Oh dear God, thank you all. Still and always.
Enjoy.
Not Meant to Be
33
Sherlock insisted on getting up, despite his shaking and his apparent headache, as soon as they had reached the entrance, and even refused the crutches. John decided not to let him out of eyesight.
"You'll take Mrs Hudson home?" John asked Lestrade, who nodded.
The old lady hugged Sherlock again, once more tears in her eyes, and once more the vehemence of her embrace, as John could clearly see, almost knocked him off his feet. She whispered something, sobbing at the same time, but it was too quiet for John to understand.
Greg, having handed the bag to Mary, appeared for a moment as if he was about to formally shake Sherlock's hand, but then decided otherwise, awkwardly patting his shoulder instead. "I'll call you, alright?" he said to Sherlock, grinning, before staring at John for a moment. "Call me if you need anything."
He heard Sherlock take a deep breath when the hospital doors opened and Mrs Hudson and Greg left.
Sherlock's eyes were closed, his face white, but he seemed… fine. Not really, but… it had been a good decision, John realised, of Mary to bring his coat, to give it back to him. And although John could not get rid of the memory of the blood stain on the collar, Sherlock's blood, drenching his beloved coat, even colouring his scarf, it was…
"John?" Mary's voice reached him, but he did not react. Blood. Blood seeping from Sherlock's head, his nose, his ears… No.
Shaking his head vehemently, he attempted a smile. "Fine," he mumbled, returning his gaze to his best friend, and, for a second, felt the sudden urge to grin.
Sherlock looked ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. His trousers, his shirt, his shoes, yes, all of it dangling around his emaciated frame, combined with John's jumper and Sherlock's own scarf and coat.
Ridiculous, and at the same time John felt the familiar pang of worry in his heart. Better to settle on ridiculous, he decided, because the alternative was… sick.
"Do we have a cap or anything…," he mumbled, looking at Mary. "I don't want him to catch anything."
Mary shook her head, simultaneously with Sherlock opening his eyes. "I'm here, …too, in case you… haven't noticed," he muttered, rubbing his shaky hand over his forehead.
John ignored him.
Nonetheless, he appeared positively exasperated when John insisted on buttoning the coat. "It's cold," John tried to defend himself.
Sherlock barely let out a breath. "I'm not… going to… to fall over with the first… breeze," he mumbled flatly, his exhaustion showing in his face, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
John nodded curtly. "Wouldn't let you," he replied darkly. "You're sure about walking?"
Sherlock gave a tiny nod. "Absolutely," he whispered.
For a moment, everybody was silent.
"What are… we waitin' for," Sherlock finally mumbled, blinking.
John was just about to open his mouth when Mary nudged him, poiting towards Mycroft, entering. "John. Mrs Watson. Brother dear." Tipping his umbrella on the floor, his face portrayed a perfectly composed smile. "The car is ready."
Mary grimaced at John without Mycroft noticing and John barely had the chance to fight back a chuckle.
Sherlock was the one to interrupt the tense silence. "Can we leave, then," he muttered wearily.
"There is an unexpected amount of journalists outside," Mycroft remarked, playfully twisting his umbrella around.
Sherlock made a step forward. "So what," he muttered. "Can we just… leave?"
Exchanging a quick glance with Mary, John nodded. "Alright then. Let's go."
The relief in Sherlock's tired sigh was unmistakable.
x
John did his best to shield Sherlock from the journalists, from the photographers waiting outside, from the people shouldn't be here at all, of whom John did not understand why they were here, from the questions being fired at them, shield him with his body and with his raised arm, his other arm supporting his best friend.
And yet, the few steps to the car Mycroft had thankfully sent for them seemed to take ages, seemed to consist of miles.
"What happened?"
"Why…"
"Who did this…"
"How come…"
Quickly, but nonetheless carefully, John ushered Sherlock inside, climbed in the car after his best friend, Mycroft closing the door and walking towards the passenger seat, while Mary gave the travelling bag to the driver and then followed.
"Should've brought… the hat," Sherlock mumbled, his head tipping to his right side, in his customary coat and his baggy clothes, his skin competing with the colour of his shirt.
For a moment, John was lacking words, then both he and Sherlock flinched as the door was closed by the driver, rather loudly, and finally, the car started moving.
It felt weird, sitting in a car, Sherlock sandwiched between him and Mary, Mycroft in the passenger seat, it felt… John would have loved to say something, anything, to disrupt the silence, to ask if Sherlock was alright, to chat with Mary, but could not think of anything. Not with the driver here, not with Mycroft, silent as a statue. And, as he realised belatedly, not with Sherlock, his eyes closed, breathing evenly.
Mary simply smiled at him.
x
It seemed to take longer than usual until the car pulled up in front of their flat.
"We are here," Mycroft stated, unnecessarily.
Mary cleared her throat, exchanging another glance with John in the dimly lit car. "I'll get the bag, shall I?" she asked and got up, opening the door.
Slowly, John extended a hand towards Sherlock's shoulder, a perfectly steady hand. "Sherlock," he whispered, almost too quietly. "Sherlock, wake up."
Wake up. Again.
"John," Sherlock mumbled without opening his eyes. "…here?"
"Yes," John simply answered, attempting to unfasten Sherlock's seat belt. "Can you get up?"
"'course," was the almost immediate reply. "Wasn' really asleep…"
John tried to hide his smile. "Yeah, thought so," he muttered under his breath and grabbed Sherlock's right arm, carefully guiding him out of the car. Tired, of course, and exhausted, and still recovering. "Come on now," he encouraged his best friend. "Let's get you inside."
"Doctor Watson," Mycroft addressed him again, causing him to turn his head. "I trust you will continue to take good care of my brother?"
To John's surprise, it was Sherlock who answered, who answered before he himself had even had the chance to open his mouth.
"Seriously, Myc… roft," he mumbled. "You're getting… slow. Try to… think next time… will you?"
Mycroft narrowed his eyes and for a moment, John thought to notice a pleased smile on his barely illuminated features. "Very well," he said. "Good night, then."
x
"I'm not sleepin' in your bed," was the next thing Sherlock said, seated on the edge of precisely that bed, glaring daggers at John and Mary.
For a moment, John didn't know what to reply whereas Mary simply chuckled. "I'm flattered, Sherlock," she told him.
"Sherlock…," John began, biting back a sigh.
His best friend simply shook his head, pressing his eyes shut. "No," he said. "I'm not."
John closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. "Well," he answered, carefully composed. "Where else do you want to sleep, then?"
Sherlock tried - and failed - to stifle a yawn. "Sofa," he mumbled.
John snorted. "Sofa? Sherlock, I'm not letting you sleep on the sofa, not with your head injury and your concussion and…"
"'m fine," Sherlock mumbled, rubbing his eyes, probably without even noticing it. "The sofa won'…"
"John, let him sleep there," Mary interrupted him. "If he wants to."
For a moment, John thought he had misheard her words. "What!" he exclaimed. "Mary, that's…"
"You stay here," Mary told Sherlock whose eyes shot open at once. "I'll prepare the sofa for you, and you're going to sleep there, OK?"
Grinning faintly, Sherlock nodded.
"Come on, John," Mary encouraged him. "Would you please help me?"
"Mary…," he tried to protest, noticing how Sherlock slumped a tiny bit.
"John," his wife replied and took his hand, almost pulling him out of the room.
"What…," he began as soon as she had closed the door, but she silenced him with a kiss. "Don't worry," she mumbled. "Go back in in five minutes, and he'll be asleep. He won't even notice it."
Once more, John couldn't believe it. "Why didn't I think of that?" he mumbled. "Mary, you're…"
"I know," she replied with a grin. "I'll get you a pillow. I'm afraid that you'll have to sleep on the sofa tonight."
x
Mary had been right, John found out as he entered their bedroom not even five minutes later, only to discover that Sherlock had indeed nodded off, snoring softly. Mary followed seconds later, smiling. "You see?" she said. "Although I have to admit that it's weird to have Sherlock sleep in our bed."
John simply watched his sleeping best friend for a few seconds before he felt Mary's hand in his. "Yes," he confirmed, feeling a smile tuck on his lips. "Yes, it is. And yet… it's… it's fine."
"I know," she whispered into his ear, only to make two steps forward directly afterwards. "Shouldn't we… make sure he's comfortable, elevate his head and cover him with a blanket?" she wanted to know.
John needed a moment to swallow back the lump in his throat, to blink his eyes dry. "Yes," he croaked. "Yes, we should."
He had said 'we', but somehow, he could only stand there and watch as Mary carefully managed to stuff another two pillows behind Sherlock's back and head, as she rested his left arm more neatly against his body, as she spread her duvet and an additional blanket over him. "He won't be too happy about sleeping in his clothes," she whispered, softly tracing her fingers over the barely concealed scar on his scalp.
Blinking did not help any more. "Mary," he mumbled, too choked to produce a louder noise.
She turned her head, leaving her fingertips on Sherlock's head. "Hm?" she made.
For a heartbeat, John did not know what to say. How to express his relief, his happiness, his worry, his love, his gratefulness, his hopefulness. How to express anything. "Thank you," he whispered, closing his eyes for a moment.
When he reopened them, Mary was standing in front of him, looking at him, studying him. "He'll be alright, you know," she mumbled softly.
Alright. John simply nodded. "I know. I know."
She kissed him tenderly. "I'll be waiting for you on the sofa," she told him and then, after a reassuring smile, exited the room.
For a few minutes, John simply stood there, in his own bedroom, watching his best friend slumber peacefully in his and his wife's bed. Alright, Mary had said. Alright.
"Thank you, too," he murmured, bending down to Sherlock. "Thank you."
Alright. In his eyes, Sherlock looked still so… so vulnerable, so weary, so exhausted. It would never be the same, their relationship, it could not, not after what they had gone through. John doubted he would ever be able to stop worrying about Sherlock now - if he ever had been -, would ever be able to forget the images burnt into his head, into his eyes, would ever be able to feel anything else but the deepest gratitude for him still being there when he looked at Sherlock, for his best friend still being alive.
Alive. And alright.
Pressing an almost hasty kiss to Sherlock's left temple, he got up, rubbed his watery eyes, and muttered another hoarse "Thank you, Sherlock."
x
Minutes later, he was snuggled close to Mary on the sofa - or the other way round -, breathing in her scent.
Alright. Everything would be alright. Finally. "Thank you," he repeated.
Mary rested her templed against his chin.
"I love you so much, you know," he whispered, his voice still hoarse, his throat still raw.
"I know," she replied gently.
For the first time in ages, John felt completely relaxed. Completely, being optimistic, being hopeful that everything would indeed be fine.
Until Mary disrupted his thoughts, turning her head a little and looking right into his eyes. "John," she muttered quietly. "There's something I need to tell you."
Because I adore Mycroft. And bromance. I'm not sorry.
One more chapter to go, by the way. And I'm pretty sure there was something else I wanted to say, but... being me, I forgot, only seconds before actually writing it. Well then.
And now the more important things... Thank you for reading so far. Really.