To put it plainly: Thank you (again).
So, here's the next part.
Not Meant to Be
21
When Sherlock opened his eyes, it was dark. Dark and quiet, except for soft snoring.
Snoring. Why was there snoring… why…
Thinking about it hurt his head, hurt him hard enough to make him groan.
"Sherlock?" a voice asked immediately.
John, Sherlock's brain processed. John. It was night, so… John?
"Why're'ye here," he slurred, not feeling fully awake. And still cold, so cold…
John hesitated for a moment. John had been sleeping, so… it was night, and John was still here. John normally went home in the nights. So… worried.
"Fell asleep," John finally answered, his voice hushed. The lamp on the nightstand he switched on stung in Sherlock's eyes and made him blink.
Asleep. There was something wrong about that, something… Never mind.
Something else. A… a smell. Perfume. A brand he knew. A brand… connected to John.
"Where's Mary," he mumbled, without thinking about it.
John remained silent for a few seconds, and when Sherlock tried to wrench his eyes open a bit more, he could, blurrily, see the… baffled expression on his face. "Sent her home," John eventually replied. "She fell asleep, and I insisted…"
Sleep dulling his brain, Sherlock let his eyes close. "Mhm," he made, shifting a bit.
Until, suddenly, he realised why he had woken. "John," he said again, freeing one of his hands from the duvet and the blankets covering him, rubbing his eyes.
"Hm?"
"Need… the loo," Sherlock whispered, taking a deep breath.
John was on his feet immediately, stifling a yawn. "I'll get a nurse. I'll be back…"
Nurse. No.
"John," Sherlock interrupted him, trying to sit up. And failing. Groaning, he let his head slump back. "Toilet."
John simply stared at Sherlock for a moment. Not understanding.
"No nurse," Sherlock tried to explain. "Toilet."
Finally, it seemed to dawn on John, his expression turning from… puzzled into something else, into… shocked. "You're not going to the toilet," he stated matter-of-factly. "I will get a nurse."
His head. His head was hurting, so much, so much… Why was it hurting, why all the time? Why was he so… so weak, why couldn't he do anything, why…
"No," he croaked, protestingly. "Toilet."
John crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I'm not letting you walk to the toilet. You remember what happened the last time you tried to walk a few steps?"
Weak. So weak. "John…," Sherlock repeated, moving his legs underneath the covers.
"No," John confirmed. "You blacked out, alright? Because it's too early. Because what you need right now is rest, not… not… not walking around, and after what happened in the morning…" He cut himself off, biting his lip and turning his gaze away. "No. I'm getting a nurse. You stay here. Don't move."
After what happened in the morning. Sherlock remembered, remembered it past his headache. Too many people, too much around him. His head… his head had felt like exploding, like… bursting, and John had all of a sudden disappeared, not being with Sherlock anymore, not being there to shield him from all of that…
Weak.
Transport.
Transport.
"Won'… stay here," he slurred, with a massive effort propping himself up on his right elbow, leaning heavily towards one side. His head, head… No. Concentrate.
Sherlock pressed his eyes shut as he forced his legs to move, to get rid of the covers, to touch the floor. Cold, it was cold, so cold…
"Sherlock!" John's voice, yelling at him. "What the hell are you doing? Stop that, stop it now! No, Sherlock…"
It took him seconds to realise that there were hands on his shoulders now, John's hands, steadying him against all the turning and spinning the room did. Nausea, dizziness, Sherlock's brain told him, but it wasn't helpful.
When he opened his eyes, all he wanted to do was to sink back and let John take care of everything.
Weak.
He didn't.
"Toilet, John," he forced out. "Want to…"
John hesistated for a moment longer, giving Sherlock the time to suck in greedy breaths. "Alright," he then said quietly. "But you promise me to do everything I tell you if you pass out again."
Sherlock tensed his jaw and nodded slightly. "Pr'mise," he mumbled.
"OK," John told him. "I'll support you, don't worry. I won't let you fall. Put your arm… yes."
Sherlock didn't know how it had happened, but suddenly, his arm was around John's neck again, clutching his shoulder, and he was slowly getting to his feet. His feet…
"John!" he yelped, lifting one leg a tiny bit.
"What! Sherlock, what's wrong?" John. John sounded panicked, why…
Not wrong. Fine. Standing. Was standing.
"Loo…," he forced out, staggering against John.
Bathroom. There was a bathroom in his room, with a toilet. What for, what for… Stupid. Not important.
John.
Walking.
Loo.
Sherlock attempted another step, suddenly stumbling forward without any clear intention.
"Sherl-," John exclaimed before he cut himself off, his grip on Sherlock tightening.
"'m fine," he mumbled, letting his head sag. Head. Not important. Headache. Not important. Walking. Loo.
Sherlock was drenched in sweat by the time they had reached the bathroom and shivering nonetheless. Why… Stupid.
John's hand moved too quickly for him to notice, doing something with the toilet. "Sit down," he ordered and at the same time helped Sherlock to do so.
Panting, with spots dancing in front of his eyes, Sherlock finally became aware that he was sitting on the toilet seat, still wearing his trousers. "John…," he whispered, feeling utterly ridiculous all of a sudden.
John broke into giggling. "I'm sorry," he choked out, "I'm sorry. It's just… sorry."
Attempting a weak smile, Sherlock let his head loll back. "Need… John… please."
John pulled him to his feet again, helping him to remove his trousers at least partly, and then eased him back onto the toilet seat.
"I'll turn around," he said, "but don't think I'll leave."
His head doing silly things, Sherlock found he was too tired to be embarrassed. "Fin'shed," he mumbled, allowing his eyes to close. Toilet, using a toilet, not a bottle, not a urinal, toilet, real, proper toilet…
"Hey, don't fall asleep," John's voice startled him.
"'m not," he whispered, stumbling to his feet again and allowing John to pull up his trousers.
"Come on, now," John encouraged him, taking his arm and practically leading him towards the bed again.
"'m not a child," Sherlock slurred, feeling his knees tremble beneath him. Tremble… beneath… beneath… he was standing, had been walking…
The time it took John to get him back to the bed blurred in his mind.
"John," he mumbled as soon as his head hit the pillow. "I… we… we did… it."
"Yes, you idiot," John retorted darkly and lifted his legs to the bed.
Sherlock wasn't sure if his light-headedness rooted in his headache or in his… his… excitement.
"John…," he whispered again, feeling a grin spreading over his face. "John… Tell Mary…"
Tell Mary what? Not important, Sherlock decided, allowing his fatigue to take over again. Had done well. Well. Fine. Not disappointed John. Not weak.
Fine.
Fine.
He would be fine.
x
John needed a long time to calm down again, to have his heart beating in a normal rhythm once more.
Toilet. Toilet.
Sherlock had been to the toilet. That wasn't so shocking, what had unsettled John that much was the fact that… that Sherlock had wanted to go to the toilet, had insisted, had wanted to walk. And had - given the circumstances - succeeded in the end.
Walking.
Sherlock's balance had been terribly off, staggering into John every two steps, but he had been on his feet, and he hadn't blacked out again.
Walking.
Wanting to walk.
Wanting.
Sherlock had been determined. Determined.
Not only tired, not only barely conscious, not only sick and dizzy and frail. Yes, of course, all of it, still, and probably for a long time to come, but he had… he had tried to fight it. Fight.
For the first time, Sherlock had tried to fight it. And John had seen a glimpse of his old determination - and had helped him in the end.
"'m fine, J'n," Sherlock slurred as John carefully started fumbling for his hand.
John very nearly flinched. "I thought you were asleep," he whispered, feeling his grip being returned.
"Mhm," Sherlock confirmed. "You… worry too much. 'm fine."
John only smiled.
Minutes, he could tell that Sherlock had indeed nodded off when his grip on John's hand slackened.
"No, you're not," he mumbled, softly tracing his fingers over Sherlock's short, dark hair. "You're not fine. But I do believe you're getting better."
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