Thank you. Still.

Not Meant to Be

25

Progress.

The doctors had said he was making good progress, but Sherlock certainly didn't feel like it.

Progress.

He still slept far too much for his liking, nodding off before John left and waking, most of the times, after he had returned in the next morning.

Even when he was awake, his brain was… fuzzy. He couldn't concentrate, he couldn't think. Couldn't think, couldn't think, couldn't think…

One look. He had taken exactly one look at the files Lestrade had brought over, one look reminding him of his headache and of how he wouldn't be able to see through anything anyway. And he didn't care, not really. Instead, he simply went back to sleep.

Progress.

Truth to be told, Sherlock didn't remember the very first days after… after he had woken up. Not really. There were vague memories of John, of John telling him that everything was alright, of John being there, and then, later, different memories of John, telling him that he had been sick and that he was going to be fine and that he didn't have to worry… But nothing solid. No solid memories.

In comparison to his state from back then, he mused while John was flicking through a magazine he clearly wasn't interested in, one could call it progress. But a slow one.

John was still worried, Sherlock could tell by now, solely by the fact how tense his shoulders were while simply sitting in the uncomfortable chair. Worried. Mycroft's words…

Worried…

Sherlock blinked sleepily. Worried…

x

He realised that he had dozed off again when his eyes shot open, accompanied by a heavy inhale.

John's gaze was on him, his magazine forgotten. "Hey," he said softly. "Napped long enough?"

Groaning, Sherlock rubbed his eyes and tried to focus past his headache. "Didn' wan' to…," he mumbled, not being able to stifle a yawn.

John slowly got up from his chair and walked to the window. "You haven't missed anything," he told Sherlock. "Uneventful here, as always."

Sherlock directed his eyes to the white ceiling, sighing. And realising that he was still tired. Stupid. Stupid. Always tired. Always…

Worried, his brain returned to where it had taken off. John was worried.

Worried.

Sherlock rememberd the last evening, hazily though, but he did remember. He had not felt normal the entire day, but had kept his mouth shut, doing physiotherapy, trying to walk, eating lunch and dinner. In the evening, he had needed the loo, stumbled there with John's help, feeling utterly… miserable, everything turning and spinning around him, and… and all had gone black.

The next thing he recalled close to clearly had been John's face, staring at him in horror, slapping him and holding him. "Elevated temperature," he had mumbled. "Collapse…"

Doctors had come in, after John had somehow carried - apparently, although again Sherlock couldn't remember - him to the bed, annoying him, prodding him, asking him weird questions. Until John had thankfully told them out.

Worried.

John should not be worried. He should not worry John.

Sherlock's… episode of vomiting later that night had not made it any better, and although he felt fine now, he could tell that John wasn't convinced. As John wasn't convinced of his making progress either.

Tiresome. It was tiresome.

Sherlock attempted to suppress another yawn, and failed again.

"Still tired?" John's voice brought him back to reality.

He didn't bother with a proper answer. "Mh," was all he mumbled. Tired, tired, tired… all the time. Stupid. All the time. Why?

John appeared right beside his bed, looking down at him. "You could sleep again, you know. As I said, you won't miss anything. And if you don't feel well…"

Don't feel well.

Sherlock heaved himself to one elbow with a huge effort. "'m fine," he forced out, blinking the dizziness away. "Don' wan' to sleep." His eyes darted across the room until he noticed the wheelchair. "Goin' for… walk?"

xxx

John's lips curved into a weak smile as he took a seat next to Sherlock. Sherlock in the wheelchair, huddled into two blankets, wearing a jumper Mary had bought for him, additionally to his dressing gown.

"Still tired?" he asked again, stretching out his legs.

Sherlock only huffed. "'m always tired," he mumbled, sounding annoyed.

John chose not to comment on that. Annoyed. Sounding annoyed. There was something about Sherlock, the way he behaved, the way he looked and sounded… Frustrated, John came up with, frustrated with himself and with his slow progress. Frustrated that he was unable to do anything except for resting and sleeping. Not that he was well enough to do much else, John added in his thoughts.

But yet… it wasn't… it wasn't good. Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock needed something to distract him, something that reminded him of why he was working so hard to get better.

Biting his lips, John knew he had to come to a decision, concerning a topic he had pondered for a while now.

So then. It was about time, probably.

"You still want to go outside?" he disrupted the silence minutes later.

Sherlock turned his head towards John, looked at him, almost questioningly. "Outside?" he echoed, his surprise showing on his face.

John shrugged, careful to have his face betray nothing of his inner struggle. Not well enough, a part of him screamed. It's time, the other one said. "Well, your temperature's back to normal, and since I don't think you've caught anything, and because it is what you have been asking me for days now… If you want to."

His friend's colourless lips formed a frail grin. "Outside?" he repeated, and this time, John nodded. "Outside."

x

It was colder than John had anticipated, but the sun was warm and he was rather pleased about their position on the park bench.

"Are you cold?" he wanted to know, looking at Sherlock.

"How could I?" Sherlock retorted, removing his hands from underneath the blanket. "I'm practi…cally buried beneath… clothes."

John chuckled softly to himself. Funnily enough, Sherlock was right, John had made sure of that. John's jacket additionally to the jumper, another two blankets, drawn across his shoulders, a scarf, a hat and gloves. Warm enough, hopefully.

They sat together in silence, John simply enjoying the warm sun on his face and listening to Sherlock's calm and deep breaths. Breathing. So perfectly normal. And here he was, glad about each and every one of his friend's inhales, glad that it had become normal again.

Squirming a tiny bit, he finally turned his head sideways. "Sherlock…," he began slowly, hesitating.

"Hm?" Sherlock made, his eyes closed, the sun illuminating his pale features. All of a sudden, John felt like calling out loud, voicing his sudden joy, voicing his luck, dancing and jumping around.

Before he could think about it again, before Sherlock had the time to oppose, John's arm reached out, towards Sherlock's neck, beneath the woollen scarf tightly wrapped around it, feeling for his pulse.

Steady and strong.

Perfect.

Sherlock didn't say anything, didn't even open his eyes.

John counted every beat until he was sure his own heart had adopted the same rhythm, was beating in tact with Sherlock's. And still, he didn't let go.

"I could hear you, you know," Sherlock suddenly said, his voice dark. "It was black, but you… you were there. You were there."

John's throat narrowed considerably. "I…," he began.

Beat.

"You…" Sherlock cleared his throat, John could feel it vibrating through his fingertips. "You were there, and you… you gave me something to… It was your voice… that fought off the darkness 'round me, and I… I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't…"

By the time Sherlock trailed off, his pulse slightly faster than before, John found himself unable to breathe.

And I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't…

Although John was fully aware of what Sherlock had intended to say, he didn't even want to consider this possibility. Not waking up. Coma. Brain death, maybe.

Beat.

Alive. Awake.

Beat.

Strong and steady.

Simply concentrating on the soft thud beneath his fingertips, John pressed his eyes shut. "You… you were dead, Sherlock," he whispered, the fear back again all of a sudden. "You flatlined. Your heart stopped, and for a few seconds or minutes or… I don't even know how long… you were dead. Dead, Sherlock. Dead…"

The pulsating did not stop.

For a few seconds, John could hear nothing except for the wind in the trees.

"But I am not, John," Sherlock reminded him, his voice soft.

John opened his eyes, staring into Sherlock's, feeling his pulse. "No," he whispered. "But it was close, so close…"

Sherlock's left hand found his right, somehow, and as soon as John felt the tentative touch, he squeezed it firmly, clinging to it.

"John," Sherlock whispered, his eyes still fixed on John's. "I'm OK. I'm OK."

OK. OK, not fine. Serious, then.

John inhaled shakily. "I know," he muttered. "I know."

It took ages until John was composed enough to stop feeling close to tears.

They just sat in silence, listening to the other one's breaths, not talking.

By the time John dared remove his fingers from Sherlock's carotid artery and look at his best friend, he could sense that Sherlock was feeling uncomfortable.

"What?" he wanted to know, frowning. What was wrong?

Biting his lip - something John had never seen Sherlock do before -, his best friend began again, tentatively: "What…," he mumbled, sounding careful. "What would have happen'd if… if I hadn't woken, if there had been no chance… of recove… covery? What…"

At the thought alone, haunting him again, John's very blood froze in his veins. Vegetative state. Brain death. Irreversible brain damage. Not waking up from coma. And now Sherlock was asking him after that. He wondered if he had been able to do that, to end it, to tell the doctors to switch off all machines. If he had been able to end Sherlock's life. No chance of recovery. There was always a chance, probably, of waking up, of improvement. Could he…

"John?" Sherlock interrupted his thoughts.

John shuddered and rested his palm against Sherlock's warm neck. "What would you do?" he wanted to know, staring into Sherlock's eyes. "If it was me, in this situation?"

His best friend did not say anything, only turned his gaze away. Silence was all that followed. Nothing. Then, finally, looking at John again, his eyes… glassy, Sherlock said: "It wouldn't be me. Mary…"

Painfully aware of how tightly Sherlock was clutching his hand, and how equally tightly he was returning the grip, John shook his head: "Yes, but if it was you?" he insisted. "If it was you, in this situation? Could you do it?"

John could count Sherlock's breaths in the continuing silence.

"I don't know," he finally mumbled, so quietly that John almost didn't understand him. But once he had heard, it was enough.

Resting his hand on Sherlock's cheek instead of his neck, he nodded, his eyes feeling moist. "It's OK," he told Sherlock.

Sherlock had pressed his eyes shut. "If you… if you wanted me to, I probably would… but I would hate myself for the rest of my life."

John swallowed dryly, trying to fight back the urge to cry. "Me, too," he choked out before getting to his feet and pulling Sherlock into a hug. "Me, too."

Sherlock didn't, surprisingly enough, resist. "J'hn…," he slurred, his head resting on John's shoulder. "It's OK. We're OK. Really…"

"I know," John breathed. "And… Sherlock? Thank you. Thank you so much."

Sherlock still didn't resist. "For… what," he mumbled, sounding groggy all of a sudden again.

John's lips curved into a smile. "For coming back to me. For listening to me when I begged you to. For having stepped into my life those four years ago." He snorted. "I never thanked Mike Stamford properly for introducing me to you."

Sherlock yawned and leaned against John. "Can do… that toge… together," he slurred, weakly and exhaustedly. "'nd John?" he asked while John helped him back into an upright position. "You're welcome."

x

When John went home this evening, after he had watched Sherlock doze off and sleep peacefully for at least half an hour, not able to resist the urge to grab his best friend's still too thin wrist and once more feel his comforting heartbeat beneath his fingertips, he felt light-headed, utterly light-headed.

Progress, the doctors had said. Although it was slow, and it took time, and it ripped him apart every time he had to witness Sherlock fainting or vomiting or hurting from his headache, sometimes, in moments like these, it felt like progress. Real and true progress. Because Sherlock was OK. OK.

And as long as Sherlock was OK, John would be, too.

Thank you for reading. As always, feedback is appreciated.

And, you might have realised, we're getting there, aren't we? Not too much left.