First of all: Thank you again! You're amazing! And you tend to distract me from the long wait for series 3...
Since I'm not too busy at the moment, another chapter yet (I'm rather pleased with that one, I have to admit...)
Enjoy, hopefully.
Not Meant to Be
14
Tests were done the next morning, another CT scan and MRI, with Sherlock - thankfully, as John couldn't help but had to think - oblivious throughout the process, thanks to a light sedative, but without helpful results. No second brain bleed, no tumour, no other abnormalities. No apparent reason for the seizure. As there still wasn't one for the symptoms having caused the doctor to suspect meningitis.
Headache, exhaustion, temporary memory loss, difficulty speaking and coordinating movements, one seizure. Not a great outcome, but infinitely better than meningitis or any other possible infection. Not fatal, but with chances of improval.
John was there when Sherlock slowly came round from the sedation, when his eyes opened again, when he weakly attempted to grip John's hand.
"Mhm," was the first thing he said. John knew Sherlock was going to throw up before he did so, giving him the chance to lift his upper body, almost violently turning his head to the side while Sherlock vomited bile onto the floor.
As soon as the retching ceased, being replaced by slight coughing, John readjusted the oxygen prongs - having taken the place of the mask in the morning - and the tube from the nasal cannula and finally rested Sherlock back on the pillows.
"S'ry," he slurred, barely understandable.
"Ssh," John made, grabbing a glass of water from the nightstand. "It's not your fault. Your body's reacting to the anaesthetic. Take a sip of the water and rinse your mouth. Don't swallow."
Carefully, very carefully, he lifted Sherlock's head a bit, supporting his neck, not wanting to hurt his head any further, and helped him drink. "And now spit it out," he said after a few seconds, offering the glass again, Sherlock's head still slightly elevated. "Aim for the glass, but it doesn't matter if you miss."
As soon as Sherlock had got rid of the water, half of it landing on the floor, his neck muscles slackened in John's grip, causing John to quickly ease him down again.
"It's fine," John attempted to reassure him. "Try to sleep a bit longer. I'll be here."
x
The full realisation of how frail Sherlock had become hit John hours later, crashing over the first relief that Sherlock had regained consciousness and that he had recognised John. It hit him when Lestrade stopped by for a visit, insistent this time, not allowing John to send him away again.
"You look like shit," Greg told him, John, upon entering. "Sleeping?" He nodded towards Sherlock in the bed, all slack and limp and pale and indeed sleeping.
"Yes," John confirmed exhaustedly, putting the magazine aside he hadn't been reading in anyway. "Finished the case?" He gestured towards the bag Greg was carrying and the folders peeking out. The case. The case he and Sherlock had intended to investigate before... before...
"Yeah," Greg replied, still looking at Sherlock. "You sure I shouldn't leave again? He just appears as if he needed his sleep."
John wearily shook his head. "We won't wake him if we're just talking normally. It's rather hard to raise him if one of the doctors wants to talk to him, and if it works, he'll nod off soon afterwards."
Still reluctant, Lestrade finally took a seat. "He still doesn't remember?"
John sighed tentatively and automatically pulled the duvet covering Sherlock up a bit. "No," he said flatly.
A curse escaped Greg while John simply kept watching Sherlock. "Then we still don't know who did this to him. Any idea, John? Anyone he might have pissed off in the past weeks, any cases he might have refused..." He broke off.
"No," John simply repeated. "Sorry, Greg. I don't know." He hadn't told Greg. He hadn't told him what Mycroft had shown him, what had in fact happened, that it had not been a controlled attack, just... bad luck. Some drug addicts, craving for more, in search of money, and Sherlock, alone, crossing their path, not willing to be mugged, but outnumbered and in the end losing. And ending up on the sidewalk. An accident, truly. As much as John had longed to lay his hands on the three youths while he had watched the CCTV recording, he now didn't care anymore. Not really. Sherlock was far more important, his recovery, his well-being, and since it had happened already, John tried to think as little as possible about it.
"We'll find him, John," Greg promised nonetheless, rather stupidly. "You know Sherlock, he will remember something, eventually, and we'll find the bastard."
"Mhm," John only made non-committally, allowing silence to spread.
Minutes later, Lestrade didn't seem able to stand the silence any longer. "When he's... when he's up to it, I can bring some cold case files, to keep him busy. One call, John, and I'll..."
"It's fine, Greg, really," John hurried to assure him. "Thank you, really, but... I think he'll need time."
Greg nodded seriously and fell silent again.
"You think..." He cleared his throat. "You think he'll mind that... that I'm here and watching him sleep?"
John turned his gaze back to Sherlock, his closed eyes with the dark smudges beneath them - last remnants of the bruising -, his cracked lips and the oxygen prongs in his nose. "I'm not sure he'll wake before you have to leave again," he mumbled. "Just back from work, aren't you?"
Greg nodded. "He's always sleeping that much?" he wanted to know.
"Hm," John replied, reaching out and rearranging Sherlock's left hand, looking a tiny bit twisted in its current position, on the duvet.
"But he... he's going to be alright?" Lestrade asked.
Thinking about everything he knew, about the sudden appearance of symptoms, about everything that still wasn't back to normal, John didn't know what to respond. Thankfully, a soft moan from the bed spared him the duty of giving an answer.
"Sherlock?" he inquired, leaning forward.
Another groan was the reaction he got, followed by eyes opening seconds later, still dazed from sleep.
"J'hn," he mumbled, lifting his right hand halfway to his face. "L'strade."
Lestrade. Recognition. Even after two horrible nights. John breathed out.
"Sherlock, hey," their friend replied as casually as possible. "Napped long enough now, have you?"
Sherlock didn't respond, but let his eyes flutter shut again.
Quickly, John reached out for the glass on the nightstand, grabbing it with his right hand and elevating Sherlock's head with his left one. "Here, drink," he told his friend. Sherlock took two small sips, then his neck muscles relaxed and he would have collapsed back on the pillow if it hadn't been for John's hand holding him. For John's hand touching surprisingly warm skin. Frowning, John eased his head back down on the pillow. "You're a bit warm," he muttered, talking to no-one in particular.
"Hm?" Greg wanted to know, looking up.
John simply shook his head, his gaze still lingering on Sherlock. "Nothing," he replied. Warm. Temperature. Warm. Fever. Again. He would have to pay attention to it, keep an eye on it. At the same time, he inwardly started begging Sherlock not to have caught something.
"What're'ye doin' here?" Sherlock addressed Greg croakily.
Greg awkwardly patted his hand for a moment. "Here to see you, of course. Needed to see how our favourite Consulting Detective's doing. Got tons of cases for you when you're back on your feet."
Sherlock attempted something akin to a smile. "Mhm," he made.
John watched as his eyes sluggishly darted across the room, remaining on Greg's bag for a moment. "Why... bag?" he asked huskily. "Why're ... you wearing... suit?"
Lestrade's smile seemed to become strained. "I've come here straight from work," he answered patiently. "Got some case files I need to take a second look at."
"Hm," was Sherlock's only reaction, his eyes closing again.
Greg left fifteen minutes later when Sherlock nodded off once more.
And only when the door had closed behind him, John dared to admit to himself how much was really wrong with Sherlock. Until this very moment, even after those two nights, he somehow… maybe he had still assumed that once Sherlock had woken up, everything would be the same after a few days, everything would be fine again. Because Sherlock was Sherlock.
Of course he had known that it would take time, everybody had told him so, he had known it as a doctor, and yet… hearing and knowing it and understanding it were two entirely different things.
And there was a very real chance that Sherlock might never be the same again.
Not the same.
And it was OK. As long as Sherlock did recover, it was OK.
"Oh Sherlock," John found himself mumbling, stroking Sherlock's disconcertingly warm hand. "Why did this have to happen to you, of all people? Why you?"
Yes, why Sherlock? Why had it been the very moment when Sherlock had walked that street somewhere that those junkies had appeared there, craving for the next hit? And why did he have to hit his head, why not his wrist or shoulder or ankle? And why did it have to be hours until somebody had found him?
Sherlock simply hadn't meant to be left for dead in some narrow alley. He hadn't meant to be broken, his skull hadn't meant to be, and he most definitely wasn't meant to be here now, in hospital, not doing much else than sleeping and resting. Doing boring things.
And yet, it had happened. And John would be there to pick up the pieces.
So... what do you say? I hope you liked it, and thank you for reading!