Thank you for your continued support and the very kind reviews you leave!
Enjoy.
Not Meant to Be
23
Sherlock knew that John wasn't happy about his choice.
"Cafeteria," he had answered when John had asked him where he wanted to go today, right after Mrs Hudson had left early in the morning, having fussed about him, increasing, no doubt despite her intention, his headache.
Cafeteria. John wasn't happy about this, no, not after what had happened the last time.
Sherlock knew all of that, saw it in John's face and the way his eyebrows had moved. And yet, it had been his decision.
His stomach clenched in fear as they slowly approached the cafeteria, John wheeling him, as always.
Cafeteria. Cafeteria. Many people. Too many people.
He still remembered the last time, how everything had screamed at him and jumped at him, how he hadn't been able to draw breath, how…
Curling his fingers around the blanket John had spread on his lap, he attempted to control his breathing.
"Sherlock."
John. John's voice. In front of him. Why in front? Why… Slowly, Sherlock dared to open his eyes again.
John was kneeling in front of him, staring at him with his so intense, so worried eyes… "Sherlock," he repeated. "You know you don't have to do this. We can go somewhere else."
Sherlock sucked in a greedy breath and commanded his brain to be quiet. "'s fine," he mumbled, pressing his eyes shut.
John hesitated for a moment before he softly brushed his hand over Sherlock's tense ones, then got to his feet and resumed his pushing the wheelchair.
"John?" Sherlock addressed him again, opening his eyes. Stupid, he was feeling stupid. And yet… he had to ask. "You… you'll be with me, won' you?"
The world stopped around them. John appeared in front of him a second time, crouching down and gripping his hands. Warm, they felt so warm in contrast to Sherlock's. Warm…
"Always," John told him in a hushed voice.
Sherlock exhaled.
"You still sure?" John asked him, tentatively.
Sherlock bit his lip and managed a tiny nod. "Yes," he whispered, dreading the moment when John would be gone again, when he would disappear behind the wheelchair and leaving him on his own to face… to face everything. Only that John wasn't gone. John was still here, with him, still…
"I won't go away," John reassured him as if he had heard his thoughts. "OK?"
"OK," Sherlock repeated, feeling even more stupid. John got to his feet, still looking at him with worry, and vanished. Stupid, stupid. Just other people. Nothing dangerous. And yet, the feeling of the last time wouldn't go away, wouldn't leave him alone, the feeling of being overwhelmed, of too much around him, of choking, suffocating, alone, without John…
No. Calm.
x
His relief when they had reached the cafeteria and John had taken the seat opposite of him, resting his forearms on the table, was immense.
"Alright?" John asked him quietly, still worried.
Loud. Loud. Many… loud.
John.
Focusing on John's nose and nothing else, Sherlock nodded weakly. "'m fine," he mumbled.
John did not correct him, and somehow, Sherlock was thankful for that.
"You want anything?" John asked him, bending forward.
Want… Sherlock flinched at the sound of someone putting their mug back to the saucer. "Coffee," he whispered, trying to take a deep breath.
John's hand found his, all of a sudden. Sherlock let go of the blanket and crushed John's fingers instead. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," John told him, "no coffee for you. Not yet. Do you want… tea? Or juice? Orange juice?"
Inhaling shakily, Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. "Juice," he mumbled. Loud, so loud…
The pressure on his hand increased. "I'll have to get up," John reminded him.
Stupid. Stupid. Of course.
"Will you… will you be OK?"
No, he wouldn't. Without John, he would… "Mh," Sherlock simply made.
"I'll be back in a moment," John promised before his hands disappeared.
"Mh," Sherlock repeated, trying not to hear the woman to his right talking about her granddaughter, trying not to look at the man to his left, his arm in a sling, from an accident, apparently, going by… No. Stop.
Another man, talking, women, men, talking, gesturing, moving around. Talking, talking so much. About other people, too many people, about their sons and daughters and sisters and brothers and their lives and…
No. No. No, no, no… Shut up. Shut up.
Still talking, still being loud, still being noisy, still…
"…rlock… Sher… look… at me…"
Within a split-second, Sherlock became aware of his ragged breathing, his hammering heart and of John, kneeling in front of him again, holding his face in both hands.
"Look at me, Sherlock," he said.
John. John. John. Concentrate on John. No-one else, not the girl babbling about…
"Sherlock."
John. Inhale. Exhale. Slowly. John.
The waitress was wearing this dress because…
No.
"John," he gasped, suddenly realising that he had gripped the edge of the table with both shaking hands. Other people… "Talk…," he whispered. "John, please…"
It was easier to focus on John when he could hear his voice, when all he could hear and see and feel was John. He didn't pay attention to what John was saying, all that was important was… John.
John.
Sherlock felt exhausted by the time he deemed it safe to release his grip on the table. "John," he whispered. "I… thank you."
John kept staring at him for a moment. "Better?" he asked, not letting go of Sherlock's face.
"Mhm," was all he could force out for an answer, taking another breath. Coffee and juice on the table, he noticed distantly. John had gone and had come back, hurriedly putting the mug and the glass down, coming for him. "You… I… not… won't fall apart… if… let go," he mumbled, stumbling over the words.
John's hands disappeared slowly, and after a few moments of staring at Sherlock, he hesitatingly took his seat again, clenching his hands around the mug. "Do you want me to take you back?" he wanted to know, carefully.
Focus on John, focus on John, focus on John.
"No," Sherlock mumbled, feeling ridiculous. Just the cafeteria, just… nothing dangerous, nothing to be afraid of, to panic because of, not… John. "… OK now."
John didn't appear convinced, but he didn't protest. Taking a tentative sip out of his mug, he started to chuckle. "I think I've had more physical contact in the past month with you than with my own wife," he muttered into his mug.
For a moment, Sherlock felt a familiar emotion, felt this… sting… before he realised that John was… joking. John was feeling happy. "People… will talk," he croaked, staring into his glass.
The next instant, John's gaze was on him, fixing him. "I don't care."
Sherlock smiled.
x
They were on the way back to Sherlock's room, John pushing the wheelchair and Sherlock slowly walking - walking, he had insisted after drinking the glass of juice -, slowly and rather clumsily, in his opinion, steadying himself against the wall from time to time.
Not just once John opened his mouth as if to say something, but never said it, in the end, always keeping his eyes on Sherlock. He didn't say anything because he didn't have any breath left he could have used for talking.
Sherlock's legs started to wobble even more when they rounded the next corner, and he stumbled into the wall. Without complaining, he took John's outstretched hand and allowed himself to be supported.
Both of them flinched when a voice suddenly appeared from behind them. "My dear brother and Doctor Watson. What a pleasant surprise to meet you here, up and walking."
Sherlock felt John's grip tighten as his brother rounded them and was greeted by John with a simple "Mycroft."
Biting his tongue and sagging a tiny bit against John, Sherlock didn't say anything. The last time he had tried to pronounce his brother's name had ended in 'My', and he really did not need this embarrassment a second time. And going by how he felt right now, dizzy and weak and cold and… it would not be successful this time. Reaching out for the wall with one hand and holding his breath at the same time, he did everything to stay upright.
"John, I think your patient requires attention," Mycroft addressed John all of a sudden, ignoring the supposedly angry look Sherlock was directing at him. Supposedly angry - he found he couldn't muster the strength for anything else, at least not if he did not want to collapse directly to the floor.
John's head shot around in a split-second, his hand letting go of the wheelchair and gripping both of Sherlock's arms instead. "Don't hold your breath. Slowly," he said while carefully helping Sherlock to sit down, pulling the blanket back over his lap. "OK?"
"Mhm," Sherlock replied, exhaling. Breathe. He had to breathe, he reminded himself.
John looked at him as if he was about to say something else, but Mycroft interrupted him. "Might I have a word with my brother?" he asked John. "If you don't mind."
John hesitated. "I don't think…"
"'m fine, John," Sherlock had to interject, shifting in the wheelchair. "Really."
"I'll take my brother back to his room," Mycroft suggested.
Almost abruptly, John got to his feet. "Alright. Well. I'm off… to the cafeteria, so, Sherlock, if you need me…"
He tried to nod.
Mycroft took hold of the handles of the wheelchair, John turned the other way before he stopped once more. "Oh, and don't forget to reconnect the IV line."
Sherlock, with his eyes closed, heard Mycroft's voice answer, disembodied. "I won't."
Thank you for reading.
Originally, this chapter had been intended to be a tiny bit different, longer and containing Mycroft. As it got too lengthy... I decided to split. Next time, then. (Sunday, probably, since I won't be at home for most of the weekend.)
As always, I'm looking forward to feedback.