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Not Meant to Be
29
John didn't want to let go. He absolutely didn't.
His shoulders were shaking in unison with Sherlock's, he assumed, but he didn't care.
It was supposed to feel awkward, probably, hugging his best friend tightly, practically holding him, it might even be inappropriate or nothing John Watson and Sherlock Holmes ever did, but this time, it was… it was different.
Because Sherlock needed him, right now, although he of course hadn't said so. John could see it, nonetheless, could hear it in his voice, uncertain and small, noticed it by the way Sherlock didn't resist but sagged against John, by the way he practically had collapsed until John hadn't been able to watch it any longer, until he had reached out and pulled Sherlock close.
And in that moment, when Sherlock had finally, after weeks, given in to his… to everything, John assumed, all of his feelings which had slumbered beneath the surface, which he had tried so hard all the time to control, when he had dropped the mask that had still been on his face, the entire time, never really letting on how much he was suffering, how insecure he was, how confused, when it all became to much… in that moment, John would have given anything, anything at all, to make it stop.
He had seen Sherlock comatose, had seen him in a state of utter confusion right after he had woken up, had watched him sleep or pass out numerous times, had watched him toss feverishly, had watched him faint and collapse, had watched him having an anxiety attack, had watched the doctors and nurses tend to him while he had been unconscious or sleeping. It had been frightening, and terrifying, all of it.
But this, this was… just as scary, somehow. Because this time, it wasn't Sherlock's body that betrayed him as it had done before, no, this time, John knew for sure, it was his mind.
It was Sherlock trying to process what had happened to him. Trying to cope. If even John found it difficult to understand, to bear, how then could Sherlock? Being the one to whom it had happened, not being his normal controlled self. Not yet.
And that was exactly why John had not wanted to tell Sherlock.
His shoulders stopped shaking eventually, but John did not deem it safe enough to let go of his best friend yet. Not for his own sake, tears stinging in his eyes, too. Because holding Sherlock was all he could do, in the end, to reassure himself that, despite everything, Sherlock was still OK, and to reassure Sherlock, at the same time, that he would be here. Always.
And so, he just held on.
x
It was Sherlock who disrupted the silence first, slowly raising his head from John's shoulder.
"John," he whispered, his voice raspy.
John took a deep breath. "Hm?" he made, unsure what to expect. Unsure if… if he wanted to release Sherlock yet.
"I…," Sherlock began, and John could feel him breathing. "I… I'm sorry, I don't know why…" He trailed off awkwardly.
No, it's…," John replied and slowly unwrapped his hands from Sherlock's back, put them on his shoulders instead, steadying him in a sitting position. It felt cold all of a sudden, without the warmth of Sherlock next to him.
Sherlock feebly grinned at him, lines of exhaustion around his eyes. "You shouldn' tell Mary," he mumbled flatly. "You and me… hugging…"
John squeezed his shoulders, biting back the urge to giggle, to giggle because everything… everything was too much, maybe. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I shouldn't laugh, it's just…"
Sherlock blinked and sagged forward, giving John an excuse for pulling him into another embrace. "'s fine," Sherlock murmured, his breath tickling John's neck. "John, I…" Breathing rather heavily, he managed to sit up again, staring intently at John, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy and bloodshot. "I… thank… you."
John locked his gaze on his best friend. "You're welcome, Sherlock," he replied hoarsely, barely trusting his own voice. "You're welcome, always. Always. No matter what."
Sherlock smiled feebly. "I know," he whispered before his head lolled towards John once more.
Without Sherlock prostesting, John helped him to lie down again, propped him up on three pillows and pulled the covers to his chest.
Pursing his lips for a moment, he then opened his mouth and asked calmly: "You OK?"
It was a weird question, considering what he had just witnessed, considering the near-breakdown Sherlock had just experienced, but… but he had to ask. Because Sherlock would understand.
Another weak grin, hollow and tired, but an echo of Sherlock's usual smirk, appeared on his pallid face. "Yes," he mumbled, and for John, it was enough.
He wasn't fine, probably not even remotely so, John could easily see that, was still trying to process what John had told him, trying to cope with it. But… a start. It was a start.
"OK," he replied quietly and gave Sherlock's hand a gentle squeeze.
John kept silent while Sherlock turned his head to the right side, towards him, just a tiny bit. "John?" he asked, almost carefully.
"Hm?" John replied, shifting a tiny bit on the mattress.
"I… how did Mycr… Mycroft know?" Sherlock whispered.
Fiddling with the IV line hanging from the drip stand, doing something to keep his second hand busy, too, John tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. "He had a video about… it. CCTV. He doesn't have it any more."
Sherlock sighed feebly. "You're lying," he muttered.
And nothing more. He didn't complain, didn't urge John to show him, to tell him more details, simply didn't.
John studied him in wonder. And caught the way Sherlock held his head, the way he narrowed his eyes, the way he was breathing. "Headache?" he asked quietly.
"Mh," Sherlock answered, his nostrils flaring.
Softly untangling his fingers, John got up, heading to the bathroom, only to be back seconds later.
"We… had to talk 'bout it," Sherlock mumbled when John had returned, placing a wet cloth on Sherlock's brow. "Even…tually."
Drawing his chair as close to the bed as possible, John sat down and nodded solemnly. "I know," he whispered, rubbing his stinging eyes. "I just… I was afraid you would… I didn't know how you were going to react, and I wanted to spare you the knowledge of… When I think about what they did to you, it… it makes me sick. And I wasn't there to help you. I wasn't…" John almost couldn't believe it, but his voice did in fact break again.
Seconds later, there was a soft touch to his hands, Sherlock's fingers.
"I'm sorry, John," he murmured.
John sniffled and attempted a smile. "It's fine now," he mumbled, rather stupidly. "It's OK."
Sherlock was quiet for a few minutes. "I knew," he began, breathing deeply, "I knew that something serious, really serious, had… to have… happened. You weren't… angry at me, not… at all, not… until yester… day, so it couldn' have… been my fault, and… and it had to… 've been serious, and probab…ly trauma… tic…"
John didn't know what to say, didn't think he could speak at all, if he tried. Not when there was a lump in his throat tall enough to prevent him from breathing.
"What…," Sherlock breathed, frowning a tiny bit. "Do you… know who…?"
Sucking in a large gasp, John stiffly shook his head. "Mycroft is looking for them," he rasped. "He'll find them, and they…" His voice broke.
"They… they just left you there," he choked out after a few minutes. "They shoved you, and then… then went away. Left you to die." He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand. "I swear, I could…" Taking another deep breath didn't help. "If I ever met them, I don't know what I'd do. Seriously."
Sherlock's eyes were unnaturally puffy as he directed his gaze at John, the look in them so… so frightened and insecure and vulnerable as John had never seen Sherlock before. And never wanted to see Sherlock again.
"John," his best friend croaked, his voice barely above a whisper, "do you think… do you think I… I will have a chance?"
John felt tears well up in his eyes, tears he didn't want. A chance? Of recovery. Of being the same again. Of living a normal life. No sugarcoating this time, no comforting soothing. Just the truth.
The truth.
"Yes," John finally answered and watched Sherlock exhale, his eyes fluttering shut for a split-second. The truth. Yes.
"Good," Sherlock mumbled, his lips quivering until they formed a frail smile. "Good."
Good. Yes.
In a weird, fascinating way John felt he had never been so close to Sherlock. Now, when Sherlock probably needed him the most, when he had been stripped of all his defences, when he finally had come to realise what an injury such as his meant.
"You will need time," John told him, trying to keep his voice neutral. "Time and a lot of exercising, probably, and you'll feel tired and exhausted for more weeks, maybe months…"
"I know," Sherlock replied.
"There might be some slight incapacitations, and there might be throwbacks," he continued quickly before he lost the courage to do so, "but… you'll improve. And recover. I know you, Sherlock. I know you will."
Sherlock smirked again. "What 'bout… crime scenes?" he wanted to know after a few minutes, his face blank.
Crime scenes. Consulting Detective. The job Sherlock was married to.
"After a while," John answered hesitantly, "probably. But not too early, and nothing too dangerous. And not without me," he added swiftly, softly nudging Sherlock's right arm. "Got to take care of you, hm?"
Sherlock moaned as he tried to turn to his right side, causing the cloth to slide from his forehead. "Never… with… out my… blogger," he mumbled.
John giggled.
"Maybe you should try to sleep," he suggested as soon as he had caught his breath. "It's six o'clock in the morning, and you received a concussion only about 24 hours ago. Rest for a bit." With his right hand, he put the cloth back to Sherlock's forehead, soaking the plaster.
"Dull," Sherlock mumbled. "Can' sleep. Headache."
Dull. How long had it been since John had last heard this word? He squeezed Sherlock's hand.
Vulnerable, the word occurred to John again as Sherlock wrenched his eyes open. "John…," he began in a husky voice. "Thank you… it's… I don' know what I'd… do without you…"
John was rather sure his cheeks were flushed in that moment. "Me neither," he whispered.
Sherlock's eyes closed. "Don' like it," he mumbled. "Bein' so… prone to… to… sentiment…"
Prone to sentiment. Only Sherlock could think of phrasing his way of coping, his initial distress - which was normal, so very normal… - like that.
It hurt, of course, it hurt John, too, and he never wanted, absolutely not, to see Sherlock cry again.
But then, it had to happen one day. He didn't even want to imagine the stress Sherlock had probably felt all the time, the confusion, the anger deep inside him, his fear, anxiety, insecurity. All those emotions he had not let on and that had finally burst out.
"You're not 'prone to sentiment'," John told him softly. "It's OK. It's OK. It's just… the shock talking, I s'ppose."
Sherlock chuckled flatly. "Mh," he made, sounding half-asleep by now.
"It's fine," John reassured him, squeezing his hand. "Sleep, OK? I'll be here when you wake."
But of course, Sherlock had to open his eyes once more. "John," he mumbled, returning the firm grip. "I want to go home."
x
John held his first promise and was still here when Sherlock woke again, when a doctor came in and asked him more questions which Sherlock answered perfectly, albeit still sleepily.
By that time, John himself felt as if he could barely watch straight and had to stifle the third yawn in a row when the doctor left.
Sherlock blinked at him. "Go home," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.
John shook his head. "I don't want to leave you alone," he said.
The hurt look returned to Sherlock's eyes for a split-second before he tried to roll his eyes, wincing as he did so. "'m fine," he mumbled. "Not going to do much ex…cept for sleeping. Go home, John, sleep."
John had to smile. "OK," he agreed. "I'll call Greg, and if he agrees to coming, I'll go." When Sherlock tried to open his mouth to protest, John cut him off. "No. Don't complain. I'll call him. You sleep and recover. I'll be back in the evening."
Only when Sherlock had fallen asleep, he got up and dialled Greg's number.
Lestrade's final words before he ended the call were: "On my way. Don't worry."
John doubted he could, but he could try, knowing that Sherlock was OK, that he was in good hands. In good hands.
Thank you for reading.