Thank you all. Seriously. For everything.
To keep it short: Enjoy.
Not Meant to Be
16
It got better. Very gradually, it got better.
Bladder infection. John had, as weird as it might appear, been relieved when he had heard the diagnosis, relieved that the fever wasn't caused by something else, something which was far more dangerous and life-threatening such as pneumonia or a kidney infection. That was, if it didn't turn into a kidney infection.
The doctors sedated Sherlock and did both a CT scan and an ultra sound scan to check for a possible kidney inflammation, but found nothing. Bladder infection, apparently. Nothing more. And the fever, of course, doing as much as the sedation to keep Sherlock calm.
John spent the next two days trying to coax litres of tea into Sherlock, tea he had been given by some nurse and which was supposed to help with both the fever and the infection, supporting the antibiotics Sherlock was receiving intravenously. Why not, John decided, not feeling too comfortable about antibiotics anyway, and helped Sherlock drink a few sips, and when his friend didn't throw it up immediately again as he had done with the first bowl of light soup he had been presented on the fourth day after he had woken, John deemed it safe to give him some more.
Sherlock probably didn't even realise what he was drinking, being too thoroughly in the claws of the fever. Although it never spiked past 38.4 degrees, it left him weak and even more exhausted, and shockingly incoherent.
"'s hot, J'n," he mumbled at least six times within one day, always followed by: "Heating... off... Mrs Hudson..."
When John attempted to ask him how he felt, if he needed anything, he didn't get an answer first, only an indefinite moan, and when he asked again, carefully and yet firmly, Sherlock told him: "Don' 'eed... where's J'n, don'..."
Most likely it was for the best that he spent most of the time in a status close to delirium, not noticing much of what was going on around him, or at least not paying attention to it.
Doctors came and went, came to examine him, listening to his lungs on John's insistence, causing Sherlock to mutter: "Cold, J'n, leave J'n...", or prodding his kidneys for any sign of infection or anything, making Sherlock squirm as far as possible without moving too much.
At least he drank the tea whenever John gave him some, always lifting his already propped up head a little, pressing the spout cup to his lips and encouraging him to swallow. Only one time John feared he was going to choke on the tea, coughing and coughing and coughing, but before he had decided to press the alarm button, the coughing subsided again, allowing John to relax minutes later.
After this experience, he set the tea aside for two hours.
x
Sherlock was asleep when a nurse came in to change the bedding, empty the urine bag and exchange the drip.
John had seen much in his life, both during his time in Afghanistan and in the past few days in hospital, he had watched the doctors pull the stitches on Sherlock's head, had seen the wound and the developing scar from surgery, he had watched his best friend vomiting into a bowl, had even been allowed to take a look at the MRI scans. And he had watched Sherlock being left for hours, left to die.
But somehow, simple actions like the nurse's always disturbed him the most.
Professionally, she turned Sherlock on his side, removed the bedding on one side, turned him around again, did the same on the other side… It was frightening, frightening to think that there were moments when Sherlock was absolutely defenceless. And helpless.
John continued watching silently as she quickly emptied the almost full urine bag - thanks to the tea - and returned with it seconds later, hooking it up to the tube again. And everything while Sherlock was sleeping.
"A fresh round of antibiotics," she told John while she was exchanging the IV bag. "His fever's still rather high, isn't it?"
John only nodded, wondering silently if he would ever get the image of Sherlock lying on the street, lifeless, out of his head. Not any time soon, probably, when only watching a nurse doing her job and doing with his sleeping best friend whatever she liked was all he needed to be reminded of… that.
John sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, trying to get rid of the images. In vain. Of course.
x
It took four days for the fever to disappear altogether, with the third one being the worst of all.
Mrs Hudson was there for a visit, softly stroking Sherlock's cheek and trying to make him drink something when he suddenly stiffened, let out a horrifying choking noise and started convulsing.
Seizure. Again. The second one, already, the second one since he had woken.
Jumping up from his chair, shoving Mrs Hudson aside, clearly shocked, John grabbed Sherlock's head and focused on his watch, on anything but his thrashing best friend.
"Get a doctor," he told Mrs Hudson curtly, intending to get her out of the way.
Sherlock had already stilled by the time the doctor arrived, lying motionless and pale as a corpse.
"I don't understand," John heard the doctor mumble. "He's receiving anti-seizure medication, he shouldn't..."
One minute and fifty-two seconds. In this moment, John didn't care if the doctor was at a loss, too. All he knew was that recurring seizures definitely were not good.
"Then find out!" he spat at the man, balling his trembling left hand to a fist.
x
Sherlock was still out cold when Mary arrived one hour later, out of breath.
"I came immediately after I got Mrs Hudson's call," she panted, throwing her arms around John's neck. "John..." Her voice broke when she took a closer look at Sherlock.
Nothing had changed in John's eyes, he still appeared pale and sick and feverish and limp, but maybe Mary could see any improvement, as tiny as it might be.
"He looks horrible," she whispered seconds later, destroying all of John's hopes. "Another seizure?"
John nodded curtly, keeping his features purposefully composed.
"And the infection?" she wanted to know in a hushed voice, as if not to wake Sherlock.
John allowed himself to sigh and flexed his fingers. "Better," he answered. "A bit. His fever's down to 37.7. But he's been out since the seizure. And will be, I suppose, for a few more hours."
Slowly, almost hesitatingly, Mary took off her coat and her scarf and drew a second chair close. "Poor Mrs Hudson," she whispered. "I don't think she'll find any sleep tonight. Maybe... maybe you should give her a call. Later," she added quickly, "when he's awake."
When he's awake. John far too clearly remembered the last time he had spent waiting for Sherlock to come round after his first seizure, how dazed Sherlock had been even hours later, how confused.
"I suppose I should," he answered. "Mary..."
She hugged him. "I know. I know you don't want to leave him, not even for a few seconds. I can call her, if you want me to."
Calling his former landlady. His duty, actually. "No, it's... fine. Later," he concluded, pulling her close.
x
Sherlock's eyelids fluttered weakly after more than five hours, in the late evening.
He groaned quietly, sloppily lifting his right hand a bit, letting it loll down after a few inches. "Mhm...," he made, frowning.
John bit back a sigh - of both relief and anxiety - and fumbled for Sherlock's right hand. "Sherlock?" he inquired. "Can you hear me?"
Dull, Sherlock was supposed to snap at him. Can't you ask something else, John?
Instead, he only moaned again.
"Do you know who I am?" John went on, exchanging a quick glance with Mary. The fear was there, always, that Sherlock's condition might deteriorate.
"J'n," came the slurred answer. "Hot, J'n..."
John released the breath he had been holding. "It's fine, Sherlock. Go back to sleep."
His friend obeying his advice was definitely something John didn't want to get used to.
x
The next morning, John, despite having found next to no sleep, felt slightly more optimistic than before, being told by a doctor that Sherlock's temperature was close to normal again, had fallen further during the night.
Mere moments after the man had left, Sherlock started to stir.
"John?" he whispered hoarsely. "What..."
John couldn't fight off the grin spreading over his entire face. "Doesn't matter now," he answered.
Sherlock fought his eyes open, blinking heavily against the bright light. "John, I..." he began, interrupting himself. "Where...," he then whispered.
John bent down to him and took hold of his hand. "You're in hospital, remember? You were a bit sick, but you're better now. Do you remember anything?"
The confused look did not leave his face. "It... was... hot," he finally croaked.
John gently gave his hand a squeeze. "You had a fever," he explained quietly.
"Tea...," Sherlock mumbled, frowning. "You... and tea and... and Mrs Hudson." His eyes sluggishly moved around, as if searching for his landlady.
"She's at home now, Sherlock," John softly told him. "Although she was quite worried."
Sherlock kept looking at him with something akin to bewilderment. "Worr...," he mumbled, exhaling carefully.
It caused John's heart to clench painfully to see Sherlock's vulnerable expression, so utterly helpless and... lost. Following his first instinct, he pulled Sherlock's unresisting hand up and pressed it against his cheek. "Yes, Sherlock," he croaked, his voice breaking. "Worried." Worried to no end, in fact. "You really have to stop doing this, you know. Scaring all of us half to death. I don't know..." This time, his voice did fail him, and he barely managed to blink the tears away. Sherlock didn't have to see this, didn't have to see him crying. "I don't know what I'd do if... if you..." He didn't finish his sentence and instead focused on fighting back his tears. "Just promise me you won't do anything like that again. No more infections, hm?"
Sherlock's colourless lips curved into a weak smile. "Promise, J'hn," he breathed. "'m sorry..."
John pressed his eyes shut. "It's not your fault," he choked out. "Just... get better. Please."
The soft twitching of Sherlock's fingers against his skin was enough to cause John to sniffle. "Alright," he mumbled.
It got better. At least, it didn't get worse.
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