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Not Meant to Be

24

Sherlock gritted his teeth and heaved himself up, out of the wheelchair. He hadn't even made one staggering step when he noticed the floor coming closer, closer, closer… Before someone caught him and supported him until he could lie back against the pillows.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. "Brother dear," he commented while pulling up the covers. "John would tear me to pieces if I let you hit your head again."

Sherlock remained quiet when Mycroft reconnected the IV line, rather professionally. "Why're you here?" he finally wanted to know, carefully trying to turn to his side.

Nothing in Mycroft's face changed. "You are my brother," he simply said.

Sherlock huffed. "Senti…," he began, groaning when his tossing sent a jab of pain through his head.

"It would seem so, yes," Mycroft confirmed. "I take it is fine with John, isn't it?"

All Sherlock was willing to do was to press his eyes shut. "Wan' to talk 'bout John?" he asked slowly.

"Yes," his brother answered bluntly.

Sherlock tried to bury his nose in his pillow. "He hasn' done… anythin' wrong," he mumbled, only to be rewarded with Mycroft chuckling. "I am aware," he replied. "He never would, not when it comes to you, brother dear. I know he is taking good care of you." When Mycroft paused for a moment, Sherlock tried to concentrate in order to find out what his brother wanted from him.

"You are getting better, I have been told," were his brother's next words.

Better. Brilliant topic, now, after his legs had started to feel like… like jelly. "That's not… 'bout John," he murmured, wrenching his eyes open again. (Alternately: Why… would you… care")

Mycroft sighed and took a seat in the nearest chair. "I am very pleased, brother dear, to be able to express my enormous relief regarding your gradual recovery, as well as my deepest gratitude towards your dear Doctor Watson."

Sherlock's head was spinning because of Mycroft's words. "Why're you here," he repeated. Using the brief pause his brother made, he turned further to his side. "And he's not… 'my dear doctor'," he started to protest. "He's married, and…"

"And yet, John Watson would do anything for you," Mycroft concluded, swiftly, without hesitation. Sherlock flinched a tiny bit. "Anything at all."

For a few seconds, Sherlock could hear nothing except for his own blood rushing through his ears. Anything… anything at all.

"Your physical recovery is progressing, I assume?" Mycroft suddenly changed the topic and started to tap his umbrella on the floor. "As I said before, you, up and walking, in company of John Watson. Be assured that, if there should be any need, the best physical therapists as well as other professionals are available for you as soon as you mention it to me. Or, of course, as soon as your physical or mental condition should require further attention."

Sherlock closed his eyes and bit his lip, in order to stifle a yawn. "'m fine," he mumbled as soon as he deemed it safe. "John can… Don' need help…"

His brother's voice was calm as always. "Oh, you do need help. Do not try to lie to me, Sherlock. You need help, more help than John can provide for. I will, of course, arrange for rehabilitation and whatever form of therapy you might require, once you have been discharged, and I assure you that you will be assisted by the very best therapists of the…"

"John can do that," Sherlock mumbled. "I don' need…"

"John Watson, brother dear," Mycroft interrupted him, "is a doctor, not a physical therapist."

Sherlock feebly shook his head. "Could do it," he muttered. "John could…"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Oh, no doubt he could. The question is, I think, whether he should."

Sherlock flinched and, instinctively, held his breath. Scolding, John would scold him for that. John…

"I believe John lost about three pounds in the past month, and I can tell by the way he is walking that his shoulder and his leg must be hurting him," Mycroft went on, sounding conversational, unfazed by Sherlock's reaction. "Witnessing your condition and your recovery apparently does not do his health any good."

John. John John John. Sherlock exhaled shakily and attempted a frown. "What d'you want," he muttered for the third time, doing his best not to sound too pathetic.

"John Watson," Mycroft began again, "would do anything for you, as I mentioned before. The one thing he would not do, however, is to force you to agree to something you do not wish to do. Brother dear, he loves you, and this…"

Sherlock's throat constricted at his brother's words. "Not gay," he mumbled out of reflex, trying to entangle his hand from the IV line before realising what Mycroft had said. And who had said it. John wasn't gay, John wasn't…

"I didn't say that," Mycroft responded, composed as always, gripping his hand and assissting him.

"Mh," Sherlock only replied, not wanting to listen any further.

All of a sudden, the tapping of Mycroft's umbrella stopped. "I can tell that you are not fine, brother dear, and that it is absolutely childish of you to refuse help."

"My…," Sherlock muttered, forcing his eyes open, the world spinning around him.

"The frequence of your blinking as well as your still trembling fingers tell me that the headache you have been suffering from for at least two days, judging by your apparent general exhaustion and your haggard appearance as well as John Watson's rigidity and his sudden lack of personal hygiene, has not decreased, but rather worsened, leaving you tired and easily to be irritated," Mycroft continued mercilessly. Sherlock's head kept pounding, true to his brother's words. "Your uneasiness, your discomfort right now, furthermore highly suggest that you reciprocate John's… rather firm feeling of fondness, and that you…"

Mycroft fell silent all of a sudden. Seconds later, he cleared his throat, his eyes staring at Sherlock's duvet. Sherlock did not understand.

"I have always told you that caring was not an advantage," Mycroft finally uttered in a quiet voice. "A mistake, in fact, a grave one."

When he raised his gaze, his eyes piercing, Sherlock didn't know what to do. "Why're telling... me this," he mumbled.

"I have made a mistake," Mycroft stated.

For a moment, Sherlock wondered if he was still able to swallow. If he was still able to move. Mycroft, what was Mycroft doing here…?

"You are my brother, Sherlock," Mycroft went on, "and although I do not possess Doctor Watson's… open-mindedness, I… I would highly appreciate it if you were putting effort in getting better, if you were to accept the help and support you are offered, even if it does entail seeing a speech therapist or doubling your amount of physiotherapy sessions. Whereas your…"

Sherlock's attention trailed off as Mycroft continued talking, continued rambling, something he never did, something Sherlock could not understand. Mycroft, talking like that, talking…

His brother's voice abruptly pulled him back into reality. "I am reasonably sure that there is only one thing he might ask of you now."

He. He. John.

Sherlock inhaled feebly when Mycroft paused again. "What?" he whispered, feeling… feeling… stupid, yes. And alone. Utterly alone.

Mycroft hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded hoarse. "Let others help you, for once. Do not refuse my help. Do not push him away. And try to repay him for what he has done and is doing for you - try to get better. You do want to keep your dear doctor, don't you? So, do not, to say it in John's words, give up."

Sherlock wanted to utter a snarky remark, wanted to tease Mycroft as he normally did, wanted to say something clever… but he couldn't. He could only think of John.

"Why…," he mumbled, his throat feeling narrow. "Why're… telling me… this?"

Mycroft smiled a tiny bit, and for the first time Sherlock realised that his brother was actually worried. Worried. Just like John. Worried... "Because he would never tell you himself that frankly, and you, brother dear, are too blind to see. And because he would never make you do anything you do not want to, such as seeing a speech therapist. I am not that… cautious."

Sherlock felt as if he couldn't breathe. "My…," he choked out, not even trying to pronounce his brother's full name. "Could… I… would… My… John?"

Mycroft's chair screeched when he got up. "I will get him," he said without needing further reminding.

When Mycroft had already reached the door, Sherlock addressed him again, tiredly propping himself up on one elbow. "Mycr…," he began.

"Yes?" His brother stopped dead in his tracks immediately, slowly turning around. For a moment, Sherlock did not know what to say. I care, too? I did not realise that you did? Gained weight again?

He pressed his eyes shut and exhaled.

"I… thank… you."

Mycroft nodded curtly and smiled. "You're welcome, brother dear."

xxx

John nervously twisted the spoon between his fingers.

After Mycroft and Sherlock had left, he had gone back to the cafeteria, ordering another cup of coffee, and had phoned Mary. And now… and now he was sitting and waiting. Nervously.

When Mycroft finally approached him, his umbrella in his hand as always, John let out a sigh of relief. "So did you…," he began, feeling rather awkward. "…did you talk to him about what you wanted to?"

Mycroft studied him with an intense gaze, appearing unnaturally pale to John. "Yes," he simply replied. "He has asked for you."

John was on his feet before he even realised it. "I'd… er… I'd better be off, then," he said, biting his lip.

Mycroft nodded. "I have not told him, John," he then stated, fiddling with his umbrella. "And I… believe it appropriate to express my enormous gratitude to you. For everything you are doing for my brother."

John tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. "How could I not?" was what he settled on.

Mycroft nodded again, sternly. "Goodbye, Doctor Watson."

x

John hurried on the way to Sherlock's room although he knew that it was not necessary. Sherlock was fine, utterly fine, nothing would happen to him.

When he entered, quietly and carefully, he was barely able to see Sherlock, huddled into his covers, his eyes closed. Strangely enough, he, too, looked more pallid than before. What had they been talking about?

"Sherlock?" he whispered, slowly lowering himself to the edge of the bed. No need to wake him if he was asleep already.

"John," Sherlock replied, his eyes flickering open. "Di' Mycr… talk to you, too…," he slurred.

Busy with checking the IV line - connected rather professionally -, he nodded. "Shortly."

Sherlock shifted a tiny bit and promptly got tangled in the IV line. "Careful," John reminded him, gripping his hand and entangling him.

"John, I…" Sherlock's grey eyes stared at him. "You… look tired," he finally mumbled.

He looked tired? John couldn't help but had to chuckle. "Says the one in the hospital bed, close to falling asleep at four o'clock in the afternoon," he replied.

A grin appeared on Sherlock's face. "Says the one who… can read your mili… tary career in your… face and your leg and your broth… brother's drinkin'… h'bits in… y'r… m'bile… phone…"

John was stunned for a moment. "Right," he then replied, a smile tucking at his lips.

"Tired…," Sherlock repeated, "…and… d'you… have the night…mares… often?"

John froze. Nightmares. He had never told Sherlock, not a single word. He hadn't told anyone, in fact, although Mary knew, of course. Awkwardly, he attempted to clear his throat. "How…," he began, cutting himself off.

Sherlock exhaled slowly. "I said… t'red, an' you had this… expression… on your face… know that, J'hn… had it… be…fore… after Afgha… Afghan…"

John squeezed his hand, not knowing what to say. "You're right," he finally decided on. "I do have nightmares. Rather frequently, in fact."

Sherlock appeared barely half-awake by now. "'bout what," he slurred.

About you, dead, would have been the correct answer. The correct answer John didn't give. "It's not important," he avoided the topic instead.

Sherlock wrenched his eyes open again, having fallen shut earlier. "Has to be… some…thin' sc… scaring… if you can' find… sleep… rel… lated to death, probab…bly…"

"Don't you think you could try to find out tomorrow? I can see that you're more asleep than awake," John reminded him softly.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered weakly as they closed again. "'m not t'red," he mumbled.

John chuckled again. "Neither am I," he replied, feeling Sherlock's fingers grip his hand reassuringly.

"John," Sherlock began again, his voice barely above a whisper. "You… go home. Sleep."

John could practically sense the effort it took Sherlock to keep talking. "I will if you do," he answered.

"Nigh'mares, John…," Sherlock muttered, yawning. "'bout what… 'bout…"

"Good night, Sherlock," John decided to interrupt his best friend. "I'll be back in the morning."

"Mhm," Sherlock made, his grip loosening again. "Night, J'hn…"

John remained in exactly the same position while Sherlock's breathing slowly evened out, while his hand became limp and the lines in his face disappeared to some extent. This day had been exhausting, John could tell, so Sherlock would sleep through the night. Hopefully without nightmares and any other disturbance.

x

Mary was cooking dinner by the time he came home.

"Hadn't expected you so soon," she greeted him while staring at whatever was in the oven.

John shrugged off his jacket and let himself sink onto their sofa. For a moment, he listened to Mary rummaging in the kitchen. "Mary?" he then called out. "Do you think I look tired?"

The noises from the kitchen disappeared, and Mary approached John, sitting down on his lap. "What's wrong, John?" she asked.

John buried his face in her hair. "Sherlock told me I looked tired," he finally admitted.

Mary remained perfectly silent for a few moments. "And now you're shocked?" she wanted to know.

Shocked… Was he? No. Not really. Maybe this was only the first time that he did in fact realise how much the past weeks had taken out of him. How much his entire life was focused on Sherlock now.

"I don't know," he mumbled into her hair. "It's just… I want it to be over. I want it to be as it was… before. Before his accident."

Finally, Mary turned around, resting his arms around his neck. "Me, too, John. But it's not possible. We will have to deal with everything as it is now, and we will move on, eventually. You will start looking for a job, Sherlock will be fine on his own again, he maybe will take cases again, we will be together…"

John sneezed. "He's my best friend, Mary," he whispered. "My best friend." His heart clenched painfully. "I…"

"I know," she whispered. "I met you while you were thinking Sherlock was dead, remember? And you didn't look well. From the moment we started getting to know each other better, from the moment you told me about your former flatmate and how he committed suicide right in front of you… I knew that he had meant a lot to you. And still did. And when he came back, you were… different. You had been getting better, of course, but once he was back, I finally realised how you were supposed to be. And it made me happy, and willing to accept that there would always be a third participant in our marriage. And… it's OK."

John exhaled, unable to say anything past the lump in his throat.

"But I might require more attention once Sherlock is back on his feet," she whispered gently, kissing him.

John nodded, breathing in her scent and trying to relax, grateful that she had not formed a question, but a certainty. Not if, but when. "I'm sorry," he finally mumbled. "It's… I feel like being torn."

Mary's soft exhaling tickled his neck. "I know. Don't worry. It'll be fine."

This night was the first one since ages that John managed to sleep close to soundly, holding Mary tight all night, feeling her reassuring company.

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