I am sorry for the delay.

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To keep it short: Next part.

Not Meant to Be

22

Getting better.

Recovery.

They were working on that.

"How's physiotherapy going?" Greg asked when he stopped by for a visit. "Got a bit of colour back, he, haven't you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, resting on his pillows.

"Busy week?" John asked, pointing towards Lestrade's crumpled suit.

Greg only shrugged. "Case of murder. Investigating took time. You know…" He looked slightly uncomfortable for a moment. "You can have the case files, if you want," he offered Sherlock. "If you're bored, I mean. Imagine there's not much going on here. To just… I dunno… look over them. If we've got everything right."

John could tell by the way Sherlock narrowed his eyes that he was barely able to follow what Greg was saying, that headache and probably nausea were getting at him again.

Headache. His headaches had been getting worse over the course of the last few days, increasing in intensity. It had been three days since Sherlock's first journey to the toilet, and in two of the three evenings his headache, migraine-like, had been bad enough to require a rather large dose of medication until he could find any sleep.

"' course," Sherlock mumbled now, subconsciously lifting a hand towards his temple and rubbing. Headache then, indeed.

Greg started beaming. "Really? Great. I mean, er… I'm glad you're better."

Sherlock attempted a smile which rather looked like a grimace. "Thank… you," he mumbled before closing his eyes.

"Headache?" Greg mouthed, and John nodded.

"Worse?" he then wanted to know in a hushed voice, and John nodded again.

"Can hear you," Sherlock mumbled from the bed, his voice lacking any kind of annoyance.

Greg managed to look guilty for a moment whereas John simply sighed. He knew that Greg was thoroughly stretching his competences, even doing something illegal if he allowed Sherlock to read official police files, but he did it nonetheless. He did it because he, too, wanted Sherlock to recover.

And most of the time, it was working.

x

"Wheelchair or crutches?" John asked in the next morning while Sherlock was nibbling on his toast, looking all pale and pasty.

"Wheelchair," he mumbled. "'m tired."

John nodded only curtly and grabbed Sherlock's dressing gown from the back of his chair.

"'m ready," Sherlock claimed only seconds later.

"You haven't eaten your toast," Mary reminded him, pointing at the tray. Seconds later, she smirked. "I just wanted to spare John having to say that."

Sherlock managed a weak grin. "Not hungry," he muttered.

John shot Mary a glance, frowning. Half of the toast, at least. Not too bad.

"Shall I help you?" he offered while handing Sherlock the dressing gown.

"'s fine," his friend replied, slowly manouevring one of his arms through the sleeve while John tucked it loosely around his other shoulder, with the IV line still in place.

"Don't forget the socks," Mary reminded them, beginning to search in her hand bag. "It's cold outside."

To John's worry, Sherlock allowed Mary to slip the thick socks above the pair he was already wearing without any protests. Really not feeling well today, he decided. He would have to make sure that the physiotherapy session was going to be a short one. As would the walk have to be.

"Ready?" he wanted to know, causing Sherlock to nod curtly.

Slowly, he shuffled to the edge of the bed, getting to his feet on his own. One trip to the toilet on his own feet each day had improved his ability to try to stand.

Only seconds later, he was swaying on his feet, prompting John to grip his arm and support him for the few steps towards the wheelchair, Mary shoving the drip stand along.

"The blanket!" she exclaimed once Sherlock was seated, grabbed it from the bed and tucked it around his legs. "Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly," Sherlock mumbled. "Fine."

x

Mary accompanied them to the reception and then excused herself, ready for work. One of them had to work, John knew, if he didn't, if he spent all of his time at the hospital.

He should try to find something, a job somewhere, but… but all he wanted was to be with Sherlock, to make sure his friend was alright.

"Anywhere you want to go?" he asked Sherlock after Mary had left.

"Not cafeteria," was all Sherlock said. "Too many people."

So John simply wheeled Sherlock around in a few less frequented corridors, finally stopping in front of an empty row of chairs.

"There's something we have to talk about," he announced after he had taken a seat.

Sherlock looked at him directly, but all John noticed was how worn he still looked.

"You're doing a lot of physiotherapy," he began rather awkwardly, "and it helps you to get better. Physically. Your doctors have noticed, of course, that you still have trouble with talking, can't remember certain words and only seldomly use full sentences… We think it might be useful if you agreed to seeing a speech therapist. He or she is a professional, they could…"

"Don' need that," Sherlock replied, frowning.

John shook his head. "No, Sherlock, let me finish, please. I know it bothers you, and I want you to get better, too. I am sure it would help you. You could give it a try, don't you think?"

Sherlock started massaging his temple. John of course didn't fail to notice the still present tremble in his fingers. "Don' need…," he repeated, his voice sounding small. "John. I can talk. It only… it takes … energy. It is exhausting. And… and… I must think, and thinking… hurts. Sometimes."

John grabbed Sherlock's hand and squeezed. "It's fine, Sherlock, really. It's not a problem for me, it's just… I think it might help you. And don't tell me you're fine!"

Sherlock's lips curved into a smile. "OK," he answered.

"OK?" John echoed, dumbfounded. "Sherlock, is something wrong? Do you feel hot, cold, anything…?" If he agreed so easily, then…

"OK," Sherlock confirmed. "'ll think about… it. But, John, I don' need a spee… speech thera… ther… therapist. See?"

John felt a smile creep to his face, too. "OK," he agreed, squeezing Sherlock's hand again.

x

He could tell that Sherlock was relieved when they were back in his room and he could lie down again.

"Headache?" he wanted to know.

"Mh," Sherlock made, closing his eyes. "Again."

"Try to sleep for a bit, hm?" John suggested, walking over to the window and drawing the blinds close.

"Can't," Sherlock mumbled. "Too much in my head…"

Bloody headache. John wished with every fibre of his being that he and Sherlock could switch places.

"Do you want anything against the pain?" he wanted to know.

It took a while until Sherlock answered. "No," he whispered. "Makes head too fuzzy…"

There wasn't much John could do. Sherlock kept tossing in his bed, restless and obviously not comfortable. The wet cloth John retrieved from the bathroom after a few minutes seemed to help a tiny bit, but didn't cause Sherlock to relax. Neither did John stroking his hand.

John felt exhausted himself when Sherlock finally fell into a restless sleep, and when the nurse appeared with lunch, he carefully untangled his hand from Sherlock's and begged her quietly to leave again, to let Sherlock sleep.

x

Sherlock still appeared utterly groggy when John had to wake him in the afternoon, to do some exercising. But he didn't complain, did - or tried to do - everything the therapist told him, and after walking two times around his bed he was allowed to lie down again.

"Only stumbled… into you… twice," he muttered while he attempted to get comfortable. "Good, isn' it?"

John smiled and took care of the duvet. "One and a half times," he corrected. "The second time was partly my fault. I distracted you."

"Mh," Sherlock replied intellegibly.

"No, really, you're doing well," John encouraged him, and it was true. Surprisingly so, but Sherlock often was no longer clinging to John as if his very life depended on it, but rather carried his weight himself, and his balance… well, it had not got worse. "Two weeks and you'll chase after Lestrade's criminals again," he joked.

Sherlock huffed quietly. "Not sure… 'll ever do… again," he slurred, barely awake by now, thanks to the sedative a doctor had given him after physiotherapy, to help him rest and recover from his headaches.

Although he didn't even know if Sherlock had still been aware of what he had been saying, mumbling, it broke John's heart. Because it had sounded so flat, so hopeless, so like… giving up.

Sherlock wasn't about to give up, John knew that, he had fought his way out of a coma, was fighting a battle with his body and his mind now which took almost everything he had out of him, was struggling each day to… improve. And yet… the fear was always there. The fear that some day, Sherlock would simply decided to give in. To let it all go. To fade.

Softly tracing two fingers over the lines on Sherlock's forehead, John swallowed dryly. "Of course you will," he mumbled. "Together with me."

Thank you for reading.