Thank you all. Seriously. I've been... well, tantalising you for so long now, and you're still interested. Brilliant.

So, enjoy.

Not Meant to Be

20

They left out physiotherapy that day, but in the evening, Sherlock was able to eat something - and keep it down - and in the next morning, Mary came in with a wheelchair.

"It's not good for you to lie in this room all the time," she announced. "John can wheel you around."

Sherlock didn't look too happy, but John was determined all of a sudden. Without Mary's help, he got Sherlock into the wheelchair, Mary tucking a blanket around his legs. "No need to catch a cold," she said.

Sherlock still didn't look too happy.

"It will do you good," John tried to encourage him. "And you don't have to do anything, just sit there. As soon as you want me to, we'll simply come back and you can rest a bit more, OK?"

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. "OK," he muttered.

John exchanged a quick glance with Mary as she shoved the drip stand towards him.

"I have to go to work, unfortunately," she said, clearly attempting to sound cheerful nonetheless. "Enjoy your day, you two," she added, a smile on her face. "See you in the evening."

Kissing John and waving at Sherlock, she left.

"What now?" Sherlock asked when the door to the hospital room had fallen shut.

John kept staring into the distance for a moment, allowing himself to wonder if this really was a good idea. "And now," he answered, trying more or less successfully to grab both the drip stand and the handles of the wheelchair, "we're going for a walk."

x

They ended up in the hospital cafeteria.

"Where would you like to go?" John had asked Sherlock as soon as they had left the room.

Sherlock had hesitated for a moment. "Outside," he then had told John.

Outside. As much as John had wanted to fulfil Sherlock's wish, he hadn't. Outside. Too risky. Far too risky. It was autumn already, not too warm anymore, and Sherlock… he hadn't been outside since that night, had only a few days ago recovered from his bladder infection and really didn't need to contract another illness. John knew in that very moment that he would never forgive himself if he took Sherlock outside now and their little excursion ended with Sherlock having pneumonia and… and…

No. No. Not an option. Particularly not with nothing on than a t-shirt, trousers, socks and a blanket.

John slowed down a bit. "I don't think that's a good idea," he began carefully. "A few days ago, you were sick and I… I don't want you to have a fever yet again."

Sherlock didn't as much as stir, and from his position John of course couldn't see his face. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. What about… the cafeteria instead? You could have something to drink or…," he had ended rather lamely. "Would you like that?"

"Mh," Sherlock had replied quietly. "'s fine."

Now they were sitting in the hospital cafeteria, John on a chair, Sherlock opposite of him, pallid and frail, the drip stand next to him.

John was sipping on his cup of coffee while he kept watching Sherlock whose eyes darted around and tried to take in all the other people around them.

"And you're sure you don't want anything?" John asked again, taking another sip.

Sherlock nodded a tiny bit and pressed his lips together, his eyes still scanning his surroundings.

"OK," John mumbled and kept studying his best friend.

"And you're comfortable?" he wanted to know only seconds later.

Sherlock didn't look at him, didn't even seem to hear him.

Putting down his mug, John bent over the table. "Sherlock?" he asked, trying to hide the worry in his voice. "You OK?"

No answer. Now, John did start to worry. "Sherlock, talk to me if you can hear me," he begged. Sherlock's eyes were wide-open, but he didn't appear to be seeing anything, didn't seem to notice the waitress delivering a cup of tea to the table next to them, didn't seem to notice John staring at him.

"Sherlock!" John urged, hearing nothing but his own rapid heartbeat. Staring with vacant eyes. Not good, not good… "Sherlock!"

Sherlock's lips were quivering ever so slightly, John realised and felt a sudden shock course through his veins, and his breathing was quickening, coming close to erratic.

Wrong. Something was wrong.

Not far from panicking, John shot up from his chair, spilling his coffee all over the table, and rushed to Sherlock's side, waving his hand in front of his face. Seconds later, Sherlock seemed to snap back to reality, his eyes closing for a moment and his head sagging forward.

"John," he then croaked, raising his head again, a terrified expression in his eyes. "John, please…"

John, please.

His hands trembling, too, John snatched the drip stand and pulled the wheelchair backwards. "It's alright," he attempted to soothe Sherlock. "Everything's alright. Close your eyes and think of something you like. Try to stay calm, OK? We're going back to your room."

The five minutes it took John to get back to the hospital room without strictly speaking breaking into running were excrutiatingly long.

Sherlock didn't relax when John closed the door and rushed to his side again, kneeling down in front of him, but kept panting, his hands gripping the wheelchair so hard that his knuckles were turning white.

Biting his lip, John rested his hands on Sherlock's cheeks and gently traced his thumbs over the lines around his eyes. Sherlock had them pressed shut firmly, tightly as if in pain, his entire body tense.

"Sherlock," John addressed him, barely keeping his voice from cracking. "Sherlock, look at me. Look at me."

No use. There was something wet around John's fingers, tears leaking from Sherlock's closed eyes. Tears.

"Sherlock," he whispered helplessly, feeling utterly powerless.

The only reaction was more panting, his breaths becoming short and quick. Hyperventilating.

No.

"Sherlock," John tried again, desperate, but without success.

Hyperventilating.

About to become hysteric himself, John let go of Sherlock, hurrying over to the bed, grabbing the oxygen mask that was still lying on the nightstand, disconnected, of course, and pressed it to Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's breathing hitched in the very first moment before he started to inhale again, with each breath increasing the concentration of carbon dioxide in his blood.

"You're doing fine," John attempted to reassure him while his fingers holding the mask were shaking madly. "Sherlock, you're doing…" His voice failed him "Can you… can you just try to breathe together with me?" he begged, focusing on a slow rhythm, replacing one of his hands on Sherlock's cheek. "In and out. In and out. Slowly. Yeah."

It took ages before John was pleased enough with Sherlock's respiration to toss away the oxygen mask, grabbing Sherlock's face and stroking his cold and clammy skin.

"Sherlock?" he asked gently, and this time, Sherlock's eyes opened, puffy and red, but slowly focusing.

"John… I…," he began, but John cut him off. "Don't talk. Breathe. I'm here. You're safe now, yes? Safe. Don't worry. Just relax."

The tears didn't stop, no matter how firm a hold John kept on Sherlock. It broke his heart to watch his best friend, and after a few minutes he softly pulled Sherlock's head towards himself, unresisting, rested it on his shoulder and embraced him as well as it was possible with him kneeling and Sherlock still sitting.

He kept mumbling nonsense until Sherlock had seemed to calm down, until the shaking of his shoulders stopped and his breathing had slowed, had become deeper.

"It's OK," John told him, his own heartbeat still hammering in his chest. "I'll… I'll help you lie down again and then I'm going to call a doctor, alright? Don't worry. You'll be fine."

Sherlock took a large breath, his exhaling tickling the skin on John's throat. "'m fine," he choked out.

John's entire body stiffened, his forehead creased. Very slowly, he assisted Sherlock in raising his head again, staring into the red-rimmed eyes. "I'm sorry if I don't believe you," he replied, wiping away the last tears. Crying. Sherlock had been crying. John wasn't even sure if Sherlock had noticed.

With quivering lips, he attempted a tiny smile. John wasn't convinced. "'m fine, really," Sherlock mumbled, his voice trembling, closing his eyes and simply breathing. "Just… just been too much…"

John didn't turn his eyes from Sherlock. Too much. A mild understatement considering the full-blown panic attack he had just witnessed.

I'm sorry, he wanted to scream, I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I should have known, I shouldn't have you taken out there, I should have protected you…

But he didn't. Instead, he slowly removed his hands from Sherlock's face and pulled away the blanket.

"Do you think you can stand if I support you?" he asked and cursed himself in the same instant. Stupid question. So stupid. Of course Sherlock couldn't stand, not when he looked like being about to pass out while sitting down. "No, sod this," he corrected himself and moved to the side of the wheelchair. "Just put your arm around my neck and…"

Carefully, utterly carefully, afraid to break his best friend, John slid one arm under his knees, the other one grabbing his shoulders.

"John…," Sherlock protested weakly.

John didn't pay attention to him. Not this time. Slowly, gently, carefully he lifted Sherlock out of the wheelchair and turned towards the bed. His arms and shoulders were aching already, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't drop his best friend. He wouldn't.

He didn't. Sherlock flinched as John put him down, maybe a bit more quickly than appropriate, and sighed as John stuffed another pillow behind his back.

"You're ice cold," he mumbled and pulled up the duvet.

"'m fine, John," Sherlock protested feebly. "Too much. I'm sorry."

Sorry. Saying that word again. There had been times when John would have given a lot to hear the words 'sorry' and 'thank you' from Sherlock's mouth, but the rate at which he was using them now was frightening. Telling him that nothing was alright yet.

John ignored him. "Sherlock, you're shivering. Why didn't you tell me you were cold?"

"Fine," Sherlock repeated mindlessly, but allowed John to grab his hands and rub them, to warm them up.

You're not, John screamed inwardly. And it's my fault, because I took you out there although you didn't want to. My fault, my fault, my fault.

"Stay here," he told Sherlock instead while he stuffed his hands beneath the covers and went to fetch Mary's extra blanket. "Don't move an inch. I'm getting a doctor."

Panic attack. Anxiety attack. Hyperventilating. Cold. Possible mild hypothermia.

It had been too early. Too early. He shouldn't have taken Sherlock out there.

"John," Sherlock's still somewhat shaky voice held him back, right before he had opened the door. "Don' need… doctor…"

John shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm afraid you do."

"No."

John rolled his eyes. "I won't believe you as long as you don't answer in full sentences. I'll be back any second."

"John."

He turned around again, to see Sherlock propped up on one shaking elbow. About to scold him and help him to lie down again, he made one step towards the bed.

"I don't need a doctor," Sherlock said, emphasising each word, but not stumbling over any syllable. John stopped dead in his tracks. "'m fine, J'hn. Please." A pause. "Stay."

x

So he stayed.

Sherlock kept shivering for at least five minutes, despite the blankets John had tucked around him, despite his rubbing Sherlock's hands.

"It's not normal," he repeated over and over again. "It's not that cold in the corridor or in the cafeteria, you shouldn't be half frozen to death…"

"'m not," Sherlock mumbled with closed eyes, the tip of his nose buried in his pillow.

"No, I know, you're fine," John muttered darkly under his breath. "That's why you were first having a panic attack and are now shivering like hell."

Sherlock shifted a tiny bit, slipping further under the covers. "S'ry," he slurred. "Too much… couldn't… my head… couldn'…"

Minutes later, he fell into an exhausted sleep, securely hidden beneath the covers.

x

Sherlock was still out cold when Mary came by in the afternoon. John told her.

"Oh God, John," she exclaimed, paling. "I had no idea… I mean, I thought it would be a good idea, for him to see something except for this room… Oh my God."

John shook his head, exhaling slowly. "It's not your fault, Mary. It was just… it was too early." He paused for a moment, thinking back. "Mary, you should have seen him. He was crying, really crying, and he… he didn't react whenever I talked to him, didn't even hear me…"

Mary threw her arms around his neck. "I'm so sorry, John," she whispered into his ear. "I…"

"Would you… would you mind if I stay here tonight?" he interrupted her. "It's just…"

Mary shook her head. "No," she answered. "Of course not. I'll stay, too, if you want me to."

John only nodded.

Thank you for reading. Feedback is, as always, highly appreciated. (Question of importance: Am I mean? I was just wondering... :))