Thank you again for your continued support!
So, here's the next chapter - the first part of it, rather. Second part is about to follow soon.
Enjoy.
Not Meant to Be
10
Part I
John's eyes didn't stop watering until what felt like an eternity later. Whenever he thought he had composed himself well enough to get up and call Mary, to tell her, to break the news to her, his heart clenched painfully at the thought of letting go of Sherlock, of not being there.
What if he missed it if Sherlock woke again? What if he woke and started to panic? What if he didn't wake, if something happened? If his body gave up, now, after all, after John had started to hope again?
No, no, no. Sherlock had opened his eyes, consciously, had been alert, had recognised John. Had recognised John.
John still couldn't believe it. Had he heard correctly? Had he? Had Sherlock in fact tried to whisper his name? Or had it mostly been John's imagination, his mind playing tricks on him?
When he looked at Sherlock now, dead to the world again, looking sick and tired and simply frail, it was nearly impossible to imagine that he could return to be the best friend John had known, the enigmatic, annoying, brilliant man, simply his best friend.
"Oh, Sherlock," John whispered, following a sudden urge to say something. Slowly, he reached out a hand, rested it on his neck, feeling his pulse, steady and comforting. "Don't do anything stupid. Going to call Mary now. I'll be back any second."
x
It was the second time that he gave Mary a call like that, John realised as he hurriedly and with shaking fingers, leaning against the wall in the corridor since he did not trust his legs at the moment, dialled her number.
She answered her phone immediately. "John, what's wrong? Something with Sherlock?"
'No,' John wanted to say, 'no', but he couldn't force out a single word.
"John!" Mary demanded. "John, tell me!"
Finally, somehow, hoarsely, probably, he managed to answer Mary's question. "Nothing wrong," he whispered, his voice indeed raw. From crying, maybe. "Mary, it's… Sherlock has woken up, Mary, and… and he seemed to recognise me, and…"
Mary didn't wait for him to finish his sentence. "I'm coming."
x
They sat together until late into the night, until Mary had to leave again, tired and with the knowledge that she had to work the following day. Sherlock's eyes opened a sliver ever so often, but he didn't come to again, was never coherent or awake enough to recognise anybody. John stayed, of course, after Mary had left, tense and still afraid, uncertain, replaying the pictures from the security camera in his head over and over again. Thinking about the incident. Thinking about Sherlock. And thinking about the future.
Eventually, he fell asleep, haunted by dreams of blood and death and kerbs. By the time he jerked awake again, breathless and in cold sweat, his head and his upper body resting on the bed, against Sherlock's waist, his entire body felt sore and stiff, achy all over from having been sitting in the same uncomfortable chair for more then sixteen hours, without as much as getting up, always bent forward to never let go off Sherlock. Transport, a voice in his head said, and for the first time, John felt inclined to agree.
Doctors came in shortly afterwards, informing him that reacting to external stimulants such as touch and voices was a good sign, a very good sign. Patience, they said, time, time, time. Confusion. Confusion after craniotomy and coma, confusion and exhaustion.
John didn't want to imagine Sherlock confused and exhausted, and he didn't want those doctors to see him confused and exhausted. And yet, being a doctor himself, he knew that it would happen inevitably.
They didn't know anything yet, in fact, didn't know if Sherlock could talk, if he could move all of his limbs, if he remembered anything, if he knew who he was, if he had a chance to be alright again.
John was aware of all that, and yet… this was Sherlock. His best friend who had come back from death itself. Despite all logic, John hoped to be proven wrong.
"Come on, Sherlock," he told him as soon as they were gone again. "Be alright. Please."
Patience, he forced himself to remember nonetheless, patience.
And patience he needed in fact, to wait for something more to happen while he watched Sherlock sleep, peacefully first, more restless in the afternoon, moving his head and moaning, until he calmed again, calmed enough to lie motionless.
No matter how much time it would take, John determined then, he would be there.
xxx
When Sherlock woke for the next time, again the blurry image of John appeared in front of his face.
"Hey," it was whispering softly, a smile tugging at its lips. "Feeling better? Do you need anything?"
Need anything... Slowly, very slowly, his brain tried to make sense of what he was hearing, tried to understand. What could he need, what should he... Where was he, most importantly.
"Sherlock?" John asked again.
"Mh," was all Sherlock could think of, suddenly becoming aware of something on his face. "Hmm...," he made, trying to lift his hand to the thing.
"Oh, no, no, no, Sherlock," John told him immediately, his form still not entirely clear. "You have to leave this there."
Leave it? Why? Why... Before he could finish the thought, Sherlock nodded off again.
xxx
After John had made sure three times thart Sherlock was in fact still sleeping peacefully and undisturbedly, that he was still fine, he venture to the cafeteria for the first time in what felt like ages and consumed a hasty meal, swallowing without really chewing. Mary would scold him for that, surely, but John didn't care.
Not after Sherlock had come to a second time, his eyes still glazed over and unfocused, but at least able to hear John, to perceive his voice.
"Mh," he had slurred. A noise, not a word, but to John, it had appeared as the reaction to his calling Sherlock's name. Reaction. Reaction was good, very good.
Although he hadn't anwered John's question, hadn't seemed to understand what John told him, had been conscious for about only one minute, John felt… good. Light-headed, somehow.
Because Sherlock had tried to lift his hand, too weak, apparently, had tried to reach out to the oxygen mask, clearly confused, irritated.
Any other doctor might have taken this small gesture as a confirmation of how disorientated patients with traumatic head injuries and brain surgery tended to be, but to John, it was something else. It was Sherlock. Something Sherlock would do, would try to get rid of anything irritating as soon as he was able to move again.
He was overrating this incidence, John knew, most likely, and nonetheless he couldn't help it.
Yes, recovery, if at all, would take time, a long time. But it was possible. Hopefully. Sherlock had lost consciousness immediately afterwards, yes, and he seemed fragile like a newborn baby, his arms as thin as twigs.
A very long time.
x
Mary returned and sat on John's lap, seeking his comfort, providing him with hers.
"Are you okay?" she asked him after she had kissed him.
John nodded, breathing in her scent. "I'm fine," he mumbled.
They both knew it was a lie, that he wouldn't be fine as long as Sherlock wasn't, but Mary didn't correct him, and John didn't add anything.
So they just sat there, entwined, Mary asking him questions now and then, watching their friend, studying the pale face with the oxygen mask, the gauze cap, the drip, the thin arms, the dark circles around his eyes. And waited.
xxx
The next time, he didn't even realise that he had woken up.
"...we won't know more until he's coherent enough to answer questions," a familiar voice said. Oh, John.
"It's so horrible, John, and I wished I could... Oh! Sherlock?"
This time, there was a second someone sitting on John's lap, smiling, too. Who...?
"Sherlock," John echoed, bending forward and causing the other person to get up from his lap. A person he was supposed to know... But his brain was too foggy, too thoroughly in disarray as that he could have found a name.
There was something on his face, something threatening to choke him... Had to get it off, had to raise his arm...
"Sherlock, no, don't," John told him, gripping both of his hands. "It's nothing to worry about. Look."
Suddenly, the thing disappeared from his face as did John's hands around his, only to be held directly in front of his face. At the same time, he started to feel funny, as if… as if… he didn't know.
"It's an oxygen mask, Sherlock, and it helps you breathe," John informed him, replacing it over his mouth and nose. And surprisingly enough, it felt good.
What had John said...? Helps you breathe? Breathe?
Oh. Hospital then, he finally figured out. Hospital. And that was why everything was so hazy, so... veiled. Medication, probably. But why... Why... Why was he here?
Frowning and trying hard to remember did not help at all.
"J'n," he attempted instead. "Why?"
John appeared confused for a second, or maybe it was just the blurriness in Sherlock's eyes. "Why it helps you breathe? Or why you need it?" And his voice sounded… different. Not like John.
Oh John, he wanted to say, do please use your brain. Isn't it obvoius what a person in my situation would want to know first?
All that came out was: "J'n... Hosp..." Was his voice that hoarse or was his hearing impaired?
"Sssh, Sherlock, stay calm," John began, clearly hesitating. Clearly? How did he know? Oh, but only thinking about that hurt his head...
"You had an... an accident," John carefully went on, squeezing his hand tightly, "and now you're in hospital. But you're going to be fine."
Quick assurance, it shot through Sherlock's brain, accompanied by a searing flash of pain that made him hiss. Quick meaning... not so fine, then.
And... accident?
"Acc...," he began, unable to continue, to form the words. John had understood him, nonetheless.
"Yes, accident. Don't try to remember it now, just rest a bit more. I'm here, and you'll be fine."
Sherlock's eyes closed on their own account, simply sliding shut.
Accident... He didn't remember any accident. Had it been during a case? And if, how was John... And how long had it been?
"J'n," he mumbled, trying to fight off sleep for another few minutes. "How... Case... You..."
The last thing he heard was the other voice saying: "I know what you're afraid of, but he's Sherlock. Your best friend. He will recover, John. I..."
Sherlock gave in again.
Thank you for reading.