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Enjoy.

Not Meant to Be

30

When Sherlock was shaken awake by some doctor and answered all of the questions he was being asked, trying to make sense of them and trying to keep his eyes open, he wondered why he wasn't alone.

There was someone, someone…

Not John, obviously, hopefully because John… John should be at home, sleeping, resting. Mycroft's words, Sherlock realised, had left a deeper impression than he first had assumed.

But no, not John. Different.

What had John said before he had fallen asleep? What…

"Hey," a raspy voice said. "You OK?"

Sherlock's brain caught up with his surroundings. "L'str'd," he mumbled, sounding awfully sleepy to his own ears.

The man sitting on a chair, bending towards him, started grinning. "Yeah," he replied. "You sure you're OK? John told me about a 'little accident' of yours, as he put it, and asked me if I could come and watch over…"

Sherlock closed his eyes when Lestrade awkwardly cut himself off. Watch over… He was fine, really, he was. No need for John to worry.

"…been here long?," he finally succeeded in mumbling, tiredness and the knowledge of what John had told him and of what had happened crushing down on him.

Lestrade needed a few seconds until he answered. "What? Oh, yeah, few hours. John called me, and I said, yeah, why not, so… I'm here now."

Carefully and with limbs that felt too heavy to move Sherlock tried to turn on his side.

"The doctor's always asking you those questions?" Lestrade wanted to know in a low voice.

"Mh," Sherlock confirmed, exhaling. "To make sure I'm… I can remember."

It had not been a good idea to talk through the night, in retrospect, but then, all of the things John and he had talked about had to come to the surface eventually. Why not now, why not in that night. He could sleep, nobody would be offended. "J'hn's… home?" he slurred, feeling barely half-awake by now.

John had to be at home, had to find some rest, together with his wife…

"Yep," Lestrade answered, his voice looming above Sherlock. "He's headed home, to get some sleep. He'll be back in the evening."

Back in the evening… "Good," was all Sherlock could think of.

x

It was not a pleasant experience to be woken up every few hours, to answer the same dull and unintelligible questions over and over again.

When the doctor left this time, however, Sherlock felt a tiny bit more lucid, a tiny bit more coherent, and for the first time he wondered why Lestrade was here.

"There was no… need for you to come," he choked out while slowly forcing himself into a sitting position.

The look Lestrade gave him was definitely unconvinced. "John apparently didn't think so," he answered. "What… er, what exactly happened to your head? There, I mean," he concluded, gesturing towards Sherlock's forehead.

Instinctively, he raised his hand towards the plaster and then pressed it against his temple. His headache was very persistent, unfortunately. "Didn't you listen?" he mumbled. "I told the doctor. Fell. Hit my head."

"Hit your head where?" Lestrade wanted to know.

Sherlock could not prevent a tired sigh. "'m not one of your suspects," he muttered, aware of how flat his voice sounded. "Didn't John tell you?"

Lestrade crossed his arms in front of his chest. "John wasn't exactly talkative. Said you had a kind of accident, that he didn't want to leave you alone for too long, asked if I could come over, and then told me rather many things you're not supposed to do."

Sherlock was Aware that his face had probably turned a slightly pink shade, blushing inevitably at the mentioning of… 'didn't want to leave you alone for too long'. "'m not a child," he murmured, distracting himself with fiddling with the IV line. How long was it to be in place? The needle was itching already, and…

"No disconnecting of the IV, he said, and no walking around," Lestrade interrupted his thoughts. "So, stop that."

Closing his eyes to try to block out the thumping in his head, Sherlock did. "Fine," he muttered, resting his aching head back. "Hit my head on the wash-bowl. Fell 'cause… was dizzy. Pleased now?"

He was sure he flinched when Lestrade answered after a few moments. "No. And maybe you should stop talking. You look as if you're about to pass out."

When Sherlock wrenched his eyes open, the room was spinning around him. Without any further protesting, he as carefully as possible slid further down, embracing the warmth of the covers. "'m fine," he slurred nonetheless.

"John told me that, too," Lestrade's voice reached him from an increasing distance. "You… er… you know you… just … sleep… don't… mind…"

x

The next thing Sherlock became aware of was that the mattress was moving. Or he was moving on the mattress.

"…rlock."

Moving. A grip on his shoulder. Shaking him.

"Sherl…"

No, he thought. Leave me in peace.

His eyes finally opened after another round of nauseating shaking and of the duvet being pulled down. He moaned and blinked into Lestrade's face, appearing… uncomfortable, his hand letting go of his shoulder immediately. "You're… awake," he stated stupidly.

Sherlock attempted to roll his eyes, half-open only. "Obvious…ly," he breathed, failing to stifle a yawn. "Why did you…"

Lestrade shifted on his heels, kneeling directly in front of Sherlock's face. "A nurse was here, told me you're due to a CT scan in thirty minutes." He hesitated for a bit. "It's routine, isn't it?"

CT scan. Again. Sherlock remembered the night after… before… the night he had hit his head. Remembered all those examinations and scans and tests. Goosebumps formed on his arms. CT scans. Lying in that… tube again, nothing above him but the ceiling trying to crush him, to shatter him, nurse chatting mindlessly, the cold everywhere, the questions, the prodding…

When Lestrade addressed him with a worried sounding "Sherlock?" and reached out for his shoulder again, Sherlock became aware that even Lestrade had realised that something was wrong.

"You OK? Shall I call someone? Shall I… er, call John?"

CT scan.

Clenching his hands into fists and trying to breathe deeply, thinking of John, Sherlock shook his head, just to prove he could, despite the spinning. "No," he lied. "It's fine."

x

It was stupid, Sherlock tried to tell himself on the way back, to be scared of something like that, something so completely harmless, but he could not help it. The CT scan had left him shaken, without sedation to get through the period of time being locked in a tube, without any knowledge if his brain was turning on him, if there was bleeding again, if he…

Emotion, he noticed distantly, emotion and sentiment were getting the better of him. Prone to sentiment, indeed, as he had told John. Or, as John had put it, the shock talking.

As Lestrade pushed the wheelchair downs the narrow corridors, Sherlock felt frustration well up inside him. The same corridors, the same people, the same examinations. It made him sick. Sick. Especially without John.

Closing his eyes and imagining to be somewhere else was all he could do.

x

He wasn't woken by the voices, they rather found their way into his dream.

Voices he knew, Lestrade, of course, still here, Mary, and John.

"…been asleep ever since you left," Lestrade was saying at the moment. "Didn't expect you to be back so early, by the way."

"Well, er…," John's voice began.

"He couldn't sleep," Mary interrupted him. "So we decided we could as well keep you company."

There was a brief pause before John spoke up once more: "They did another scan, you said?"

No words, so Lestrade had to have nodded.

Even in his half-stupor, too drowsy to wake up properly, Sherlock could hear the tension in John's voice when he went on: "And? Was it… OK?"

Was it OK. Even Sherlock did not know the answer. Automatically, he held his breath.

"Sherlock?" John asked, worry in his voice, resting a hand on his.

Exhale, his brain commanded. Then inhale. He did.

"All fine, the doctor said," Lestrade answered John. "You know, I didn't understand half of what she was talking about, but… he seems to be fine."

Sherlock could hear John let out a huff. "Good, er… that's good," he mumbled, and his hand disappeared again.

It was interesting to listen, to listen to them talking about him, Sherlock had to admit, and it was also a relief that he was OK. Or that he would. Suddenly, his body appeared far more relaxed and prone to sleep. Sleep…

"…gave me quite a scare when you called…," Lestrade's voice. "…looks worse than when he was on drugs… normal… sleeping?"

And John, answering: "Yeah. … exhausted… long night…"

The smell of Mary's perfume.

"…tried to wake him… limp and… be alright?" Lestrade again.

And finally, John's answer. Positive. Giving Sherlock hope. And prompting him to give in to sleep.

x

When Sherlock woke again in the evening, he found, to his surprise, that he was hungry. Hungry.

Lestrade was still here, snoring in one of the chairs, as well as Mary and John.

"Evening," he said in a raspy voice and suddenly realised how dry his throat was.

Mary directed a smile at him, and even John's frown lines seemed to lighten a tiny bit. "Hey, Sherlock," he said. "Slept enough?"

"Mh," he mumbled, rubbing his temple. It still hurt. Fascinating, wasn't it? "What 'bout you?"

Mary chuckled.

John's smile was genuine, Sherlock could tell. "I'm still tired, but it's OK." Then his face grew serious once more. "Do you need anything?"

Sherlock curved his lips into a smile and nodded. "Dinner?"

x

By the time he had eaten half of the pasta John had retrieved for him from the cafeteria, Lestrade had woken up, John was watching him in wonder and Mary with a knowing look on her face. Sherlock himself felt like falling asleep right away again and… and, oddly enough, close to comfortable.

He only noticed that his eyelids had started drooping - and that his body was betraying him once more - when John took the plate and the fork from his limp hands and Lestrade announced to be off.

"See you soon, Sherlock," were his words before closing the door behind him, and Sherlock found himself nodding, although only Mary and John could see him now.

For a moment, a tiny bit of awkward silence spread in the room.

Finally, Mary got up, still smiling. "I'll take back the plate," she announced, and, grabbing it from John, left, too.

Now, with John alone in one room, for the first time since… since he had lost control, Sherlock did not know what to do.

"I…," he began awkwardly, clearing his throat.

There was a firm grip on his hands once more, John's hands around his, John providing warmth and safety.

"Yes," was all he said.

Sherlock raised his gaze to meet John's, and he understood. Or wanted to understand. "You…," he muttered, cutting himself off.

"Yes," John repeated, a smile spreading on his face.

For a moment, the dizziness returned, sending everything blurring around him. It felt… good.

"Home?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

John blinked heavily, as if to shove tears away. "Home, you idiot," he mumbled while he pulled Sherlock into another bone-crushing embrace.

Thank you for reading. As always, I'm looking forward to your comments.