered, his eyes avoiding John's.
More than four hours of lying in the cold. About five hours of undergoing craniotomy.
John's fist slammed against the desk, bruising his own knuckles.
Mycroft regarded him with something akin to compassion. "Was that what you had wanted to see?" he asked, his eyes narrowing, his voice wavering the slightest bit.
No, John wanted to scream, no, I didn't. Sherlock…
"What I needed to see," he corrected instead, nausea threatening to overwhelm him.
"God, Mycroft…," he then mumbled, letting his head droop and closing his eyes. "More than four hours…" He could feel the tears build in his eyes as he raised his head again, focusing on Mycroft. "Take me back to him. Please."
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