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Enjoy.
Not Meant to Be
31
"You've told him?" Mary asked John in the cab they took back to their flat.
He nodded, curling his hand around her. "I…," he began.
Mary only smiled. "Don't do that now," she whispered. "It is the right decision. He wants to leave hospital, and if it's his wish, then it will help him. It's the right decision."
John could only hope that she was right, that it would not be too early. That it would do Sherlock good and no harm.
x
He slept poorly this night.
He saw Sherlock, Sherlock suffering another seizure, Sherlock worsening as soon as he was out of hospital, developing an infection and another one and a third one… until John did not see any other possibilty than to admit him again, hoping, praying. Praying.
It did not help, however, because in his dream, Sherlock died, for real this time, died and simply stopped… three days later. Although John was distantly aware it was a dream, nothing more, panic seized his heart nonetheless, panic why he was having such a dream, why now, if Sherlock was alright…
He did not wake up, simply didn't, not even when he was attending the funeral, when he was staring at his best friend's pale and still face, slack and motionless, and the tie around his neck. Ties. Sherlock was not supposed to wear ties, John noticed, wasn't supposed…
"Sherlock!"
Even his own scream did not wake him, and for a split-second, just a terrifying split-second, John wondered if - maybe - this was real.
Real.
"SHERLOCK!"
"JOHN!"
It was Mary, lying by his side, who held him and shook him, and finally, with a last panicked gasp, John's eyes shot open, projecting the image of Sherlock in a coffin into their dark bedroom.
"John…," she whispered, stroking his sweat soaked hair.
Nightmare. Nightmare. Again.
"Mary," John panted. "'m sorry. Sorry. It's OK. Dream."
She nudged him in the ribs. "I know it was a dream," she whispered, still caressing him. "Your first scream woke me, after all."
Her warmth disappeared all of sudden when she left, the cold reminding John painfully of the images and of his body covered in cold sweat.
Sitting down on the bed, Mary handed him a glass of water and grabbed his hand while he was drinking,
"Better?" she wanted to know.
John managed a curt nod.
Mary took the empty glass from him and curled up against his side. "Sherlock?" she whispered.
John only nodded again.
He flinched when Mary spoke up once more. "Do you want me to call hospital?"
To check if Sherlock was OK, that he was OK, to hear his voice… and to wake him, in the middle of the night, at two o'clock. "No," he choked out. "Fine."
x
Then the second nightmare in this night happened, and after John had been shaken awake by Mary for the second time, she did not hesitate any longer, but picked up her mobile and dialled.
A few minutes later, she handed it to John, who was greeted by a familiar, so very familiar voice.
"John?" Sherlock mumbled sleepily. "Wha's wrong?"
John let out a breath he had not been aware that he had been holding. "Nothing," he choked out. "It's all fine."
Sherlock was silent for a moment. "You had another nightmare," he then remarked.
John's hand was still trembling, he realised disconcertedly. "Yes," he confirmed.
"About me."
"Yes."
"And you…"
"Yes."
Again, Sherlock fell silent.
"Listen, I'm sorry I woke you because of this stupid…," John began, but was cut off by his best friend. "No, it's… fine. It's… I… you're welcome."
When John ended the call and fell asleep again, he did so with a smile on his face.
x
Had John known how difficult the days until Sherlock's final discharge would be, had he known how many more examinations his friend would have to go through, how much therapy - maybe he would have changed his mind.
Sherlock agreed, to John's surprise, to speech therapy, additional to the physical exercising he was doing, and after the first session, he complained about its stupidity and uselessness, muttering: "How will… slurring… 'lalalala' help me?"
John decided to ignore him in this matter, figuring that explaining to him that it only had been his first session, that of course they had needed to find out how incapacitated his speech really was, would be of no use, and instead focused on the CT scans some doctor had given to him.
Two more CT scans were done in the course of this week, the first one leaving Sherlock utterly shaken, to John's horror, and the second including sedation, according to Sherlock's explicit wish.
John knew Sherlock did not exactly like being oblivious and unconscious - nor did he himself -, did not like being sedated, but suffering a second anxiety attack in the tube was not beneficial, either, so John did not protest.
As most of the times since he had woken up from his coma, Sherlock's body did not take the anaesthetic well, the sedation leaving him miserable and nauseous and weak for the rest of the afternoon. Without a large round of throwing up, to John's immense relief.
The scans themselves were fine. Fine. John could not really believe it, could not believe that there should be no visible cause for Sherlock's headache or his still occurring dizziness, or for his previous seizures - which had, thank God, not happened again.
"Then what is wrong with him?" he demanded in front of the doctor when an MRI scan and an EEG came back alright, too.
"After-effects of craniotomy…," he was told. "Likely to subside… will pass… nothing serious…"
Unfortunately, it did feel serious to John.
"Leave it," even Sherlock said. "It's OK, I can cope with it."
John only shook his head and continued pacing in Sherlock's room. "No, it's not OK! And I can't cope with the fact that I never know when you're going to faint or throw up because of your head!"
After that, Sherlock was silent.
x
No matter what, Sherlock insisted on walking everywhere now, on attempting to walk, besides therapy, crutches or John supporting his balance. John could not exactly say that he was pleased with Sherlock's idea when he watched what little colour had been there drain from Sherlock's face, but surprisingly enough, to John's astonishment, it went well, and he did in fact improve, improved enough to be able to walk to the cafeteria without stopping and without near-collapsing into a chair afterwards.
It was still painful, and exhausting, John could easily see that, but he also knew that one day, if he ever wanted to live a normal life again, Sherlock would have to start working hard. And he did.
He always slept through the nights now, too knackered to stay awake, even when he had a headache.
John didn't know how exactly it was possible, but two days after he had first mentioned the possibility of discharge in a conversation with one of the doctors, leaving hospital not only was a future prospect, but a certainty rather, the only question being: when. He strongly suspected - and Sherlock agreed with him - that this was partly Mycroft's doing, but it was… fine.
"Have you… told… Mrs Hudson yet?" Sherlock once asked rather breathlessly while clutching his crutches.
John, his eyes fixed on each of Sherlock's movements, shook his head. "Mary'll talk to her," he answered. "When she's getting your clothes."
Sherlock stopped. "Getting my…" For a moment, he looked confused. "Oh."
Oh. For a moment, John felt a pang of guilt for not telling Sherlock explicitly before. "You'll need help, Sherlock, in the first time, and… no, don't try to argue with me. You know it's true. And even if it wasn't, I wouldn't let you live alone right away."
Slowly, Sherlock resumed his walking. "And so you've… decided it's… easier if I move… in with you than… the other way… round."
John nodded and followed his friend. "Yes."
Sherlock's face did not betray anything. "Tell… Mary to bring my violin… too."
Closing his eyes for a short moment, John smiled.
x
Friday, they were told eventually, Friday should be the day of Sherlock's discharge.
On Friday morning, Sherlock's room was overflowing with visitors, Mrs Hudson, cheerful and worried at the same time, Greg, beaming, Molly, who had stopped by before work, Mycroft, neat and proper as always, Mary, sitting quietly in a chair and smiling, and of course John.
While Mrs Hudson kept chatting, Greg and Molly were engaged in a conversation about something and Mycroft studied John for no apparent reason which John tried to ignore, he found himself seizing the opportunity to scan Sherlock once more.
The bruising around his eye was still visible, greenish now, the plaster to his temple had been renewed this morning, after the stitches had been pulled, his hair was still too short, especially on the left side of his skill, barely covering the scar from craniotomy, but, funnily enough, already curling a tiny bit.
He appeared tense, and, after those past weeks, John could tell that the amount of people around him made him uncomfortable, made him feel uneasy.
But just when John attempted to open his mouth to politely beg them to leave for today, he caught Sherlock's gaze and a barely perceivable headshake. No, then. After a questioning look and another headshake, John let it be.
One final examination, he realised, this afternoon, and then… and then home.
Mary's and his flat.
Home.
Finally, after so many long weeks. After not knowing whether Sherlock would ever be able to leave the hospital.
Home.
Thank you for reading.