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Not Meant to Be

9

There had been blackness all around him.

Blackness… a fascinating concept. Was it absence of colour, or was it… was it…

He didn't remember what it was supposed to be.

He didn't remember much at all.

He couldn't feel anything.

No, that wasn't right. Not nothing. There was something, something… a soft touch to his skin, soft and warm and protective.

And constant. It was there, all the time, never leaving, never faltering.

The touch was the only thing he was aware of at the beginning.

Then, eventually, something else was there, too. Something… not a touch, no, something entirely else.

Something humming, vibrating inside him, comforting him.

A voice. Yes, a voice.

Which voice?

A familiar one, he slowly became aware of. A familiar voice telling him things, things which didn't make sense.

"Mary's asked me to come home again," it said. "But I… I can't. Can't leave you alone, can I? Don't know what you'd do if I wasn't here."

Not going. Good.

"…sorry that I wasn't there, that I didn't try to call you again and realised that something was wrong…"

Wrong? What could be wrong?

The blackness was still there, always, omnipresent, consuming him from time to time, silencing the voice and erasing the touch. He didn't like it.

But the voice always came back, or maybe he came back to the voice. He didn't know, and it didn't matter.

"…knows if you're going to wake up, and if you do, if you'll be…"

Nothing made sense anymore.

The blackness didn't, the voice didn't, the touch didn't. He didn't make sense.

He thought so, at least. Or did he?

"…sorry for what I have let happen to you…"

What had happened, in fact? Something, probably, yes, something causing the darkness to appear, but what had it been? There was no knowing of that, not even the faintest idea.

The touch was still there, the touch somewhere. His hand, he realised after eternities, someone was holding his hand. The voice was holding his hand.

But voices couldn't, could they?

Voices having a physical appearance… Interesting concept, something in him registered, but not plausible.

Darkness wasn't plausible either, not the kind of darkness swallowing him. Or threatening to swallow him, if it hadn't been for the voice.

And actually, it didn't even matter if the voice was physical or not or whatever… as long as it was there.

x

It took him a long time to remember that he knew the voice.

"…Mary was here," it was saying, "God, do you even know how awkward it feels to hold you best friend's hand while your wife is sitting next to you?"

No, he didn't. He didn't have a wife, and John…

John.

A name. What name?

"Sherlock?" The voice again. "You just moved your fingers, didn't you? Oh God, Sherlock… Can you do it again? Please, if you hear me…"

John. John was talking to him.

And John wanted him to move, but he couldn't. Sherlock couldn't. Darkness was coming again.

Came and went, in fact, and he was too tired to pay much attention.

Came and went for a long time.

One time, the voice was addressing him, telling him to stay calm and to not worry and that he was safe… but Sherlock couldn't, couldn't stay calm. He was suffocating, couldn't breathe, there was something in his throat, something blocking his airway, and he couldn't breathe… The touch was still there, he registered dazedly, as spots appeared again and he couldn't breathe… and darkness again.

Sometimes, he could see something inmidst the darkness, blurry Johns, light, could hear voices. But never for very long. Never for very long.

xx

The thought that he had lost Sherlock would not go away, not even after a sleeping pill.

Lost.

Sherlock.

Truly.

Desperation. Lost him. After days of still lingering hope. Lost. Gone. Over.

x

Mary held him closely that night, trying to comfort him, and convinced him to go back to the hospital the next morning.

Not all was lost yet, not yet.

Weaning was successful, and by now, Sherlock was breathing almost unassistedly, almost on his own.

The twitching had not ceased either, no full coma like before, not being catatonic. Reflexes were there, too, working, mostly, Sherlock's pupils were constricting whenever one of the doctors shone a light in them, making John want to scream: 'Stop it, you're hurting him!'

The only thing that was still missing was waking up.

John was always there when Sherlock's eyes fluttered, when they opened for a split-second, tried to reassure him, to coax him into making a noise, anything, to tell John that Sherlock understood him.

And yet, whatever happened did not seem to be painless, Sherlock's discomfort always very clearly visible.

John flinched as his breath hitched, when a strange strangled noise came from Sherlock, his eyelids moving again.

"Shh," John soothed, barely listening to what he was saying, far too used to babbling anything by now. Rambling, again. "It's alright, Sherlock, you're fine. You're absolutely fine, and safe. I'm here, Sherlock, I'm here…"

Sherlock's hand in John's tightened a tiny bit, his breathing became strained, but his eyes remained closed.

"Sherlock?" John asked again. Something was different this time, something had changed. Something… Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. Open.

"Sherlock!" John urged, barely keeping his emotions out of his voice. "Sherlock, can you hear me? Can you… can you move your fingers if you hear me? Or blink or… Blink, Sherlock, please. Do it for me, please!"

Nothing happened.

Nothing… John let out the breath he had been holding, let out all hope that had still been there. Brain…

A twitch.

He felt like giggling like a madman when Sherlock's eyelids fluttered again, a weak attempt of blinking.

Sherlock.

This time, he did start crying. "Sherlock…," he whispered, his words badly slurred because of all his tears. "Oh god, Sherlock… Do you know who I am? Could you just… just do it again?"

Again, nothing happened at first, nothing except for Sherlock's shallow breathing and the steady sounds of the heart monitor.

Then, all of a sudden, Sherlock made a choking noise that froze John's very blood in his veins. Attempting to speak, the doctor in John told him. Attempting to speak. Speaking.

"Sherlock…," he whispered hoarsely. "Sherlock, thank you… thank you. You'll be fine, you know that? Fine…"

Sherlock's fingers in John's hand were twitching again, moving slightly, and somehow, probably with the last part of all the strength that still was in him, Sherlock managed to breathe something.

"'hn," was all John heard, but looking into Sherlock's face with the fading marks around his eyes, he was absolutely sure that he had never before perceived such a wonderful sound as Sherlock mumbling the ending of his name.

Because Sherlock had heard him, had been conscious enough to understand him, and alert.

Sherlock had heard him. And had even tried to answer. And had remembered him.

As soon as Sherlock's eyes had closed again, his head lolling to the side and his hand going limp in John's grip, John let his head sink down, rest it on the edge of Sherlock's bed, and wept.

xx

The next time he was consciously aware of the touch, of John's touch to his skin, he felt a lot... clear. He felt clear.

John. John. John. John. Still there.

He wanted to say something, he wanted to make John… He didn't remember, blackness appearing inviting all of a sudden again.

"Shh," John's voice came through. "It's alright, Sherlock, you're fine. You're absolutely fine, and safe. I'm here, Sherlock, I'm here…"

Here, yes. Needed to show…

Needed to do something.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John. John. Something in John's voice…

Suddenly, John appeared in his vision, John staring at him.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Can you… can you move your fingers if you hear me? Or blink or… Blink, Sherlock, please. Do it for me, please!"

Blink. One single request. So he had to… for John, yes. He would do anything for John, wouldn't he?

But why was it so exhausting? So exhausting… No, Sherlock reminded himself, his eyes had to remain open. For John…

Finally, his fingers obeyed. And his eyelids did, fluttering, attempting to blink. Why everything at the same time? Stupid, probably.

"Sherlock… Oh god, Sherlock… Do you know who I am? Could you just… just do it again?"

There was something odd in John's voice, sounding strangled, and… and… tears. Something wet hit Sherlock, tears.

Didn't he do well enough? Wasn't… Thinking was exhausting, so exhausting. Even breathing was.

But his eyes had to remain open, had to take in the blurry shade that was John, blurry and unclear.

Stupid question, he wanted to say, you're John, John, John…

But he couldn't. Breathing consumed all of his energy, leaving nothing for talking. Producing a noise was all he could manage, but he had to do better. Had to do better for John, John wanted him to. Wasn't allowed to disappoint John.

"Sherlock… Sherlock, thank you… thank you." John again. Pleased? Thanking him, why? "You'll be fine, you know that? Fine…"

It took all of the strength he could muster to move his fingers against the touch and to say John's name. Had to. Not disappointing John.

"'hn," was all that came out, but when he heard laughing, he knew it had been enough.

This time, despite his being exhausted as he was, he did not welcome the blackness.

John's getting Sherlock back. Or is he?

Thank you for reading.