A tad late, I know. Apologies.
And now, enjoy.
Not Meant to Be
8
It took six days since John had received that call for Sherlock to move again.
John was talking again, babbling nonsense Sherlock would normally scowl at and roll his eyes, simply to disturb the silence, to drown out the beeping of the heart monitor and the soft noise of the mechanical ventilator, when he suddenly felt something.
A tickling sensation, right in his hand.
He needed to look twice to be sure that this was Sherlock's hand, Sherlock's fingers twitching and not his own, attempting to deceive him into hoping.
Hurriedly, almost panicked, he pressed the call button, causing a doctor to enter and comment on what John had just witnessed.
"Might be just a reflex…," was what John got to hear first.
A reflex. A subconscious movement, not meaning anything. He didn't want to believe it.
Then there was more twitching, more slight movements in the course of the hours, no noises, of course, due to the ventilator, but shifting muscles, even eyes moving beneath the still closed eyelids.
Determined all of a sudden, shooting Mary, sitting next to him, a weary glance, he pressed the call button again, alerting another doctor.
"Patient shows first signs of possible waking," this one, rather old already, muttered to himself while checking the monitor readings. "No complications so far… Well, well…"
Waking. Waking.
Something John hadn't even deemed possible anymore. Not after having seen the video, and not after having heard the doctors talking for the past few days. Not after having seen Sherlock's shaved head and the wound and the drain to collect fluids and blood, stopping it from accumulating in his skull, when the doctor had changed the bandage, not after having realised that this was real. That this was Sherlock, in hospital, comatose.
And now the possibilty of waking.
It would take time, John knew, one day, two days, if entirely at all. But at least it was a start.
When Mary approached him, slowly, almost carefully, smiling at him, John looked at her and felt as if he saw her properly for the first time in ages. Ages he had spent in an uncomfortable hospital chair instead of their lovely bed at him. "I'm so sorry, love," he whispered, hoping she would understand, his voice breaking.
"Don't be," she told him. "He needs you more than I do at the moment."
When he pulled her close, even letting go of Sherlock's hand, Mary didn't resist his vicious hug but leaned against him, sighing.
"Oh John," she mumbled. "I thought I'd lose you, too."
x
Sherlock was going to wake up, that was what John forced himself to believe now. Forced himself, yes. Becaue he still couldn't believe it, in fact. Or didn't know what to believe, rather.
"Oh dear, John, he's going to wake up, and he's going to be fine!" Mrs Hudson chirped almost merrily the next time she came by. "He'll be alright, won't he?" she added more quietly.
John didn't know. No complications, the doctor had said, and so far, it was true. At least if one didn't count 'coma' as complication. No meningitis, no hospital acquired pneumonia, nothing else. Only coma. For more than three days now.
But indeed, the twitching became more frequent, followed by occasional shifting in the bed, by muscles clenching and unclenching uncontrolledly. A start. More than a start, maybe.
Sherlock did never look peaceful, however, frown lines appearing on his forehead, lines of discomfort, clearly. They didn't disappear, no matter what John did, no matter how long he kept talking or how firmly he kept holding Sherlock's hand. There was nothing he could do to help his friend.
Waking up took awfully long. John could basically watch his friend struggle back to consciousness, struggle indeed. And struggle slowly.
Whenever Mary came to visit - both him and Sherlock - and asked if anything had changed, John no longer managed to hide his anxiety. To hide his fear that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock might forever be caught in this weird state between being comatose and awake. He tried not to show it, of course, especially tried not to think about when he was on his own with Sherlock because he knew that, if he did, he would crash completely.
And he found he couldn't afford that. Not yet.
x
When on the eigth day Sherlock's eyelids started to flutter, John almost missed it, missed the slight, unsteady movement.
Almost.
As soon as he noticed, his heart accelerated, he bent forward, gripping Sherlock's hand more tightly, resting his other hand against Sherlock's cheek.
The beeping of the heart monitor sped up, becoming frantic, and John realised that this was definitely wrong.
"Sherlock," he urged while removing his hand from Sherlock's face and fumbling for the call button. "Stay calm, come on, calm. You're alright, you're safe, don't worry…"
And all of a sudden, John found himself staring into grey eyes, still unfocused and barely open, but definitely Sherlock's.
Sherlock.
John's heart clenched painfully as soon as he became aware of the panicked expression in his friend's eyes - and only seconds later heard a sound he had desperately hoped not to hear. The sound of gagging, choking, the sound of the alarm of the ventilator going off.
Sherlock was trying to fight the breathing tube.
"Sherlock, don't!" John told him, his voice breaking. "Stay calm, Sherlock, and let it breathe for you…"
No use. And no doctors available when he needed them most.
"Sherlock…," he whispered, watching helplessly as his friend's fingers kept twitching and his eyes kept staring vacantly, fear showing in them, fear of suffocating.
He allowed the doctor and the nurse, finally, finally entering, to push him away and tell him out of the room.
"We had to sedate him," he was informed minutes later, being allowed back in. "We will have to see if it is safe to extubate him."
He managed to suppress the tears threatening to well up. Barely.
The image of the terrified look in Sherlock's eyes followed him through the night.
x
Weaning started the very next day, slowly decreasing the amount of oxygen Sherlock was being provided with, slowly allowing him to breathe on his own, to get used to breathing again.
And although the renewed sedation was reduced the second day and his eyes opened a sliver ever so often, he never fully came around, never seemed coherent and lucid.
Brain damage, was the only thought John still could produce. Brain damage. Brain damage. Brain damage. Irreversible. Brain damage.
He had lost Sherlock. Lost him. Truly. Forever. To a sidewalk.
In that night, he went home for the first time since it had happened.
Thank you for reading and for your support in general. If you find time for it, feedback would be highly appreciated!