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Not Meant to Be
26
Sherlock dreamt of John that night, of John's voice talking to him, bringing him back from the shores of darkness.
When he woke, he did so slowly, unwilling to open his eyes, but finally giving in to the urge to relieve himself.
His knees were trembling while he was washing his hands, and by the time he could sink back into his bed - not his, hospital bed - he felt as if he was half-asleep already. Tired, always so tired… Never mind. His eyes closed on their own account, and before he could produce another coherent thought, he had fallen asleep, hoping to see John again.
x
He did see John, in the dreams that followed, good dreams.
Normally, he didn't dream, but today… today was different. Or maybe it was different with John.
Unfortunately, his body demanded its right again.
Fumbling for the light, his arm trembling slightly, Sherlock sighed, blaming John's urging him to drink all the time for the fact that it was already the second time that night that he had to get up to use the loo.
Loo… loo…
Of course, he could always call a nurse, have her bring a bottle…
He couldn't find the light switch.
"Sod it," he muttered under his breath, pushing himself up from the pillows, untangling his feet from the duvet.
When his feet touched the floor, it felt cold, despite his socks, and for a moment he contemplated if he would need his dressing gown.
But no, loo… It wouldn't even take five minutes, he would be fine without. And afterwards, he would be able to get into bed again immediately, without undressing…
Sherlock did realise that his vision was slightly more blurry than the time before, but found he could not care. Toilet. He needed the toilet.
Thankfully, the door was open already, otherwise, he mused, feeling oddly sleepy, he would have stumbled against it. John wouldn't have been pleased.
Using the toilet was… dull. Tiring. He almost nodded off in the meantime.
When he got to his feet again, he felt terribly unsteady. Unsteady… Clutching the wash-bowl for support, he forced himself to take deep breaths, to will the nausea and dizziness to go away.
Why, why, why… He had been fine yesterday, fine, fine, fine… And now… The small bathroom was spinning around Sherlock and made his brain even more… fuzzy.
Not good.
Options. Options. Sit down on toilet. Wait. Not inviting. Not comfortable. Hurry, back to bed. Sleep. Comfortable. Warm. Good.
Still taking as deep breaths as possible, Sherlock carefully attempted to loosen his grip on the wash-bowl.
Not a good idea.
Before his knees could buckle even more and give way beneath him, he renewed his hold, clinging to the wash-bowl as if his very life depended on it.
Breathing deeply did not help in the least, and after a few seconds he realised distantly that he was shivering and that his heart was hammering wildly in his chest.
Not good.
He couldn't stay here. Not for much longer, at least. Bed, now, he decided and commanded his brain to remain calm.
It worked.
For a split-second.
Exactly long enough for him to let go of the wash-bowl and try a tentative step backwards.
Until the reeling started again, until his sense of balance disappeared completely and he felt himself tumbling forward, towards the… towards the wash-bowl.
Not good.
x
The next thing he knew was that there was something above him, something white, speckled with something dark…
Oh. The wash-bowl.
And dark… red. Oh. Blood. His blood.
Sherlock's hand sluggishly moved towards his head, feeling for… feeling for… wet. Blood.
John would not be pleased.
Seconds later, he became aware of a searing pain in his head, drowning out every idea of thought.
The lights around him started to flicker, darkness lunging at him…
Sherlock yelped and tried to turn to his side, tried to…
Blackness. Blackness threatening him.
Not good, his brain repeated. John would not be pleased.
As he realised that he was not confronted with a power outage, but that his eyelids were fluttering, a stab of fear jolted through him.
John would be angry. Really angry.
Stupid, was his last thought before he lost consciousness.
xxx
This time, it was Mary who answered the phone. Who answered the phone and gestured John at the same time to get up, to get ready.
John's heart stopped.
"Yes, OK," he heard Mary say. "We're on our way."
Ending the call and tossing away the phone was one swift movement. "Hospital," she told John and caused him to grab the first pair of trousers and the first jumper he could lay hands on. "What happened," he wanted to know curtly, doing his best not to panic.
Mary grabbed her trousers, too, managing a shrug. "Don't know much," she replied. "There was some kind of… accident, and now Sherlock's asking for you. The nurse said… we'd better come."
They'd better come.
As soon as they had hailed a cab, John wondered if he would ever start to feel normal again. Or if somewhen during this… ordeal, his heart would simply stop.
x
He felt close to catatonic by the time someone could spare a few minutes to inform them about what had happened.
"One of the nurses found him," they were being explained, "in the bathroom, unconscious. He didn't tell us much, apart from demanding us to call you, but we think he went to the toilet, collapsed and hit his head on the wash-bowl."
Head. Hit his head. No.
"The nurse who found him was able to wake him even before a doctor arrived, but the wound itself needed stitches, and we're doing a CT scan, to be sure…"
Mary's fingernails dug into John's palm, but he didn't care.
Stitches. Head.
"When can we see him?" he wanted to know.
x
He felt like experiencing a déjà vu, a terrible one, when he finally was permitted to see Sherlock.
Back in his old room after more than three hours. After another CT scan, a MRI scan and an EEG.
He didn't know what he should expect, but certainly not what he found.
Certainly not Sherlock being awake, resting against his pillows, unearthly pale with an IV line again, his eyelids drooping.
Alright, John had been assured, mild concussion, nothing else. No bleeding, no haemorrhage, no second fracture.
"He was awake, coherent, told us what happened," he remembered the doctor's words. "While we were doing the stitches, he started seizing, but it was over after sixteen seconds, and he came round only minutes later. He's on constant watch and absolute bed rest for at least twenty-four hours, but apparently, there was no major damage done. Just a mild concussion. It's close to a miracle, actually."
A miracle.
For once, John found himself speechless. So many things rushed through his head, hugging Sherlock, punching him, shouting at him, soothing him…
"Tell me what happened," he finally demanded, stopping in front of Sherlock's bed.
Sherlock blinked heavily. "John…," he began.
"No, not John," John corrected him, gritting his teeth. "Tell me what happened."
Sherlock turned his head sideways, the uninjured left side, only sporting the still visible scar, towards John.
"Sherlock," John urged, clenching his hands into fists. "Tell me."
His friend shifted a tiny bit, wincing. "Went to… loo," he mumbled, slowly. "Was dizzy an'… I couldn' go back, so I…"
"You fainted," John concluded. "And hit your head."
Sherlock still didn't look at him. "Fell," he corrected. "And hit my head. Then… fainted."
For a few moments, John could hear nothing except for the blood rushing in his ears.
"…stupid… 'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes.
John tensed his jaw. "You'd better be," he said darkly. "What were you even thinking when you went to the toilet on your own?"
Sherlock gave a slight sigh, frowning. "You… angry?"
Angry.
"Like hell I am," he choked out and was at Sherlock's side with two large steps. "I'm absolutely furious, and… and I'm… I'm just bloody relieved that you're… that you're OK."
Sherlock blinked at him while John took hold of his hand. "Never do that again," he growled.
His best friend flinched a tiny bit and then yawned. "Don' intend to," he mumbled.
Carefully, utterly carefully, John extended his free hand towards Sherlock's forehead to where a plaster had been taped, covering a laceration and the stitches. "I hope it hurts," he muttered, withdrawing his hand again. No reason to touch the swelling, to aggravate it further.
Sherlock shifted again. "No you don'," he whispered, his eyes closed.
"You look horrible," John said instead of an answer, only to continue with a soft smile. "No, I don't. Although you'd deserve it. Idiot."
Sherlock only smirked feebly.
x
When another doctor entered half an hour later, checking Sherlock's vitals and asking him questions about who he was, where he was, if he remembered… Mary came in with him, clearly relieved, too, sitting down on John's lap.
Sherlock nodded off for a bit, both in discomfort and exhausted, but woke before Mary fell asleep on John's lap.
"Go home," John told her. "Go to bed. I'll see you in the morning."
"You're rather comfortable," she muttered and snuggled close to him. "I'll stay, if you don't mind."
x
"'m sorry… that I woke you," Sherlock mumbled eventually, wrenching his eyes open.
John, lost in thought, flinched. "What," he responded distractedly, the doctor's words still haunting him. Images still haunting him. Close to a miracle… He had gone to the bathroom, shortly after Mary had curled up on the second chair in the room, had seen the blood on the wash-bowl - and had fully realised how much luck Sherlock had had. If he had hit the basin a tiny bit differently, from a different angle… maybe it would have cracked his skull again, or it would have caused another bleeding, and this time, it could have been too late…
"'m sorry," Sherlock repeated quietly. "'t'was fine on the toilet, but when I… wanted to go back… 'twas spinnin' and…"
Shaking his head, John forced himself to focus on Sherlock. "I'm still angry at you," he said sternly. "No matter how often you apologise. You could have died, Sherlock, again, and I…" His voice broke.
"An' yet you've come," Sherlock whispered, wincing again.
John would have boxed him if he hadn't been sure that it would hurt Sherlock. "Of course I've come. I just hope you're never giving me a call like this again."
Sherlock smirked feebly. "S'ry."
He remained silent for a few minutes, long enough for John to start believing that he had finally succumbed to sleep again.
"John," he suddenly said, tightening his grip on John's hand. "When can I… go home?"
Go home. For a moment, John didn't know if he should be angry or amused. "Not any time soon, I'm afraid," he answered. "Bed rest, that's what the doctor told me, because you have a mild concussion, suffered a seizure this night and collapsed on your way to the toilet since you were dizzy."
Sherlock tried to frown, failing due to his hurting laceration. "It wasn' a real seizure," he protested. "…been here long enough."
Long enough. Indeed, realisation hit John. More than one month. More than one month since… Meaning that he had spent more than thirty days in a row in the hospital. "Yes," he agreed, pursing his lips. "But don't try to convince me that you're fine. I'm not stupid, Sherlock. I can see that you're not."
Sherlock still didn't give up on the attempt to furrow his brow, causing him to wince.
"Stop it," John told him.
Sherlock shifted again, sighing. "How d'you know?"
This time, John chuckled. "I do have eyes. And ears. You don't complain, you sleep through the nights, you're not bored. This is the first time that you ever mentioned that you want to go home. You are absolutely knackered, and you allow me to hold your hand all the time. And I'm positively sure that fainting in the bathroom isn't exactly a sign for being fine. So, conclusion: You're not. And since I want you to get better, I will make sure that you do whatever the doctor tells you."
"What you tell me…," Sherlock slurred, closing his eyes. "You… doctor…"
Minutes later, John was surrounded by the soft and even breathing of the two people in the world he held most dear.
I borrowed the last line, I know. I'm not even sorry.
Thank you for reading. Reviews are always appreciated.
Oh, and by the way, this chapter was never intended to be a cliffhanger or an extra element of suspense, but rather serves as a catalyser for what's to follow.