Thank you all for - still - reading and showing interest and everything else - thank you!

So here's for you - the next part.

Not Meant to Be

19

Sherlock surfaced to consciousness very slowly. The first thing he became aware of was a strange sensation somewhere, somewhere…

He started retching before he even knew what was happening.

Not right, not right, not right, his brain told him. Not fine.

"John…," he slurred as the world was turning around him.

John. But John wasn't here. John was at home, where he belonged. John wouldn't be pleased.

He was shivering, Sherlock realised distantly, shivering… The strange sensation did not disappear, and he only had the chance to turn his head sideways before he began heaving again.

Button, John's voice said in his head. Button…

Forcing his clumsy fingers to contract, Sherlock somehow managed to find the call button and press it.

While he lay there, cold and shivering, memories came to his mind, memories of him walking in a street… street… The searing pain in his head made him retch a third time.

Other memories, of John, John telling him that he didn't stay because he felt responsible, that he stayed because of Sherlock… Stupid. Stupid. No-one ever stayed because of him.

"John…," he mumbled again as a nurse entered, addressing him calmly.

"John…," was the only word he could think of.

"Do you want me to call him?" The nurse's voice.

Sherlock wrenched his eyes open to see a room that was spinning. Call John… yes, his intestines screamed. "No," he whispered, feeling like choking. "No." He had to be fine without John, had to give John some privacy, some time with his wife…

Sherlock pressed his eyes shut and concentrated on breathing as the nurse carefully turned him to his side and began to change the bedding, followed by his t-shirt.

He was cold and exhausted by the time she was finished and didn't oppose when she asked him if he preferred a light sedative to fall asleep again.

Sherlock welcomed the blackness this time, making him forget all thoughts about John.

x

When he opened his eyes the next time, it was bright in his room, and he was not alone.

"Hey," John greeted him with a smile. "You missed breakfast. I thought we'd best let you sleep. Yesterday was pretty exhausting, wasn't it?"

Sherlock stared at John for a few seconds, at the wrinkles in his face, at the dark circles around his eyes. His fault. His fault because he kept John away from Mary.

"Mh," he made and let his eyes slide shut again.

"You're still tired?" John wanted to know, sounding unbelieving.

"Mh," Sherlock repeated, turning his head away from John.

John was silent for a few seconds. "What about I'm getting you something to eat, and then you can sleep?" he suggested.

The thought of food made Sherlock want to vomit again. He screwed his eyes shut and willed the feeling to go away. "Not hungry," he mumbled.

"Sherlock?" John asked, sounding worried. Worried… "You alright?"

"Mh," he said for the third time. "'m fine. You… fussin'."

"I don't think I am," John muttered, and suddenly, Sherlock felt a hand on his forehead. "Hm. No fever."

Moaning, Sherlock tried to roll a bit more onto his side. Not good. The movement made him dizzy for a short moment.

"J'n," he hissed between gritted teeth, his mind longing for John's comforting touch or his voice again. Stupid, Sherlock tried to tell himself.

"What?" John was there, of course, immediately. "What's wrong, Sherlock?"

"Nothin'," he mumbled, exhaling carefully. "Tired. Sleep."

x

Sherlock was woken by John shaking his shoulder softly.

"Lunch," John announced.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open to see a nurse entering, a nurse with a tray in her hands, smiling. Food. His insides protested, and Sherlock let his eyes close.

"Sherlock," John prodded him seconds later. "You have to eat something. Noodle soup. That's not too bad, I'd say. Sherlock, come on."

I can't, John, Sherlock wanted to say. I can't. I'm going to throw it all up again, and throwing up hurts… Please, John, make it stop.

"'m not hungry," he forced out between two breaths.

Again, John was silent for a short while. "Sherlock, please," he then said. "I'm worried about you, alright? Tell me what's wrong."

Worried. Worried about him. For a moment, Sherlock felt like simply giving in and letting John make it all better. But he didn't, a part of his mind keeping him from doing so.

He had found his way back into a half-stupor when John disappeared, quietly enough for him to almost miss it.

Gone. John was gone. Suddenly, Sherlock felt a lot colder.

x

When John reappeared, he did so much more loudly than before.

"Why didn't you tell me that you're nauseous?" he wanted to know, sounding close to angry. Sherlock forced his eyes open.

"Sherlock, seriously, why didn't you tell me? And why didn't you call me when you started throwing up? I would have come immediately, you know that, don't you?" John had sat down on the edge of the bed, searching for Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock sighed and tried to organise his thoughts. So much was swirling around, so much… "Knew that," he finally mumbled, hoping it was what he had intended to say. "Need to stay… with… Mary… wife…"

For a second, John's face contorted in… yes, disbelief, before his eyes started glistening furiously. "You're an idiot," he told Sherlock, squeezing his hand. "Do you remember what I told you yesterday?"

Sherlock frowned, remember… remember… John telling him something, John angry. "You'we' an'ry," he mumbled, slurring his words.

John's eyes didn't change. "Yes," he admitted curtly. "But that's not what I wanted to know. I want to know why I was angry."

Sherlock blinked heavily, blinked and attempted to concentrate. What else, what else… Oh. "That…," he began slowly, not certain if it hadn't been a dream of his. But then, John was here now… "That… you care 'bout me."

There was a smile on John's face. "Of course I care about you," he replied quietly. "Friends, remember?"

Sherlock had known, of course, before, that they were friends. That John considered him his friend, enough to ask him to be his best man. But now… now things had changed, Sherlock had assumed. With him being… being a nuisance for John.

"Still?" he couldn't help the question.

John's eyebrows twitched. "You serious? Of course 'still'. Always."

Always. A word with a large meaning. Sherlock turned his gaze sideways. "Even if… was… blabb… blabbering idiot now?"

John's hand on his face forced him to look at John, to endure his serious stare. "Would you stop caring about me if I was somehow turned into a 'blabbering idiot'?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and held his breath. "You'rn't," he slurred, barely understandable.

John didn't let go of him. "Neither are you. Answer my question."

Answer, answer… This was John. John. Pressing his eyes shut firmly, he managed a tiny shake of the head.

Suddenly, there was movement, shifting, shifting that threatened to make him nauseous and his head explode. When he opened his eyes a sliver, he realised that John had pulled him into a hug and prevented him from breathing. "Are we clear on that? No leaving. Neither you nor me."

Sherlock remained motionless for a few more seconds. "John," he then choked out. "Could you… could you… back…"

"Sorry," John mumbled immediately, helping Sherlock to lie down again. Everything was swirling around him, swirling around John. Nausea. Dizziness.

"Maybe," John began and then cut himself off to clear his throat. "Maybe you should sleep, and we'll try food again in the evening. Resting should make you…"

"Don' want to," Sherlock mumbled, doing everything to keep his eyes open now. John. Time with John. "Thir…sty."

A spout cup appeared in front of him, together with John's hand helping him to grab it. "Slowly," John told him, not releasing his grip on the cup entirely.

"…can, J'n."

Oh. Not really what he had intended. I can drink, John, had been what he had wanted to say. Never mind. John understood.

"Shall I read to you?" John asked and took away the cup. "Agatha Christie? Mary recommended it, said you'd like it."

Carefully, not wanting to wake the nausea again, Sherlock turned until he was lying on his right side. "Mhm."

John read and read and read. Sherlock listened, more to John's voice than to John's words. John. His friend. Friend. Still.

So. That needed to be said - what John stated, I mean.

Thank you for reading, and, as always, let me know what you think.