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I stare numbly at the doctor, not entirely believing what he just said. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?
The doctor gives us a sympathetic look, obviously used to having to repeat himself with news like this and clears his throat. “Sherlock has Dialated Cardiomyopathy and it is already pretty advanced. Such a shame it was mis-diagnosed as a stomach problem.” He says, shaking his head.
My heart sinks. I had told Sherlock for months that something wasn’t right. As a doctor I know the signs of gastroenteritis and I was certain it could not be that, but Sherlock hadn’t listened to me. He can be annoyingly stubborn when he wants to be. I wish now I had insisted he got a second opinion, though I never could have imagined in my wildest dreams what was actually wrong with him. I glance over at Sherlock to find him staring blankly at a poster of the inner structure of the human heart. He’s been usually quiet. God only knows how he is coping with the news.
“How did it happen?” I ask. My medical speciality is not cardiology and I don’t really understand the more complicated diseases that can affect the heart.
“I believe your husband mentioned he had bad tonsillitis around Easter. Well, while it is rare, it is possible for the virus to spread to the heart muscle, weakening it enough to cause Myocarditis which then developed into the Cardiomyopathy.” The doctor explains quietly, his voice gentle. He knows I am a fellow medical professional and I am grateful he does not try to sugar coat anything, instead settling for the hard, cold facts of the case.
Swallowing hard I mentally prepare myself for the question I have to ask next. I don’t want to ask it, but I have to know the answer. “What happens next?” I ask, reaching over to take Sherlock’s hand and squeezing it tightly.
A frown furrows the doctor’s brow. “He’ll need a transplant, so the next thing is to put him on the list for a donor organ,” He pauses and leans back in his chair with a sigh, “Then it’s just a case of waiting.”
“Oh” I say quietly, finding myself at a complete loss for words. What on earth do you say to something like that?
“And I would like to admit him to hospital. There’s a number of treatments and medicines we can use to give Sherlock more time.” The doctor continues, reaching for the forms we will need to sign to say we agree with this course of action.
Sherlock’s hand in mine begins to shake, the first sign he is struggling to process the news, and I glance over to find his face has completely drained of colour. “How long? Until the illness kills me?” He asks, his voice faintly strangled.
I flinch, appalled at how he can just come out and say it. I would definitely have phrased it a little differently, maybe made it sound a little less harsh, a little less final. “Sherlock, please. You can’t think like that.”
For a moment I swear I see fear in the familiar blue eyes I have come to love, but then it disappears before I can be sure I even saw it. “I’m just trying to be practical.” He says before turning his attention back to the doctor, “well, how long have I got?”
A sad look settles upon the doctor’s face and I can’t help but wonder how many people have sat here before us to receive the same news. Any further thoughts are swept away by what the doctor says next, leaving a hollow emptiness where the words “six months” echo endlessly, seeming to get louder with every repetition. Until now I hadn’t realised just how dire the situation really was.
A shocked silence greets the doctor’s announcement as Sherlock and I both struggle to process it. Noticing this the doctor stands, gives us a sad little smile and heads for the door. “I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes to give you time to discuss it.” He says, closing the door quietly behind him.
The instant it clicks shut I bury my head in my hands and begin to cry. “Why the hell didn’t you listen to me you idiot? Now you’ve gone and given yourself heart disease.” I half shout in a burst of irrational anger. Even when I say it out loud none of it sounds true.
Arms wrap tightly around me as Sherlock folds me in a hug. “It’s going to be okay, John. Everything will be fine.” He says in a voice that shakes uncontrollably. Towards the end of his speech his voice breaks and I glance up to find tears running silently down his face. “I’m sorry. I know I should have listened to you.”
I should be pleased hearing Sherlock say that but all I feel is an overwelming sadness. Neither of us speak another word and all we do is hold each other tightly, both of us aware our world is crumbling around us. One thing is certain our lives will never be the same again.
* * * *
A week after Sherlock is admitted to the hospital Greg comes to visit, knocking quietly on the door of the private room. He had been utterly shocked when he heard the news and wanted to visit the same day. Sherlock and I however had needed to be left alone to try and process the impossible. Even now a week later, we are both still reeling from the news. Never-the-less I am incredibly grateful to see a friendly face.
“Greg!” I cry, leaping up from my chair and shaking his hand a little too enthusiastically. “How have you been?”
Greg doesn’t answer for a moment and I realise he is staring over my shoulder at Sherlock. Seeing him for the first time in his current state is a little shocking. He has gone rapidly downhill and his arms are stick thin and his skin is pale, the Cardiomyopathy preventing his heart from working properly as the illness snaps his energy. It is horribly apparent time is beginning to run out. All he does anymore is sleep.
“Oh, I’m fine.” Greg says, reaching out to grip my shoulder tightly. I really don’t know what I would have done without his wonderful support. “How have you been, John?” He asks, his voice soft.
I don’t reply for a moment and instead gesture for him to sit down in the room’s only chair. He does so and I perch on the edge of the bed beside Sherlock. His skin is cold to the touch when I entwine my fingers with his, but that doesn’t stop him from giving me a weak smile. “I’ve been better if I’m being honest, but I’m coping. I never realised hospitals could be so boring.”
Before Greg can answer there is a knock at the door, and it swings open to reveal Mycroft standing in the corridor outside. He looks a little uncertain, as though he would like nothing better than to run away. I’m a little surprised to see him. As far as I knew he was supposed to be out of the country this weekend.
“I came as soon as I could.” Mycroft says as he steps into the room. He doesn’t look quite so polished as he usually does and the crumpled state of his suit hints that he may have slept in it. His eyes slowly take in the room. When he notices Sherlock for the first time he tenses, and his mouth falls open. “Oh, brother mine,” He murmurs, his eyes shining with tears he is struggling to keep at bay. It is a little unsettling to see him not carefully in control and I have no idea how to react. All I can do is move aside as Mycroft walks slowly to Sherlock’s side, kneels down and hugs him tightly. It is an incredibly private moment and I find myself looking away, not wanting to intrude. Greg and I exchange a look.
“Fancy a coffee?” He asks me.
I nod and the two of us quietly leave the two brothers to it. I am not the only one affected by Sherlock’s illness.
* * * *
After what feels like forever, but in reality is only a few months later, a nurse comes bustling into Sherlock’s hospital room at three in the morning with the news we have been waiting for. A suitable heart has finally been found!
My heart hammers wildly as I leap up from the fold away camp bed I have been sleeping on and run round to turn on the light. Since the incident last week when his heart momentarily stopped I have been too afraid to leave his side. I needed to be beside him no matter what happens just in case the worst should happen.
By now Sherlock is always pale and cold and, despite the warm summer weather, he can not stop shivering. Though the doctors haven’t said it out loud I know the situation is getting desperate. This heart from some kind unknown stranger will literally be a life saver. If only more people would join the organ donation more people could be saved.
The nurse and a medical team quickly spring in action and, before too long, Sherlock’s bed is being wheeled down corridors. I keep pace with him, constantly taking small glances down at Sherlock’s face. His expression is blank, and his eyes are staring at the ceiling as though he is struggling to understand what is going on. I reach down and grip his hand tightly. “Its going to be alright.”
It feels so strange to be the family of a patient rather than a doctor and I never realised how helpless you feel when all you can do is sit around and wait.
We reach a set of doors which swing open to reveal the anaesthetic room beyond. That is as far as I can do; Sherlock will carry on into the operating theatre alone. My hands begin to shake, making it difficult for me to put on the blue fabric overshoes and matching plastic apron. I can’t believe this is actually happening….. Oh god, Sherlock is actually about to have a heart transplant.
A wave of faintness sweeps over me and for a moment the world swims around me. No. I have to keep it together for Sherlock. I have to be able to put on a brave face when I walk into that room and join my husband. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself and push open the door.
Sherlock is still lying on the bed, though now there is a cannula in his arm and the anaesthetist is standing by to put him under. Slowly I made my way towards him and take his hand, gazing down at his surprisingly peaceful face. He gives me a shaky smile. “This is really happening isn’t it?” He asks softly.
I lean down and brush my lips against his forehead. “It is.” I agree quietly, feeling tears beginning to choke me. The anaesthetist looks down and picks up a syringe, fixing it to the needle in Sherlock’s arm before slowly depressing the plunger. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” Sherlock murmurs as his eyes glaze over and his hand goes limp in mine.
I have time for another brief kiss before Sherlock is wheeled through into the theatre. All I can do now is sit and wait.
* * * *
The transplant takes almost seven and a half hours and I am unable to sit still the entire time. It is horrible not knowing what is happening and in desperation I find myself praying he’ll be okay. I am not a religious person, but it seems the most appropriate action considering the circumstances.
Finally, after what feels like forever, the main cardiologist in charge of Sherlock’s case enters the waiting room and makes a beeline for me. My heart skips a beat as I leap to my feet and immediately start babbling questions. “How is he? How did it go? Can I see him?”
The cardiologist looks weary but still manages to give me a smile. “The operation went well, and I have high hopes for his recovery. He should be fine.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I can take you to him now if you want.”
My heart pounds in my chest as I follow him through to the CICU. ‘Please, please let him be okay’, I think as he opens the door to Sherlock’s room. I barely make it two steps before I burst into tears at the sight of Sherlock. He is pink and no longer looks like a skeleton. I collapse into the chair beside the bed and reach for his hand, being careful not to disturb the tubes and wires surrounding him. Once I feel a little more in control I look round at the cardiologist to find him watching me with a gentle smile on his face. “Thankyou.” I say, my voice still a little shaky.
“It’s okay, its what we do.” He says, grabbing Sherlock’s chart to check something, “We’re planning to keep him under for a few more days to give his body more chance to recover from the operation. Then we’ll try to wake him up.” He puts the chart back and walks towards the door, “If you need anything just press the nurse call button.” He says before leaving Sherlock and I alone.
I know he isn’t out of the woods just yet, but I have the feeling everything is going to be alright. The worst part is definitely over now. It just goes to show that even in the darkest of moments, when your world falls down around you, you should never give up hope. Things aren’t always as hopeless as they seem.