I'll keep it short today. Just thank you and enjoy!
Not Meant to Be
18
John interrupted his reading when Mary and Mrs Hudson entered.
"Oh my...," Mary began before biting her lip and exchanging a quick glance with John.
"Mary," Sherlock mumbled from the bed. "Mrs... Hudson."
"Hello, dear," the old lady chirped as merrily as possible and approached the bed, reaching out to stroke Sherlock's cheek.
"So... shock... ing?" he inquired slowly, directing his gaze at Mary.
Mary finally regained her composure. "Unusual," she settled on, shooting John another look.
John laid his book aside and gazed sideways himself. He had grown used to Sherlock's constant pallidness and the still present smudges beneath his eyes. Yesterday, however, the doctors had removed the gauze cap, exposing Sherlock's short hair and the still red scar on his scalp. Frightening, probably, if one wasn't used to it. Only frightening for John when he thought about what had forced this haircut.
"Perfect match," Mary said suddenly, removing her jacket.
Neither John nor Sherlock understood.
"You and John," she explained. "In a few weeks, when your hair has grown a bit longer, you and John will have the same haircut. Perfect match. Except for the colour, of course."
John snorted curtly. "I'd rather had it differently," he muttered darkly.
Sherlock coughed in his bed, causing Mrs Hudson to huff and John to turn his head. "Alright?" he wanted to know.
Rather breathlessly, Sherlock nodded, not comforting John at all. He was about to fetch another pillow to prop Sherlock up when Mrs Hudson huffed again.
"Sherlock, dear." She shook her head. "You need to eat, dear. How do you want to get better if you're thin as that?"
John observed Mary's eyes wander to the still full soup plate standing on the table. "Nothing?" she mouthed. John shook his head.
Of course he had tried to get Sherlock to eat, half of the soup plate at least, but it had been futile. Sherlock had refused at first, and when he had given in and swallowed the first spoon of soup, he had started retching only seconds later, throwing the soup and a few glasses of water up again. Since he was still connected to the IV line, John hadn't pressed him any further.
"We already had that today, Mrs Hudson," he addressed his former landlady. "He wasn't able to keep anything down."
There were days like that one, occasionally, days when Sherlock started vomiting as soon as someone simply mentioned food, when a glass of water was all John could coax into him. But then there were other days when Sherlock's hand almost wasn't shaking, when he managed to grab the spoon by himself, when a plate of hot soup or a cup of tea brought a bit of colour back to his face, and it was those days John was craving for, that gave him the reassurance that they might be fine again.
"Not today, Mrs H," he told her, trying to sound comforting. "Shall I read on, Sherlock, or are you about to fall asleep?"
"Read," Sherlock croaked, fussed about by Mrs Hudson, and so he did.
x
The first time Sherlock was allowed - or demanded - to get up and try to walk a few steps was a nightmare for John.
The physiotherapist was there, as well as John, of course, tense to the point of being anxious.
Sherlock simply didn't seem well enough to be out of bed, didn't seem as if his legs could carry his weight. Sitting up was exhausting enough, John could see it every time Sherlock heaved his body up, to be able to eat something, and eating, too, was still a challenge with trembling hands.
Of course he had known that the day would come, eventually, and although he thought that maybe, just maybe, it would contribute to Sherlock's rehabilitation, this didn't mean that John had to like it.
Sherlock was sitting already, all colour drained from his face, and yet the physiotherapist was encouraging him to move his legs to the edge of the bed.
"In your own time," John felt bound to add, resting one of his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "Are you dizzy? Nauseous? Anything?"
"'m fine," Sherlock replied flatly, breathing shallowly. John found he couldn't even scold him for the lie - it wasn't a lie, not when being said in this way, utterly unconvincing.
"Your legs, Mr Holmes," the physiotherapist said again. "Move them to the edge of the bed."
John watched anxiously as Sherlock slowly shifted a bit, shifted far enough until his feet were dangling over the edge of the bed. It was scaring, in fact, how difficult it appeared to be for Sherlock and how much energy it seemed to take out of him. If John had been in charge, he decided, he would have ordered Sherlock to stop by now, told him to lie down and elevate his legs, to stimulate his circulation. But now, he remained quiet, only tightening his grip on Sherlock's bony shoulder. "Go easy," he couldn't help to remind him.
"Good," the therapist interjected. "Very good. Concentrate for a few seconds, and then focus on slowly getting up."
Getting up. As if this was so easy.
Almost hurriedly, John let go of Sherlock and got off the bed, standing in front of Sherlock while his therapist took hold of his shoulders.
"Alright?" he asked Sherlock quietly.
His friend only nodded, gritting his teeth, sweat appearing on his forehead.
Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock attempted to get to his feet, John feeling as if he rather pulled Sherlock than Sherlock did something himself.
Sherlock's knees started trembling madly, and nonetheless the physiotherapist kept encouraging him. "Very good, you're doing very well."
No, he isn't! John wanted to yell, to make her stop. Can't you see that it's hurting him?
She couldn't, apparently. "Good, really good. Now lift your left leg and try a step forward."
Supported by John on the one side and the therapist on the other, Sherlock managed a shaky step, his panting loud in John's ears, even a second one.
"Very good," the therapist was just saying again when John all of a sudden felt something pulling at his arm and shoulder and almost failed to catch Sherlock as he collapsed, becoming a boneless heap in John's arms.
"Oi," the physiotherapist made. "That wasn't supposed to happen."
John didn't pay attention to her as he quickly lowered his friend back to the bed, his heart beating wildly in his chest, and began tapping his cheek.
Sherlock's eyelids started to flutter after a few moments. Flutter, but didn't open. "J'n," he breathed. "What…"
"I'll best come back tomorrow," the physiotherapist muttered, clearly feeling uncomfortable.
"Mh," John half-heartedly acknowledged what she haid said and lifted Sherlock's legs to the bed, pulling the covers up. "Tell me your name," he demanded while he prodded Sherlock's neck for his carotid artery.
"John," Sherlock mumbled instead, his eyes still closed. "'m sorry."
John kept his fingers where they were. "Your name, I said," he replied quietly. "Not mine. And what do you mean, you're sorry?"
Sherlock sucked in another shallow breath and turned his head away from John. "Couldn'… get up," he slurred. "Too… s'ry. Freak… fail…"
John was sure his heart missed a beat in this very moment. "Shut up, Sherlock," he demanded harshly. "It was a bit early, yes, but that doesn't matter. We'll try again tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, when you're a bit stronger, and you'll see, you'll be able to walk to the toilet and… Sherlock?"
No reaction. His pulse was steady, at least, calming John a tiny bit. Passed out due to exhaustion, apparently, and what was worst about that was that John didn't even know how much Sherlock had heard of his explanation.
x
Sherlock came to a few hours later, sighing and blinking his eyes open.
John was there with a spout cup, urging him to drink at least a few sips. Sherlock seemed relieved, however, when he could lie down again.
"You tired?" John wanted to know.
Sherlock attempted a tiny nod. "Mhm."
So John swallowed down everything he longed to say and remained silent, determined to let Sherlock get some more rest. The attempt of getting up indeed seemed to have taken much out of him.
"John," Sherlock began after a few minutes, his gaze directed at the ceiling. "You don'… don' have to… stay… here all… time."
John was left speechless.
"Home… with… Mary," Sherlock went on, sounding feeble. "Don'… stay… 'cause feel respon… duty…"
It felt as if someone ripped John's heart out. "Sherlock…," he croaked.
"'s fine," his friend, his bloody best friend, slurred, closing his eyes.
All of sudden, John felt anger well up inside him. "No, it's not fine!" he shouted, loud enough to make Sherlock flinch. "Do you even know what you're talking about?" he went on, fuming. Not too softly, he grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and shook him, then rested both of his hands on his cheeks and forced his best friend to look at him. "You've got no idea what you're talking about, no idea! I'm not staying because I think it's my duty, I'm staying because…" John's voice failed him. "Because there's only one other person I care about as much as I do about you - Mary -, and I'm reasonably sure you need me more right now."
"But…," Sherlock mumbled, interrupting him.
"No," John explained firmly, not letting go of Sherlock's face. "No, you listen to me now. I know you're tired all the time and hurting and… and confused, and you probably want nothing more than everything to be alright again. I know," he cleared his throat, still staring into Sherlock's eyes. "I know, because I feel the same. But I don't care. I went through hell and back in the days after your accident, when no-one knew if you would ever wake up again, and I won't let you push me away now so easily. I know it's exhausting and frustrating and terrifying what you're going through at the moment, but you won't go through that without me. Yes, it will be painful and… and excrutiating, and it will probably take a long time, but we will pull through that. We will, Sherlock, do you understand me? Together. Because you're my best friend, and this time, I won't let you down. No matter what you do, you won't get rid of me."
Sherlock blinked heavily. "But Mary…," he whispered.
"Mary," John stated, "would probably have slapped you in the face if she had heard what you just said. And since I know that you've still got a headache, I suggest you don't repeat it in her presence."
This brought a small smile to Sherlock's pallid face. "John…," he whispered again, but John only shook his head. "Not now," he mumbled, giving in to the need to press a soft kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "I know you're exhausted. Try to sleep, and in the morning, we can talk about everything. But not now. And don't you dare to say anything as stupid as that again."
Sherlock's eyes closed, but his grip on John's hand didn't loosen.
x
John stayed until after midnight, not bearing the thought of leaving Sherlock alone now, and fought a long battle with himself in that time, a battle he lost in the end.
Carefully unwrapping his hand, he slowly got to his feet, grabbing his jacket and his mobile.
Logic had won in the end, the logic that it was more useful - for both him and Sherlock - if he went home that night. Logic that it wasn't helpful if he stayed 24/7 as he had done in the beginning, until a few days ago, never leaving Sherlock's side. They were both grown-ups, he told himself, perfectly capable to spend a night without each other. It was what they had done for more than two years now.
And yet, as he closed the door to the hospital room, taking a final look at Sherlock, sleeping peacefully, it felt wrong, even more so than it had the nights before.
He would be back in the morning, John tried to calm himself, probably even before Sherlock had woken. They would be fine.
John wasn't surprised that in this night he slept more poorly than he had done for one week, haunted by nightmares of Sherlock lying on the street, shouting at him to leave, to abandon him - as he had done before.
Poor John, isn't he? Forced to take a decision... and then pursued by nightmares.
Anyway, thank you for reading! Feedback, as always, is of course appreciated. :)