Another rather lenghty wait, I know. I'm sorry.
I was so excited about all the positive feedback I was receiving after the last chapter, so... just thank you. Really. I mean it.
As a kind of reward - next part.
Enjoy.
Not Meant to Be
12
That night, John didn't have any nightmares.
He didn't have any nightmares because he didn't find any sleep.
He would have preferred the nightmares.
x
Sherlock's sleep was dreamless and still for the first hours after John had tried to question him, had pestered him with questions. Dreamless and hopefully restful.
John had almost nodded off by the time Sherlock started shifting weakly, turning his head from one side to the other, his fingers twitching, his brow furrowed. John watched for a few seconds, watched Sherlock's eyes move beneath the lids, heard him moan and whimper.
A dream. A nightmare.
Firmly, he squeezed Sherlock's right hand of which he had never let go. "Ssh, it's alright, just a dream…," he whispered soothingly, doing his best to remain calm. Calm. Calm was what Sherlock needed now.
"Just a dream…," he repeated, stroking Sherlock's hand, attempting to give him something to hold on to.
It did work, eventually. Sherlock kept thrashing for a few more minutes, the beeping of the heart monitor accelerated, his breaths in the oxygen mask became quick and strained. His eyes didn't open, his fingers didn't grip John's, but finally, his movements became slower and more sluggish until he stilled, the frown nonetheless present.
John didn't take his eyes off his friend, didn't even think about trying to fall asleep himself, to get a bit of rest. Instead, he watched Sherlock, watched the readings on the monitors that told him that his heart rate wasn't back to normal yet, that his blood pressure was still lower than supposed to be, even lower than the days before, heard his fast breathing.
It didn't take long until Sherlock stirred again, moaning, tossing weakly.
John's heart clenched painfully as he rested his free left hand on Sherlock's face, cupping his cheek slightly. A feeble, a hesitant attempt to wake him.
"Sherlock," he whispered softly, "You're dreaming, just a dream, I'm here, you're fine… I'm here, OK? Wake up. Wake up now."
Without any success. John left both of his hands where they were, suddenly becoming aware of the very not normal temperature of Sherlock's skin.
His blood seemed to freeze in his veins, and for a moment, he wasn't able to think straight or act.
Hot skin. Fever.
He didn't hesitate before he pressed the call button.
x
"We will have to do a few tests," the doctor told him about fifteen minutes later. "We won't be sure until we've got the results, but…"
John of course didn't miss how the doctor hesitated while he kept clinging to Sherlock's limp hand.
"… I'm afraid that the symptoms he's showing seem to match those of bacterial meningitis."
John couldn't breathe.
"The sudden fever, tachycardia and low blood pressure, decreased level of consciousness…"
Decreased level of consciousness. John felt like collapsing.
The doctor had tried to wake Sherlock, had tried to talk to him, but Sherlock hadn't reacted to his name, hadn't reacted to being slapped in the face. Hadn't reacted to anything at all, at first, until finally his eyelids had started fluttering and opened, causing him to flinch and close them again as soon as the light of the doctor's torch had shone into his eyes.
Sensibility towards light.
The doctor had asked him two questions, in fact, had asked him for his name and if he could describe how he felt.
"J'n," had been Sherlock's muffled reply, his heart rate speeding up even more. "Hea'ach', J'n…"
Headache. Another symptom for meningitis.
No.
No.
Not Sherlock. No.
"I… will he… is it… It's early enough, isn't it?" John managed to choke out, barely able to swallow. "He'll… you'll be able to do something, to treat it, right?"
Almost compassionately, the doctor nodded. "We'll start him on cefotaxime and amipicillin immediately, even before we're going to do further testing. A blood test, and a CT scan. It is…"
John could simply stare at Sherlock's hand, lying on the duvet, still tightly enwrapped in John's grip, but so… so lifeless. "I'm a doctor," he forced himself to say. "Tell me. His chances?"
"We don't know if we're dealing with meningitis," the doctor interjected quickly. "It could…"
"Yes, but if?" John cut him off, raising his voice. "If it is? What are his chances?"
The doctor gave him a long, stern look. "In his condition? About 40 to 50 % with immediate treatment, probably. If it is meningitis. I'm sorry."
40 to 50 %.
He paused for a moment, a moment in which nothing except for the beeping of the heart monitor and John's pained gasping could be heard.
"A nurse will draw the blood samples," he then announced. "I'll organise a CT scan for him."
John didn't even realise that the doctor left, leaving him alone with Sherlock.
The possibility of meningitis. Bacterial meningitis. A survival chance of 40 to 50 %. With the right treatment. With the right…
No.
What if it had taken too long? What if it was too late already? What if all of this was simply too much for Sherlock's body, what if he simply gave in? What if he didn't make…
No.
x
Five minutes later, John was still fighting with the absolute terror that had started to possess him, was still battling the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.
Losing Sherlock. Losing him.
No.
The doctor had returned already, had injected ampicillin and cefotaxime intravenously, had began treatment. The nurse had been here, drawing a blood sample and disappearing again, smiling at John compassionately.
Alone having to listen to Sherlock's ragged and fast breathing made John want to vomit.
"CT scan in twenty minutes," the doctor stormed in again and informed him, together with a nurse.
John could only watch as the doctor and the nurse started wheeling the bed away, together with all the machines and the drip and… and Sherlock.
John simlpy followed them.
x
Another ten minutes later he found himself in a cold room, together with the bed and the equipment and Sherlock, waiting for the CT scan. Twenty minutes, the doctor had said. Meaning ten were still left.
Ten minutes seemed far too long.
Because Sherlock looked as if he didn't have ten minutes. As if he didn't even have five minutes.
He had started tossing again, uncontrollably, clenching and unclenching muscles, moving around in his bed. His breathing… John certainly didn't like the way his still too fast breathing sounded, as if it took a too large effort. Each time Sherlock drew in a shaky and wheezing breath, John had to stop himself from flinching. But then, breathing was breathing.
Sherlock shivered every few minutes, chills shaking his body while he was otherwise burning up, his skin boiling hot to John's touch.
His heart rate had calmed in the meantime, changing to a much slower, almost too slow rhythm, doing nothing to ease John's worry.
When Sherlock's slightly yellowish skin started to exhibit tiny red spots, littering his cheeks and forehead and arms, and John noticed a certain redness around his fingernails, his utter fear turned into anxiety, and when his heart rate dropped even further and his nose started to bleed all of a sudden, John panicked.
"Doctor Stevens!" he shouted, letting go of Sherlock's hand and gripping his head instead, turning his face to the right side, ripping off the oxygen mask. "Help! Doctor, anyone!"
In the seconds it took the doctor to reenter and assess the situation, together with a nurse, John had lifted Sherlock's upper body, letting his head sag forward, to keep him from inhaling and choking on his own blood.
"Help," was all that came out of his mouth, his throat too narrow to breathe properly.
"Leave," the doctor told him.
Everything in John wanted to oppose. "No," he whispered, staring at Sherlock. "No, I can't…"
"Sir, you have to," the nurse said softly while the doctor was focusing on Sherlock. "Atropine," he ordered.
Atropine.
"No," John mumbled, his vision blurring, allowing the nurse to shove him out of the room. "No…"
x
It was more than half an hour before John, pacing up and down, pacing with his leg sending jabs of pain through his nerves with each step, got any news, and it was more than two hours before he was allowed to see Sherlock again.
See Sherlock.
"Allergic reaction to cefotaxime," the doctor had told him. "We needed atropine to stabilise him, but we've got it under control now. We've decided on another antibiotic, and now we're going to do the CT scan."
John's pacing had not stopped in the one and a half hours that had followed.
Allergic reaction. Atropine.
What if it was meningitis, what had the switch of antibiotics done to reduce chances of survival? Why had Sherlock reacted allergic to the medication? What if there was going to be a second allergic reaction? How severe had it been? Bordering on anaphylactic shock?
He didn't know, and it drove him mad.
When the doctor appeared for the second time and after John had finally realised what his words - "the scan was fine, nothing abnormal to see - meningitis is very unlikely" - meant, he felt like collapsing. "Can I see him?" was his first question, and to his relief, the doctor nodded.
x
John still didn't like the way Sherlock looked, or the way he was lying in the hospital bed. He almost could see last traces of his nosebleed beneath the oxygen mask, could still see the angry red dots on his still yellowish skin.
Suspected meningitis.
Treatment with antibiotics.
Allergic reaction to the antibiotics.
Atropine.
CT scan.
Suspicion not confirmed.
No meningitis.
Not meningitis. John had had to sit down, his knees buckling from relief.
But a severe allergic reaction, severe enough for Sherlock to need atropine.
And symptoms, similar to those of bacterial meningitis, without any apparent reason.
When John risked a glance on his watch again, it read 4 o'clock in the morning. 4 o'clock. He had been worrying for… for… too long.
Worried was not even the expression. He had been… frightened to death.
Losing Sherlock.
He couldn't lose Sherlock. He wouldn't… he wouldn't get over that, as stupid as it might sound. He couldn't. Not again. Not like that. Not… no. Not Sherlock.
"You have to get better," he whispered, stroking Sherlock's hand softly. Sherlock's hand, feeling warm, but no longer so shockingly hot. "You have to, Sherlock, please… You… don't leave me, alright? Just… don't. Sherlock, please."
x
He felt like a dead man walking in the morning, stiff and sore, his head pounding, his stomach still clenched in fear. He felt old.
Old and drained.
And Sherlock, though stable, officially and apparently, still didn't look better. Although he had woken, looking at John with bleary eyes, his lips trembling, forming a weak smile. "J'hn," he had mumbled, frowning. "You… here. Good."
"Normal," John was assured by a doctor when Sherlock lost consciousness again, but it did nothing to reassure him.
When Greg came by in the early morning, wanting to visit Sherlock, John told him off, almost rudely, asking him to come back again… tomorrow. Or even later. Because Sherlock was… wasn't well enough.
He gave Mary a call while she was at work, probably sounding that confused and anxious and negative that she rushed to hospital immediately, practically shouting at him to tell her what had happened.
"Nothing," John only replied. "Bad night, that's all."
Bad night.
Of course she didn't believe him.
When he left the room, still ICU, Mary still at Sherlock's side, to take a quick shower and try to get rid of the horror of the night, he decided he would have preferred any nightmare. Because nightmares weren't true. Weren't real. Because one would always wake up from a nightmare.
John didn't wake up.
Thank you for reading!