I am terribly sorry for the rather long wait - I had not intended it that way. Unfortunately, moving, as I have found out, requires quite a lot of time and attention...
Nonetheless, here's the next part, and I hope you'll enjoy it.
Oh, and to the anonymous reviewer who asked about how many chapters... I don't know exactly, not yet. Five plus an epilogue, maybe?
Not Meant to Be
27
The night was to become a restless one for John.
For John and, of course, for Sherlock, who, in contrast to Mary slumbering soundly, woke every few minutes, every time he, in his sleep, tried to turn his head to the right side, the side on which he had formerly been able to sleep on painlessly. Formerly.
Once per hour, a doctor came in, shaking Sherock awake, regardlessly if he had fallen asleep only minutes earlier, finally having found a position he was comfortable in, asking him the same questions over and over.
Whereas John appreciated this measure of precaution and knew it to be reasonable, he almost flinched at how hoarse Sherlock's voice sounded after the fifth time, and how sluggish his movements and his answers - his correct answers, though - were. Side-effect of medication and exhaustion, the doctor reassured him, not of the concussion.
Mary left in the early morning, heading for home and then for work, despite the rather uncomfortable night, but John stayed. Of course.
Later that morning, Sherlock finally fell asleep, exhausted, still pale, with dark smudges beneath his eyes.
He slept through most of the day, not entirely peaceful and still disturbed every two hours by a doctor, but at least he slept.
x
"Why do… does he have to ask… the same questions over… and over again," Sherlock muttered flatly after the doctor had left once more, moving his head on the pillow in order to find a comfortable position. "'s stu… stupid."
"He's just trying to make sure you remember everything that happened, that there are no further complications," John told him, restraining his head gently and putting a soft pillow to his right side, to rest on.
"Thank… you," Sherlock murmured, sighing. "But why… why so stupid?" he complained.
John sat back in his chair and rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to ask you who was stupid and stubborn enough to walk to the toilet on their own and managed to faint there," he replied, trying to focus on his magazine.
Sherlock was silent for so long that John already started believing he had fallen asleep - or worse -, a sense of worry making him lower his magazine. "Sherlock?" he inquired.
He was staring at the ceiling, his brow furrowed as much as his headache would allow it.
"Didn' do it on purpose," he mumbled, his expression forcefully neutral.
All of a sudden, John felt a pang of guilt. "I know," he muttered while his throat narrowed considerably. "I know. It's just…"
"I can't even… go… to the… toilet… myself," Sherlock went on, his voice sounding bitter. "I'm…"
"No," John cut him off, leaning forward. "Don't say anything." Don't, he added in his thoughts. You're not weak, you're not useless, you're not a freak. Don't even think that. "You're just… your injury was serious, and you just need time to recover," was what he settled on.
Sherlock didn't move as John fumbled for his hand and squeezed it.
John kept holding his hand until Sherlock had fallen asleep once more.
x
"Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, 6th… of January, Cons… Consulting Detec… tive. Fell in the bath… room, hit… head. Con… cussion. Headache. No… nausea," Sherlock rattled off as soon as the doctor had opened his mouth.
John tried to hide his smile behind his magazine whereas the doctor appeared mildly shocked.
"Um… well," he finally managed. "I… er… Thank… you."
Shooting John a confused glance, he left again, and finally John was allowed to chuckle.
"What," Sherlock mumbled, suddenly sounding much more tired than minutes ago.
Giving up on his magazine once again, John took in Sherlock's appearance, the bruise around the plaster, the way he tensed his entire face, the way his eyes narrowed. "Your headache's worse?" he wanted to know.
"Mh," Sherlock only made, blinking.
John took a deep breath. "Do you want more medication?" he asked softly.
After a few moments, his nostrils flaring, Sherlock feebly shook his head. "Makes me… fuzzy. No."
"Alright," John muttered, leaning back again. "Just… tell me when you feel worse, OK?"
"Mh," Sherlock repeated.
x
"John."
John jerked awake, only now realising that he had in fact nodded off, in broad day-light, almost falling from his chair. "Hm?" he croaked, worried at once. "What's wrong?"
Sherlock looked, if possible with his bleary and red-rimmed eyes, the bruising and his pallidness, exasperated. "Toilet," he mumbled. "Need your help."
Pursing his lips knowingly, John shook his head. "No," he said. "Bed rest, remember? No getting up. I'm calling a nurse."
"John…," Sherlock tried again in a small voice.
"No," John repeated. "Bed rest. I'm not letting you hop around only twelve hours after you sustained a concussion. Sorry, Sherlock."
Grudgingly, Sherlock had to accept the bottle the nurse brought.
x
John called Mary when Sherlock nodded off once more, telling her that he wasn't likely to be home before late in the night, depending on how well Sherlock did, and being told that Mary, due to having to work longer, wouldn't be able to come to the hospital today. He didn't like it, of course, but neither did he like the thought of Sherlock being alone, having stupid ideas such as going to the toilet by himself again or walking around, just because he didn't see any point in bed rest.
Mary chuckled softly when he told her. "Might it be possible that you're mollycoddling him?," she teased him. "And now go back to your patient and make sure he doesn't even sneeze in your absence, and tell him to behave and get better. I love you."
Although John knew that her words hadn't been serious, not entirely, and although he knew that maybe, just maybe, he indeed was becoming a tiny bit over-protective of Sherlock, he couldn't help it. Not now, not yet.
Unfortunately, he was proven right when Sherlock experienced a short episode of vomiting in the evening, dry heaving, mostly, since Sherlock hadn't ingested anything for the past twenty hours.
"Dis… gusting," Sherlock forced out as soon as he was able to draw breath again, sagging a tiny bit in John's grip.
"Do you think you can lie down?" he wanted to know, and when Sherlock nodded curtly, holding his breath, John carefully lowered him back to the pillows and took the bowl to the bathroom, emptying it and cleaning it rudimentarily.
"OK now?" he inquired when he came back, placing the bowl next to the bed in case it might be needed again. Vomiting. Again. And sweating and trembling from exertion.
"Mh," Sherlock only made non-committally, wincing.
"Alright?" John wanted to know.
Sherlock held his breath for a moment, a habit John really didn't like. Holding his breath when he was in pain was… counterproductive. "Breathe," he ordered.
Sherlock managed a shaky inhale and then whispered: "Head's… killing me."
Headache. Bloody persistent headache. "Try to sleep for a bit," John suggested, doing his best not to sound too worried. "I know you're tired, and…"
"Can't," Sherlock interrupted him, wincing again. "Head…"
Taking in Sherlock's right eye, slowly turning a deeply purplish shade, John stifled a sigh. "Try to," he repeated. "I could… I could read Greg's files to you, if you want me to."
"Mh," Sherlock mumbled, shifting slowly.
Once John had found the case files, had sat down again and had grabbed Sherlock's right hand, he slowly started reading.
x
Even to John's own surprise, Sherlock fell asleep rather quickly, looking utterly miserable.
Well, sleep would do him good. John sat in his chair, setting the piles of paper aside, and subconsciously started stroking the back of Sherlock's now limp hand, massaging his own aching temples with his other hand - and simply watched his friend sleep.
Unfortunately, not even one hour later, the doctor's visit was due, and Sherlock was woken again, staring around blearily for a moment before his eyes started to focus.
Dutifully, albeit hoarsely and grumpily, he answered the same questions again, an almost annoyed expression on his face.
"Why's he always asking… the same questions?" he wanted to know, rubbing his forehead.
"To check if you remember," John told him for the second time, stifling a yawn.
Sherlock huffed. "I do. Perfectly."
His friend was silent for a while.
"John," Sherlock finally addressed him.
John didn't like how his voice sounded. As if he was up to something. Leaning forward, he raised his eyebrows. "What?"
Cringing, Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow. "There's something we… have to… talk… 'bout."
And then, John knew what was coming. "No," he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"John," Sherlock said again, looking at John, his voice deep. "Tell me what happened."
Tell me what happened. No.
Sherlock tried to stare at him, his attempt weakened by the fact that he not too softly collapsed back to the pillows, too exhausted to remain upright, trembling already from the exertion. "You know what happened to me," he said, rather breathlessly. "You know, and I… don't remember, and… I have a right to know. John, please."
John, please.
Images flashing through his brain, images of Sherlock… "No," he whispered. "Not now."
"Why not," Sherlock whispered, moaning, his finger twitching.
John gripped his hand.
Inhaling deeply, he stared at his fingers entwined with Sherlock's rather than at his best friend himself. "Because it's in the middle of the night, and because you are supposed to be resting and sleeping!" he exclaimed.
"'m not stupid, John," his friend mumbled. "I know that my brain doesn't work properly, and that there was a haem… hae… blood… bleeding in my skull, that I was comatose for days, but I don't. Know. Why. Why, John, why…"
John gritted his teeth, looking anywhere, but not at Sherlock. Not at Sherlock.
"John." Ironically, Sherlock's voice sounded more steady than it had in weeks. "Please. Tell me. What happened to me?"
When John finally raised his gaze to meet Sherlock's, he saw his friend grimacing, either in pain or anguish. Or both.
He took in Sherlock's appearance, the bruise, his paleness, the sudden determination on his face. His exhaustion. Pressed his eyes shut, started counting inside of his head. Then moved his hand, his fingers, untangled them from Sherlock's grip, resting them on his right wrist instead and pressed two fingers to his pulse point.
And told him.
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