Thank you all for your reviews and follows and favourites... it's great, really.
So then, here's Part II. I originally intended to post it yesterday evening, but I found I was too tired back then... so today. I'm sorry for the wait nonetheless.
And now... the curtain rises for John and Sherlock.
Enjoy.
Not Meant to Be
10
Part II
Sherlock could talk. He could talk.
John had almost started crying again when he had heard a quiet 'why'. Why.
Why.
Hosp.
Acc.
How.
Case.
You.
No proper words, only syllables, but it was enough.
Sherlock could talk, basically, would need time, time and practice, but… But it was a start.
He didn't seem to remember, not what had happened, not what John had told him the last time he had been awake. But then, John couldn't expect too much.
Time, he reminded himself, time. Sherlock would need time.
He had appeared more coherent, understanding, seemingly, what John had tried to explain to him, although his final words, slurred in a state of near-unconsciousness again, hadn't made sense, at least not to John.
"Is he in pain?" Mary mumbled slowly, back on John's lap. "He looked so… so…"
Pain. Frowning, hissing. "Headache, probably," he replied. "Although I doubt he could tell us where he's hurting if we asked him."
Mary placed a gentle kiss on his temple. "Don't underestimate him," she whispered. "You know that he said 'hosp' before you had even mentioned hospital?"
John simply stared at her with wide eyes.
x
One and a half hours later he was in the cafeteria again, on his own, Mary still being with Sherlock.
He was waiting, waiting for someone he needed to talk to.
The two members of Sherlock's homeless network who had found him, found him and called an ambulance.
Mary had been the one to remind him of them again, asking about what had happened. Of course John hadn't told her, his throat narrowing all of a sudden, but had instead asked her to stay while he was calling Mycroft who could surely find out where they lived - if one could call it 'live'.
"John," Mycroft had greeted him, sounding as impersonal as ever. "What can I do for you? Do you want to tell me to visit my brother?"
"He's woken," John had croaked out hoarsely.
"I am aware, yes. So, what favour would you like to ask from me?"
Rubbing his tired eyes, John had finally answered: "I'd like to meet the two guys who found him, to thank them. Find them, and ask them to meet me… er… at the hospital."
At the hospital because he didn't want to be too far away from Sherlock.
"Please?" he had added, not caring about appearances anymore.
"I'll do my best," Mycroft had answered, solemn all of a sudden, and had, surprisingly enough, added: "Take care of my brother."
x
Only one of them came, in the end, the one who had climbed into the ambulance.
"Wiggins," he greeted John.
"Uhm… hi," John responded awkwardly, not knowing what to say. "So you're… you're part of Sherlock's network?" he asked after having bought the young man - twenty-five, at the most - a cup of coffee.
"His homeless network, yeah."
Sod it, John told himself and bluntly fired away: "Listen, I wanted to see you because… because I wanted to thank you for what you've done, that you've found Sherlock and called an ambulance and accompanied him to the hospital, and… yeah."
Wiggins - John doubted that this was his real name, probably just a nickname he found useful on the streets - studied him with a serious expression in his eyes for a moment. Then he smiled, making him look years younger all of a sudden. "No problem," he told John. "I only did what everybody would have done."
John cleared his throat. "Yes, but…" It was still difficult to talk about that, even now. "But if you had passed by later, an hour or two or three, it might have been too late. For…" He had to clear his throat once more, his voice failing him. "For Sherlock, I mean. He could have been…"
The stern look returned. "He's always been kind to people like… people like me." He laughed bitterly. "I'm glad he's alive."
John found himself nodding. "And I wanted to tell you that he's woken up… yesterday. Or the day before yesterday." Funny how blurred the past days appeared in his mind.
This time, Wiggins grinned. "I know," he said. "It's been in the news."
The news? John almost choked on his coffee. "News?" he repeated, shocked.
"Yeah, you've made it to almost every front page in the past two weeks," Wiggins explained. "'Mysterious accident', 'Blogger without his Detective now?', 'Robin left alone', 'Will the Super-Sleuth be incapacitated forever?' And so on… You know the papers. They like to write."
"Oh… yeah," John concluded. Blogger without his Detective now. Nope. Not good. "The news…"
"Vultures," Wiggins said all of a sudden.
John's head shot up. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Vultures," the young man repeated. "They're vultures. Those invesitgative journalists, I mean. Exploiting your and Sherlock's weakness."
John found he still couldn't believe it. "What… what did they write? Anything true?"
Wiggins simply shrugged his thin shoulders. "Don't think so. Stuff about an overdose and attempted murder. I mean, I don't know what happened to Sherlock, but I don't think that's true." He gazed at John in a lurking way. "Is it?"
John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in front of his chest, staring out of the window. The junkies approaching Sherlock, starting a fight… "No," he finally answered. "None of it."
Wiggins was sensitive enough not to press John any further, and John was thankful for that. "Well," he said after a few minutes, shoving his chair back. "I'd better get going. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me. Give my regards to Sherlock and tell him to get well soon."
John studied Wiggins for a few seconds and suddenly wondered when and how he and Sherlock had met, and how such an intelligent young man, most likely from a well-off family, had ended up living on the streets. For a second, a split second, John couldn't help the thought that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock once hadn't been too different from Wiggins. Maybe. Following an impulse, he suggested something he normally wouldn't even take into consideration: "Would you like to see him?"
Wiggins hesitated only a short moment before nodding.
x
After Wiggins had left - calm, but looking a tiny bit shaken -, John decided he had another call to make, that he had to ring Mycroft again.
"I want you to never show him the video," were his greeting words to Sherlock's older brother. "Whatever happens, if he remembers, if he doesn't, and if he asks about what caused his head injury, don't show him. No matter what."
"John…" Mycroft sounded hesistant for once.
"No," John cut him off. "Don't ever show him. It… I can't explain it, Mycroft," he admitted, feeling like ripping out his hair. "I don't know how much… how much his injury has affected him, if he'll ever be the same, and knowing what happened to him, that he was lying there for five hours… I don't want him to be burdened with that."
Mycroft was silent for a few minutes, minutes in which John could only hear his own strained breathing.
"Alright," he finally said. "I will not say anything."
"Swear it to me," John demanded.
Mycroft sighed, but did as John asked. "I swear. As long as you deem it important."
"Thank you," John choked out and ended the call.
x
This night, he slept in his chair again, not comfortable, but at least with Sherlock who woke once in the night and started babbling nonsense, absolute nonsense. It would have made John smile if the situation hadn't been that serious.
In the morning, he was woken by the sound of someone entering, a doctor, and coincidentally, Sherlock's eyelids started to flutter while the man was still there. Time to find some answers, John realised. Time to face the truth.
xxx
Waking up seemed something he did quite frequently. Usually in John's presence. This time, there was another man he didn't know and didn't observe anything about. Why didn't he...
"Mr Holmes?" The foreign man addressed him. "Can you hear me? Can you tell me your name?"
Something on his face... When he thought about lifting his hand, he remembered something, hazily, but at least he remembered. John telling him... not to touch the thing on his face. So he didn't.
"Sherlock," John said in this very moment. "It is important that you answer his question, yes?"
Question... Oh. His name. A silly question considering that the man had addressed him with his name... But if John insisted...
"Sh'r..." Unfortunately, his vocal chords wouldn't comply.
Suddenly, there was a cup in front of him, a cup with a straw and a hand prying the mask away, gesturing him to drink.
He did. And it felt good. "Sherl..." He tried again, not being able to pronounce his own name. "Sh..." Not working. Why wasn't it, why couldn't he, why... "John!" He choked out, close to a panic.
But John was there. "It's alright, Sherlock, you did fine. Seriously, yes. Just relax, alright?"
Sherlock closed his eyes, pressed them shut, avoiding John's gaze. Until John said: "You can open your eyes again. He's gone."
He, meaning the other man. "Who...," Sherlock mumbled.
"Your doctor," was John's immediate reply. "He just wanted to check if you're OK."
But you are my doctor, Sherlock wanted to say, protestingly. "Why... why can't I..." he muttered instead.
"Why your speech is a bit off?" John concluded. Clever John. Cleverer than he always gave his friend credit for. "Don't worry, it's just a side-effect of the medication you're receiving. And you've been out for quite a while, it's only natural that your throat is terribly raw and talking hurts. It'll pass, I'm sure of it."
Sure of it. Emphasising. So not sure at all.
"J'hn," he mumbled, hands putting the mask back on his face. "What... happen..."
Although his eyes were closed and he battled sleep once again, he noticed how John hesitated. "Not now, Sherlock. Just concentrate on getting better now, yes? That's all that matters."
But no, John, his mind was saying, not allowing his mouth to participate. How am I supposed to recover if I don't know from what?
"Do you need anything?" John added. "Something against the headache?"
Headache, Sherlock mused. Why was he supposed to have a headache... Oh. Head injury, then. Head injury...
"John?" He mumbled again, admittedly tired. "How... long?"
For a moment, he thought John wouldn't answer this question either. "Too long, Sherlock," he then said. "Fourteen days."
Headache. Indeed, a soft throbbing in his skull, soft because of... because of medication. And fourteen days... Why didn't he remember those fourteen days? He remembered yesterday, or at least he assumed it had been yesterday, but... Unless... Oh, his mind was getting faster. Unless... coma? "J'n," he tried again, bone-crushingly tired now.
"Ssh," John's voice whispered from the distance. "Sleep."
And he did.
Thank you for reading.
Next part, though, might take a few days.