I am terribly sorry for the wait. Really.
So now.
Enjoy.
Not Meant to Be
11
John leaned back in his chair as soon as Sherlock's body had slackened again.
He didn't know what to think.
Should he be happy, or should he be desperate? Or both?
Sherlock hadn't been able to pronounce his own name, but then, he did seem to remember it.
He had called for John, sounding close to panicked, and he had asked questions, but John couldn't tell if he remembered anything.
And he had wanted to know how long.
Fourteen days. It had indeed been fourteen days since the night John had received that call.
And nobody knew how much longer it would take.
x
"Are you sure it's alright?" Mrs Hudson asked him at least for the third time now as he led her down the corridor.
John hid his worry behind a smile and nodded. "He won't mind," he promised. Sherlock wouldn't, probably - because he still was too exhausted, sleeping too much to register fully what was going on around him.
"But it's only been four days…," Mrs Hudson began again.
Four days since Sherlock had woken. A few minutes of coherence. Today hadn't been a good day, so far. "It's fine, Mrs H," John repeated. "But… just don't worry if he appears… not like himself."
He managed to avoid the sad look on Mrs Hudson's face since they had reached the room. "Mary's here, too," he said before opening the door.
Minutes later, they were all settled - Mary on one side of the bed, Mrs Hudson on the other, John pacing.
"Oh, my poor boy," he heard Mrs Hudson whisper eventually, her voice sounding… choked.
John exchanged a swift glance with Mary who shrugged her shoulders. "It's… er," he began, approaching Mrs Hudson and resting a hand on her shoulder. "He's just sleeping, it's… fine." I think, he added in his thoughts. Although he knew, actually, although it was logical, although it was the only reasonable explanation, John found it difficult nonetheless to look at Sherlock and keep in mind that he was in fact just sleeping. For many hours, but sleeping. Resting. Peacefully. Regaining strength. Hopefully.
Mrs Hudson was still there when a nurse came in, carrying a tray. "Lunch," she announced. "Something light. He's allowed to eat."
Food. Solid food. Well, soup. But food. Sherlock was allowed to ingest food again. And able to.
"Thank you," John told the nurse and placed the tray on the nightstand.
Doing his best to ignore both Mary's and Mrs Hudson's watchful glances, he sat down on the edge of the bed and softly started shaking Sherlock's shoulder.
No reaction.
John took to gently cupping his hollow cheeks, and finally, Sherlock's eyes flickered open.
"J'n?" he breathed into the oxygen mask, sounding confused. Again.
"It's fine, Sherlock," John hurried to reassure him. For a moment, he didn't know how to continue. "Look, you've got another visitor," he then added, gesturing towards Mrs Hudson.
There was no spark of recognition in Sherlock's glassy eyes. "Mh," he only made, exhaling slowly.
John swallowed dryly.
"Mrs Hudson wanted to visit you," Mary raised her voice, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "She claims she's just your landlady, but she worries about you nonetheless."
His Mary. So clever. Telling Sherlock everything he needed to know without letting Mrs Hudson know that he apparently didn't remember her.
"Sherlock," John addressed his friend again as Sherlock's eyes started to slide close. "Do you think you can sit up a bit? A nurse has brought lunch. Soup."
This time, they didn't leave Sherlock a chance, Mary and John carefully helping him to sit upright, stuffing pillows behind his back and removing the oxygen mask. Then John took Mary's seat, balancing the tray on his knees.
His hand was trembling ever so slightly when he took the spoon and dipped it into the soup.
"J'n," Sherlock whispered quietly. "Don' want to…"
John's heart clenched painfully. "Don't worry," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "You will feel better soon."
Sherlock swallowed the first spoon without any complaints. After the second one, he pressed his eyes shut, and after the fifth one he had turned chalk white.
"John…," Mary began carefully, but John had already stopped. "Alright," he said, setting the tray aside. "Alright. That's enough for today. You did fine, Sherlock, seriously."
John was too slow when Sherlock started coughing first and then retching, throwing up the five spoons of soup.
All that could be heard was Sherlock's laboured panting and John cursing under his breath.
"Mary, get a nurse, please," he asked his wife while he was holding Sherlock in an awkward embrace, to keep him from collapsing into the sick. "To change the sheets. And Mrs Hudson… maybe you should leave. I'm sorry, Mrs H, but…"
Mrs Hudson sniffled quietly. "It's fine, dear," she sobbed and hid her face behind a tissue. "'s fine… I'll come back later."
John's throat was raw as he kept cradling Sherlock and waited for Mary and a nurse to return.
xxx
He was dreaming. Dreaming of the kind old lady.
He knew her face… he knew her name. Of course he did. John had told him.
Johnjohnjohnjohn…
He was dreaming. Dreaming of the kind old lady. Dreaming of… Mrs Hudson. His landlady, not his housekeeper.
Not his housekeeper.
He had done something bad, he knew it. She would be angry with him. John would be angry with him. She would be angry with him as she had been when he had shot her wall… or when he had… when…
Mrs Hudson. His landlady. And John's… no, not anymore. Because John was… John was…
There were voices around him, talking, and another touch to his skin. For a moment he didn't know if it was John, or if it was Mrs Hudson, bringing him tea or breakfast or…
John, he determined and at the same time remembered that he was asleep, in fact.
"Greg, I'm sorry…," John's voice said.
Suddenly, Sherlock was dreaming of a man named Greg. He didn't know the man, didn't know his face, didn't know his voice which was slowly afterwards saying something. Unimportant. John.
"I know you're a DI, Greg, but I seriously don't know who…"
DI. DI. DI… Detective… Detective…
He knew someone. Le..: Sounding French. Weird name. He knew it, he knew it…
His dream changed again, the unknown Greg being replaced by a familiar man, a… police officer, a DI. Les… Even in his dream it was difficult to reach the correct room in his mind palace. Le… Lestrade. A… friend.
John. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. John and… John's wife. Mary. John.
Content with his results for now, Sherlock's sleep became dreamless again.
xxx
John had been insistent. When Sherlock woke again and appeared coherent enough to answer questions, he would ask him, would try to find out how much he remembered, if he remembered at all. Not some foreign doctor. Not with Sherlock.
He had been insistent, yes, but now that it seemed as if the time had come, his heart was beating wildly in his chest.
"Sherlock," he addressed his friend as softly as possible. "I need you to listen to me for a few minutes. Can you do this?"
Sherlock frowned a tiny bit and moaned in response.
John held his breath. A stupid question, probably, but he had to ask again. "Sherlock," he began gently. "Do you know who I am?"
Sherlock's fingers in his grip twitched. "John," he breathed.
John.
"That's it, Sherlock, yes," John reassured him quickly. "And can you tell me your name?"
His eyes didn't open. "Sh'rl'ck Holm…," he mumbled into the oxygen mask, his eyesbrows moving slightly.
John's heart calmed a tiny bit. Much better than two days ago. Much better. He squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Very well. You're doing really well."
And now… "Sherlock," he asked again. "Where do you live?"
The frown deepened, and Sherlock gave something frighteningly close to a whimper. "Mrs…," was the muffled reply. "Huds… 22..."
Sod it, John thought and tightened his grip even more. "221B Baker Street, yes," he finished, blinking quickly.
What else? It hurt John to keep pestering Sherlock when all he wanted to do was to let his best friend rest a bit longer. Was it his imagination or had Sherlock turned a shade paler in those minutes John had been asking him questions?
"We're almost through," he muttered despite the lump in his throat. "Do you remember anything else? About you? About what you're doing? Anything at all?"
Sherlock didn't say anything for a few minutes, time in which John was inclined to hold his breath. Finally, he cracked his eyes open a tiny bit, directing them, still glazed over, at John. All of sudden, John felt like being thrown back in time, days earlier when Sherlock, in an absolute panic, had stared at him with vacant eyes.
No.
"Pink," Sherlock whispered.
John's heart performed a sudden leap. "Pink," he repeated. "What about pink? Do you know more?"
Sherlock's eyelids fluttered shut. His dark lashes against his stark white skin made the dark smudges beneath his eyes only appear more prominent.
"Pink… la…dy," he mumbled. "Case… you blog… and I… cons… con… help," he ended feebly.
Slowly, a smile was spreading on John's face. "You're doing great, Sherlock, really great," he encouraged his best friend. "Now…"
"Di'n't see you… for two years," Sherlock went on, a pained expression on his face. "Friends… friends protect…"
The beeping of the heart monitor sped up and caused John to grit his teeth. "Alright, Sherlock, alright. Stay calm. I'm here. I'm here, OK?"
"Mhm," Sherlock made hoarsely, taking deep breaths.
John pressed his eyes shut for a moment, wanting it to be done, all of this. "What is the last thing you remember?"
When Sherlock remained silent at first, John wondered if maybe the question had been too complicated, if he should word it differently…
"Last…," Sherlock then whispered, sounding terribly exhausted. "'s… I…" He started coughing, but didn't stop trying to talk. "Pa… pas… noo… dles…"
Noodles. An evening almost three weeks ago when John and Mary had invited Sherlock - and insisted on his coming - for diner, Mary cooking pasta.
Three weeks ago.
"Anything else?" he wanted to know, softly stroking Sherlock's hand. Stupid question, he scolded himself only seconds later. Stupid questions, all of them. How could Sherlock know if it was really the last thing he remembered? How could he know what had happened when, what… A gap of about two weeks had to be present at least, the time he had spent comatose or half-awake, and everything in his mind was probably utterly confusing.
"Never mind, Sherlock. I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm so sorry. I know you're confused and achy and sore all over, and tired, and nonetheless I start bothering you with all those questions. It's… I'm sorry."
Sherlock weakly shifted his head, frown lines appearing on his brow. "J'hn," he slurred, but somehow, it was enough. Enough to make John smile again.
xxx
Sherlock wasn't even sure if he was asleep. His eyes were closed, but it was bright nonetheless, and John wasn't there.
Dream, he decided since he could still feel John's touch.
In his dream, everything was… muddled. His brain.
How could he be here all of a sudden?
John had asked him, and nonetheless Sherlock didn't understand. How could he have ended up here after they had had diner?
But no, John… John had said accident. What accident? Concerning pasta?
He didn't understand, and he didn't like the feeling.
John sounded… not like John whenever he spoke. Or much like John, but not like happy John. John was… scared. And… and… worried. That was the word. Worried.
Worried why? Sherlock still didn't know.
John sounded more… more not like John whenever Sherlock didn't understand something. Whenever he failed to answer John's questions. Sherlock didn't like it.
Do better, his brain told him.
I can't, Sherlock wanted to reply, to defend himself.
"Ssh, it's alright, just a dream…"
John. Wasn't allowed to disappoint John. Had to do better.
Remember… remember… Not working.
Beeping came to his ears, fast beeping. And John's voice, talking. Not happy John.
Difficult, he decided, so difficult… to change…
John's voice was the last thing he heard.
Thank you for reading! A tiny comment about what you thought would be appreciated.