Thank you all so much. I hope I will be able to answer all of your remaining questions in what is still to come.
And now... Going home. Finally, eh?
Enjoy.
Not Meant to Be
32
Final examination, John had said. Examinations, rather.
Sherlock had already been tired when John had slowly accompanied him to the doctor, and now, he was… drained. Shattered. Fatigued, to put it eloquently.
How many more things was that man going to ask, going to do, going to test, he wondered dully. And everything with John waiting outside.
He had been answering questions, had been walking, had had the scar on his scalp inspected, had had blood samples drawn, the wound on his forehead inspected, several plasters changed, had answered more questions, had been examined thorougly, including an ultra sound scan, an EEG as well as ECG, had been touched by the man's sticky fingers multiple times, probing his skull and his forehead and his abdomen, had been helped by a nurse to remove his T-shirt and to put it back on again, had to step onto scales, the nurse noting down his weight with a displeased look on her face, had coughed when the doctors had told him to, had had a cold stethoscope pressed to his upper body and a light shone into his eyes. Now he was shivering, barely managing to suppress a yawn, and wanted nothing more than to leave, to leave this all behind, to get up and walk away and never come back.
Patience, a voice that sounded suspiciously like John's reminded him. Patience. Not long now.
"Well, Mr Holmes…," one of the doctors began slowly while all Sherlock could think in spite of his exhaustion was: married, bound to get a divorce, divorce, divorce…
He flinched when the door closed - he had not even noticed that it had been opened - and John came in, striding towards him, limping slightly, his face tense and his hands balled into fists. Had been sitting a long time, then, outside, waiting… Worried.
Stop, Sherlock thought, dimly becoming aware of his accelerating breathing.
"You OK?" John mouthed quietly, and Sherlock managed a nod as John took a seat in the chair next to Sherlock's.
Talking. A lot of talking, Sherlock realised. And then he could go home. To John and Mary's, at least. Closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, he attempted not to fall asleep.
x
"I don't like it," John muttered while they were walking back to Sherlock's room. His soon to be former room.
Sherlock let out the breath he had been holding and concentrated on his legs. On his shaking legs. "You… heard them," he muttered.
Heard them, the doctors. Examining, scanning him. Again. Over and over again. Discharge, yes. But it would not be over, seeing a doctor, needing help, being weak and sleepy and… not yet.
The bag of prescription medication John was carrying for Sherlock was proof of that. Medication he needed to keep his transport functioning, to keep it working. Weak.
"Yes," John confirmed, waving wildly with the bag and almost spilling its contents. "Yes, I heard them. I heard that they claim you're perfectly healthy when I can see even without examining you that you're not. Sherlock, your blood pressure…"
"Out of every… thing, you remem… ber my blood… pressure?" he muttered.
As if to emphasise John's words, Sherlock felt dizzy for a moment, dizzy enough to stop and hold his breath.
John's hand had appeared on his arm when he could see clearly again, steadying him. "See what I mean?" he asked darkly.
Sherlock chose not to respond but to start walking again. "After-effects," he mumbled. "Traumatic brain injury. Common."
John caught up with him. "Yes, but not that strongly, and not that long. Your blood pressure was down to 85 over 55 this morning, and still low at 96 over 72 a few minutes ago. Children tend to have a blood pressure so low, not you, Sherlock. It's not normal."
Not normal. Nothing felt normal, yes, and yet, Sherlock couldn't do anything against that. Neither could John.
"I am fine," he said, and it turned out a tiny bit sharper than he had intended. He stopped. John walked on.
Stupid. Mycroft's words echoed in his head again. Do not…
"John!" he called. "John! I'm…"
Stupid. So stupid. Pushing John away. Not going to happen. More hastily than before, he scrambled forward, tried to hurry. "…sorry," he choked out, breathless.
John froze and slowly, very slowly, turned around. "Fine," he said.
Sherlock closed his eyes and, for a moment, felt the dizziness creep back, as well as embarrassment, shame. Fear. No. Not now. "…know you… worry 'bout me…," he slurred. "I… it's… I know…"
"See what I mean?" John's voice reached him from directly in front of him, and when Sherlock opened his eyes, John was there.
For a second, John's eyes bored into his before John blinked and sighed. "I'm your friend, you know."
Sherlock attempted a smile and another step towards his room, towards the bed. "I know."
x
When John woke him from his nap, his unintentional nap, Sherlock needed a few minutes to fully come round and to clear his vision.
"'s't time?" he slurred, slowly becoming aware of the silhouettes around the bed. Mary. Mrs Hudson.
John's smile, he could easily see that, appeared forced. Forced. Deduce, Sherlock, deduce. Think. Worried. Concerned. Afraid.
"Don'…," he began, cutting himself off, feeling silly.
John stared at him for a second before his lips started to quiver. "Don't what? Don't worry? How could I not?"
Sherlock joined in in John's grin. "Always," he whispered hoarsely.
John hesitated a moment, a moment in which he searched for Sherlock's hand, staring darkly at the plaster taped to its back. "Ready to leave?" he wanted to know.
Closing his eyes, Sherlock's grin deepened. "Ready when you are," he mumbled.
x
It was surprisingly difficult to get up with Mrs Hudson fussing about him and with his legs still feeling unsteady.
"Clothes…," he finally murmured, keeping a firm hold on John's arm. "I need… can't… where?"
It was Mary who answered: "We thought you'd say that," she replied. "That is why Mrs Hudson and I have been to 221B and retrieved some of your clothes for you."
Picking up a bag from the floor, she smiled at him while Mrs Hudson patted his shoulder and was clinging to his other arm.
For a second, Sherlock feared that his legs would simply give out on him. "That's…," he began, clutching John even more firmly. "Thank… you."
"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson chirped and continued her patting. "You'll be fine now, and when you're home, I'll make you your favourtite food and…"
Sherlock only nodded.
"Bathroom?" John wanted to know, taking the bag from Mary.
Bathroom. "I can change…," Sherlock began, but was cut off by John. "Yes, absolutely. I'm coming nonetheless."
x
Sherlock did not exactly like it, but, truth to be told, it was necessary that John was here. He managed to struggle his way out of his T-shirt, sitting on the toilet seat, and into a new white shirt, but had trouble with buttoning it, his fingers trembling.
With an exasperated sigh, he let his head loll back and John do it.
Trousers were even more difficult, and Sherlock knew, without John's help, without his steadying presence and after a long and tiring day, he would not have succeeded, would probably have ended up on the floor, half-way out of his pyjama trousers.
"Lean on me," John told him while Sherlock tried to pull on the pair Mary had brought for him. "I said, lean on me."
Finally, finally, they succeeded, and John was kind enough to fasten them around Sherlock's hip.
"Didn'… Mary… look up my… size," he panted, blinking heavily, as he stared at the trousers being much too large for him.
John grimly shook his head. "That's one of your old pairs, Sherlock. You lost weight."
Lost weight. For a moment, Sherlock was stunned and, he assumed, paling, going by John's temporarily terrified look and the tightening of his grip. "Lost…," he whispered, trying to process the information. He didn't want to ask, didn't want to show his surprise, but the words came out nonetheless, smaller than he had intended them to. "So… so much?"
This time, John nodded, equally grimly. "Yes," he confirmed, and for a second, Sherlock wondered if John was going to pull him into an embrace. Maybe it was good that he already was sitting down, because otherwise, he wouldn't have been too sure if he had been able to maintain his balance in this moment.
"Oh," he simply mouthed.
John nodded for a second time. "Yes, oh."
A second of silence passed. "You OK?" John then wanted to know. "Today must have been exhausting, and I saw the plaster on your arm where the doctor draw the blood samples… Dizzy? Anything?"
Still confusingly dazed, Sherlock attempted a headshake. "No…," he mumbled. Weight. Lost weight. So much. With a sudden and shocking clarity realisation hit him that, being weakened as it was, it came as no surprise that his tranport was no longer reliable.
"Sherlock?"
Focusing on John's voice, he returned to reality. Shirt, trousers, socks. "Do I… have shoes?" he asked, feeling stupid.
Slowly and rather clumsily, he tied one shoe's laces himself, letting John take care of the other one.
Finally, he worked his arms into his jacket, aware of the sore spot near the crook of his elbow where the doctor had indeed drawn the blood. Too large, too, he realised belatedly, as was his shirt. Fascinating. And… scaring.
"We'll go back to your room, and I will get you something to eat - which you will eat -, and then we're ready to leave."
Allowing John to softly pull him to his feet, he nodded distractedly. "Aren't there… formali… ties?" he wanted to know. "Paper… work?"
John opened the bathroom door. "Mycroft has taken care of everything," he explained.
x
John left to get something to eat as soon as he had seated Sherlock on the bed, once more fussed about by Mrs Hudson.
"You look charming, dear," she told him. "Too thin, but Mary and I are going to fix that, aren't we?" She tutted softly. "One can't expect you to sustain a healthy weight on hospital food."
All of a sudden, she threw her arms around his neck so violently she would almost have pushed him off the bed. "I'm so glad you're finally better, dear," she sobbed, and Sherlock did not know what to respond. "Thank… you," he eventually settled on, completely caught off guard when she continued sobbing. "Oh, Sherlock…"
"Mrs Hudson," he replied, utterly clueless. Resting one of his arms around her shoulders, steadying himself with the other one, he finally attempted to soothe her. "It's, er… it's alright, Mrs Hudson. Alright."
"Yes," she choked out. "Yes, alright." Loosening her grip around him, she got up and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "I'm… sorry, I just…"
Sherlock still didn't know what to do when she left the room, continuing her crying.
"I…," he began, shooting Mary a glance.
"You had her worried, you know," she said, blinking rapidly herself.
Once more, Sherlock found himself bereft of words. "I…," he muttered again.
Mary got up from her chair and came to sit next to him instead, without any physical contact, unlike Mrs Hudson. "Tell me the truth," she demanded. "I know you always put up a brave face for John, but you can tell me. I promise I won't say anything to him. How are you really feeling?"
Put up a brave face… "I don't…," he mumbled, then stopped. Did he? Maybe. Because John deserved better than to worry all the time. Deserved better. "Why would you care?" he wanted to know, not understanding.
Mary simply stared at him, seriously. "Because I do," she answered. "Because you're my friend, too."
Sherlock's tongue seemed too heavy to move when he swallowed dryly, dryly, and finally opened his mouth to say something.
x
Before he had finished the risotto-like thing John had brought, before he had even eaten half of it, Lestrade stormed into the room, grinning widely as soon as he noticed Sherlock. "Ready to leave?" he asked.
"Perfectly," Sherlock mumbled, dipping the fork into the food.
John was too busy trying to get Lestrade's attention to notice it and scold him for it.
"There are two or three journalists outside," Lestrade told John once he had succeeded in having his attention.
Sherlock noticed John flinch and realised he was startled enough to not even notice that Sherlock put his plate away. Mary shot him a stern look, but Sherlock decided to ignore it.
"Still?" John wanted to know, and when Lestrade nodded, Sherlock suddenly realised how much had to have happened outside, that the world outside had gone on, throughout all the time he had spent inside here, in this hospital. The thought made his vision swim for a moment.
"Has Mycroft sent a car yet?" John asked next, and, as abruptly as before, Sherlock began to wonder how precisely they had been planning his discharge.
When Lestrade shook his head, John sighed. "Well then," he mumbled, not looking at Sherlock. "We're ready, then, I think."
Sudden relief overwhelming him, Sherlock nodded whole-heartedly.
x
He was already standing, on wobbly legs, when suddenly another bag appeared from somewhere and Mary handed him, smiling widely, his familiar blue scarf and his coat. His coat. The woollen fabric beneath his fingertips… It almost felt too good to be real.
But of course, John had to insist on a jumper, helping Sherlock to pull it over his head, saying: "It's cold outside, Sherlock, and it's late already. You need to be warm."
Putting his scarf around his neck was something he had not done in… had not done in a very long time, and it… it was… good.
"Thank you," he told Mary quietly when she returned, having fetched a wheelchair.
"Ready?" John asked him, his voice worried, as soon as he had put on his coat, the coat Mary had retrieved from God knew where. What happened normally to the clothes of people being admitted to a hospital? Sherlock didn't know.
"Yes," he replied, allowing John to support him to the wheelchair, assisting him until he was sitting down. Hospital protocol, he had been informed earlier that day.
John stared at him for a moment, stared at his throat, rather, and turned, as Sherlock noticed with worry, a shade paler before reaching out and turning his collar up.
"Better," he mumbled and gripped the handles of the wheelchair.
Sherlock closed his eyes while Lestrade was carrying the travelling bag containing his clothes and Mary and Mrs Hudson left the room already. John. He knew what John had believed to see, the expression on his face betraying him. Or he thought he knew. John had remembered, had remembered the blood colouring his skin and coat and the sidewalk, had remembered the night of his… accident.
And had done what Sherlock had used to do, what John had, a tiny bit annoyed, called "mysterious" and "cool" once. And maybe, just maybe, Sherlock's brain would not stop thinking, John had turned his collar up because it made him look like himself again, like the man he had used to be.
"John?" he mumbled, quietly enough for nobody else to hear. "Thank you."
Thank you for reading.
So - what did you think? I'm curious.