Next part. You might have noticed, I do have loads of free time at the moment!
Thank you again for your continued support! I hope you will like that one.
Enjoy.
Not Meant to Be
15
Sherlock woke because of the silence.
Silence… no beeping. Beeping… why beeping… He remembered it, but now it was… gone.
He didn't know. No beeping, no talking.
When his eyes opened a sliver, he saw walls, walls moving… moving. Walls couldn't…
John. John couldn't… where was…
He forced his eyes fully open, saw nothing but walls and the ceiling. Moving. He was moving.
Until it stopped.
"Sherlock?"
John's face. He felt as if he hadn't seen John's face in ages. John… He felt… tired. And hot. So hot.
And no beeping.
"Dead… am… I?" was the first thing that came both to his mind and out of his mouth. No beeping. Beeping was good, and now…
John's face was still replacing the ceiling. "De… what? No, Sherlock, no," he said, resting his hand on Sherlock's face. "You're a bit sick, but it's nothing to worry about. You're going to be OK. We're just… we're just moving to a new room, OK? Don't worry, it's all fine. Just… close your eyes and I'll tell you when we're there. What about that, hm?"
Close your eyes. Again. Making John disappear.
"J'hn…," he slurred, his eyes not doing what he wanted. Closed, indeed. "Beeping…"
"Ssh," John told him. "It's gone, I know. You don't need the heart monitor any longer, OK? You're fine."
Fine…
"Hm," he made.
John's voice accompanied the moving and shifting.
John. Frightened John. Frightened.
"'m s'ry, John…," he mumbled, desperately trying to hold on. Hold on to John, but go back to sleep. He decided he didn't want to see the new room now.
x
Sherlock wasn't willing to open his eyes. John kept talking to him, demanding for him to wake up, to talk to someone, to answer questions… but Sherlock didn't want to.
"Mh," he groaned as John started slapping him gently.
"Sherlock?" John inquired, stopping, resting his hand on Sherlock's face. "Are you awake?"
Awake? Unfortunately. His head… Opening his eyes a sliver definitely wasn't a good idea, so he immediately let them slide shut again.
"Mh," he made again, painfully aware of his sore throat.
John's hand disappeared, his wonderfully cool hand, and suddenly, Sherlock felt a lot more uncomfortable. "Hm," he mumbled, frowning. His head…
Sherlock relaxed when he felt John grab his hand again, allowing his head to loll to the side. Sleep…
"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I know you're tired and you want to sleep, but…"
John's voice suddenly disappeared, only to be back seconds later. "Sherlock? Do you hear me, Sherlock?"
He wanted to nod, but his head wouldn't comply. The simple thought of moving it increased his headache. "Mhm," he repeated instead, becoming more and more aware of how dull his intelligible answers sounded. And yet, he didn't find the energy to do more than this.
"Sherlock, a doctor will come soon and draw a bit of blood from your arm, to do a few tests. And he will want to talk to you, so you have to stay awake for a bit, can you do this?" John's voice again, soft and compassionate and…
Awake. Had to stay awake. But tired…
John's hands were back, somewhere on his face, and it hurt… And it was hot. Fever, he realised dazedly, he had a fever.
"J'hn," he mumbled, confused. "'s hot…"
"Ssh, Sherlock, it's fine," John's voice answered from somewhere in the dark. "You're running a bit of a temperature, but you'll be fine. Tell me, does it hurt anywhere?"
Hurt? Fever… what should hurt, what? "Head," he whispered, feeling the urge to sleep roll over him. Head, what else? "John, I… tired," he ended quietly.
"I know, Sherlock, I know," John repeated rather helplessly. "Just a few minutes, and then you'll be allowed to sleep again."
The few minutes seemed to pass eternally slow to Sherlock.
That isn't fair, John, he wanted to say, to tell me a few minutes while in reality it will take hours. Too much effort, he found. And his head felt far too fuzzy. Another moan was what he settled on.
Fever… Interesting, he mused, that he should know. But then, John had been talking to someone, quietly, probably intending to let him sleep, saying something about a low grade fever and infection, some kind of infection somewhere…
"Doctor Watson, good morning," a loud voice suddenly yelled and made him flinch. "And Mr Holmes. How are we today?"
We? Why 'we'? Sherlock thought confusedly. He didn't even know that man, how should he know how he felt? Strange, he decided, very strange.
A part of him realised that his thoughts weren't making much sense, but he was too exhausted to care. John would care. John would know what to do.
"Still a bit sleepy today, aren't we, Mr Holmes?" the foreign man continued chatting rather mindlessly, doing something with one of his arms. "In a bad mood, then?" he went on. "Not talking to me today, Mr Holmes?"
Why did he have to talk in such a loud voice? Sherlock frowned without opening his eyes, trying to turn away from the noises. His head…
"Now, now, Mr Holmes," the doctor made, reminding Sherlock of Mrs Hudson for a moment, Mrs Hudson when he hadn't eaten her breakfast once more… and then addressed John: "Doctor Watson, weren't you told that he was supposed to be awake when we're drawing those blood samples?"
It didn't make much sense what that man was saying. He was awake, wasn't he? And even if not, it shouldn't sound as if this was John's fault. Slowly, he fought his eyes open a tiny bit, enough to see blurry John and blurry unfriendly man. "'m awake," he mumbled. "Leave J'hn…"
Suddenly, there was something cold on his right arm, something uncomfortably cold… And where was John? Risking two glances, Sherlock realised that John was still there, standing next to the doctor, and that some cold liquid was on his arm. What had John said? Blood… blood samples. Dis… disinfectives?
"How does your head feel today?" the loud, annoying voice went on. "And what about the nausea? Is it still present?"
"Hm," Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes again. "Head… ache…" Another sensation in his arm, piercing, this time. Oh. He flinched a tiny bit when the doctor slid something into his arm. Something… blood samples. What… Oh. Needle.
"How much do you need?" John wanted to know all of a sudden, his voice sounding… sounding… Sherlock was too tired to tell. Suspicious, maybe? Tense… But why… Didn't matter. And it was hot, so hot…
"Two vials." The sting in his arm disappeared and reappeared, oddly enough, and this time it hurt enough to distract him from his headache. His right arm cringed, and Sherlock frowned.
"Oh," the doctor muttered. "Missed the vein."
Missed the vein... Was that important? Sherlock didn't care, as long as the voice had shut up.
His arm was being moved, his right arm, feeling different all of a sudden when something was removed… something? Oh. Tor… tor… torni… he didn't remember the word. Something used for taking… something…
"Press."
Before Sherlock had time to wonder what this meant, an exhausting task for his fever-addled brain, pressure appeared on his right arm, pressure and another gentle touch.
"You OK?" a quiet voice then asked. Oh, John, of course. Stupid. John was applying pressure… Good.
OK? Him? Why shouldn't he? Apart from the fever, he mused, John wouldn't like it…
"Mh," he made, too tired to do anything else.
There was silence for a while, enough silence for Sherlock to almost fall asleep again.
"Burst vein…," The doctor's voice again. Not John's, the other one's. "Blood thinning agents…"
"Of course," he heard John mumble. "He's been receiving them for days… prevent thrombosis… blood clots… but now it'll slow the coagulation…"
Sherlock's head was spinning by only hearing those words lest alone trying to understand them. Before he realised it, he nodded off.
"I'll bandage your arm now," John's voice brought him back to reality. Squeezing his eyes open, Sherlock realised that the doctor was gone. "Try not to move it too much in the next time."
As if he could move anything. Or wanted to. "Hm."
John was worried, Sherlock understood as much. Worried… but why?
"Are you alright? Are you in pain? Light-headed? Dizzy?"
Everything, would have been the truth. "Head… ache," Sherlock mumbled instead, screwing his eyes shut. "…tired."
Before John had finished his bandage, Sherlock was asleep again.
x
Hours later, Sherlock was half-awake, too tired to make an effort to go to sleep again, too tired to try to talk.
"…nary tract infection," he heard John say. "Bladder infection. That's what causes his fever. Normally, urinating would be painful, but since he's still catheterised…"
There had to be someone else in the room, John wouldn't talk to himself… Mary, Sherlock realised after endless seconds. John's… wife.
"Fever… unusual…" Her voice.
Then John again. "It's unusual, yes, but not impossible. His immune system is so weak, it's actually a miracle he didn't develop pneumonia. Just a bladder infection."
Hm. Interesting. And impossible to understand.
"Is that bad?" Her voice. "I mean…"
John sighed. Sherlock barely stopped himself from drifting off, wanting to know what John was saying. Whom he was talking about. Had to be someone important, someone John liked… "He's receiving antibiotics now, and they should kick in soon. Hopefully. So, no. I think we've caught it in time to prevent it from turning into something worse. It's just… First his allergic reaction, then the seizure. And now a bladder infection. He really wouldn't have needed that."
Someone important… Sherlock turned his head a little, a tiny bit, in John's direction.
"Sherlock?" John asked immediately.
John, someone important. John was important, John… alright?
He let out a soft exhale, almost a sigh, feeling cool hands on his face. Cool… cool was good. Cool…
Fever, his mind told him. Fever…
"…get better… physiothe…"
"…confus… fu… hn…"
The voices were drowned out slowly, replaced by merciful oblivion.
Thank you for reading. If there's anything you want to tell me, don't hesitate to leave feedback.
Another little warning at the end of this chapter: I won't be at home for the next few days, won't even have access to a computer, so the next installment might take a bit longer.
Have a nice day!