Work Text:
“Harry, I think you need to get here as soon as possible.”
XXX
Six days earlier:
“Can you please hand me the paracetamol, Sherlock?”
Sherlock frowned before reaching into the medicine cabinet next to where he was brushing his teeth in his morning ablutions, to hand John the small container.
“This is your third headache strong enough to warrant paracetamol. You don't use it unless you absolutely need it, which means that there were other headaches that weren't severe enough to need assistance. This is a 40% rise in the amount of headaches that you usually...”
John cut him off. “Sherlock, it's been rather stressful at work. We've been short staffed at the clinic, and then we had that case that took almost a week to solve on top of that. I'm tired. I'll be fine. I'm a doctor, I know these things.”
John swallowed the pills dry, slammed the container down on the edge of the sink, and stalked out of the loo, back towards their bedroom. “I'm gonna be late for work.” he grumbled, a lame excuse to leave the situation.
XXX
Nothing was said about the incident for a few days. By the time John got home, it had been forgotten, or at least in typical English male fashion, it had been packed away in a closet, never to be reopened.
Life went by normally at 221B Baker Street.
Until the time that it didn't.
XXX
Sherlock was nose deep in his microscope when he heard the stairs creaking. He knew by the sound and pressure of the steps that it was John. He glanced quickly at his watch. It was only half six- too early for John to be off work, he had a late shift today.
“John?” Immediately Sherlock was up and out of his seat, reaching the doorway to the stairs at the same time as John, almost bumping into him.
One look sent Sherlock's heart racing, and his stomach plummeting.
John was pale, his skin sallow and lax. His eyes were puffy and almost looked bruised because of the dark bags under them. He looked like he could barely hold himself up, he was slumped forward, his shoulder bag hanging dangerously close to falling off.
“They sent me home. I think I caught a bug. Don't get too close, Sher-”
Sherlock snatched John's right arm and slung it around his shoulder, making the bag fall to the ground with a thud.
“Sherlock, my laptop's in there!” John exclaimed looking down at the heap of canvas to his side.
“You need to be in bed, John.” Sherlock's tone brooked no argument. It was a tone that he so rarely ever took with John, and he knew that would get the doctor's attention.
Instead, it just raise his ire.
John jerked his arm away from Sherlock and glowered at the man. “I'm fine, Sherlock.” He said, though his voice sounded like anything but.
“John, please.” Sherlock's voice went from firm to almost pleading- another tone that John rarely heard from the man.
“No, Sherlock. I'm going to go to go take a nice hot shower. Afterwards, I'm going to make sure my computer didn't break- if it did you are buying me a new one- and then I'm going to do some work. I have some paperwork I can finish from home, and it won't require me doing anything more strenuous than sitting down and typing.”
Sherlock knew that Captain Watson voice, and he put threw his hands up in the air. “Fine.” He spat, angrily closing and tying his robe tight about his body. “I won't bother you then.” He stalked off into the kitchen and immediately lost himself studying the microscopic bacteria that were under his microscope.
As he worked, he couldn't help but keep an ear out for John. He listened to the water as it turned on, and then about five minutes later turned back off again. He heard the door to the loo open and felt the hot puff of air as the steam from his shower dissipated into the rest of the flat. Bare feet slapped harder than necessary on the floor towards the living room.
And then, silence.
If he had been anyone else other than Sherlock Holmes, trained to see and observe, and hear, he might have missed to soft thumping noise that came from the living room a moment later.
But to Sherlock, it might as well have been a gunshot.
He rocketed out of his chair so fast that it fell behind him, but he ignored it. It felt like a lifetime before he was able to make it the few steps from the kitchen into the living room.
And what he saw chilled him to his core.
John was on the ground, on his side, in an almost fetal position. An unearthly groan left his lips. His face and skin were red and flushed, and he was shaking, twitching, and groaning. Sherlock didn't have to be a genius to know what this was- a Tonic-Clonic, or grand mal seizure.
Immediately Sherlock rushed to John's side. His mind went white for a moment, all thoughts cleared out of his head as he watched the man he loves convulsing on the floor beside him. His heart raced, he could feel the sweat on his brow.
A small noise from John immediately threw Sherlock back into the present, and he snapped to. He quickly took stock of the situation. John was on his side, he was safe there. There was thankfully nothing close by that he could injure himself if his muscles spasmed. He looked at his watch, knowing that it was important to time the seizure. He could approximate that John's seizure had started 15-20 seconds before he arrived in the living room.
There was nothing to do but wait.
The time ticked by glacially slow, every moment sent another pang of dread through Sherlock's breast. John had no chronic medical conditions, for his age he was in good health and shape because of his fairly active lifestyle- between working at a constantly busy clinic and chasing criminals through the streets of London.
One minute ticked by, then two, then three. The moment his watch passed the fourth minute, Sherlock was on his phone dialing 999.
“I need an ambulance to 221B Baker Street, the upstairs flat. My...” He paused for a moment. “My husband is having a Tonic-Clonic seizure. It's lasted approximately four minutes and ten seconds.” He looked down at John, who was starting to still, though some of his muscles were sill spasming. His husband appeared to be staring out into deep space, his dark blue eyes vacant. “It looks like it may be ending. He's in relatively good health, and has never had a seizure before.”
It was agonizing, waiting for the ambulance. John's seizure had totally ended by the time Sherlock was off the phone. Since he was already on his side, it took little effort to move the doctor into the recovery position. John was silent, his eyes still vacant and glassy. Sherlock got up and turned the lights off, because he was sure that the man had a headache, and was most likely very light sensitive. That did seem to make John relax his posture infinitesimally.
“John. It's alright. I am here.” Sherlock gently ran his hands through John's hair and whispered softly to him- whether he understood or not he wasn't sure, nor did he really care. There was something seriously wrong with the man he loved, and he would move heaven and earth to find out what.
A small pang of ache hit him- he wished that he still had Mycroft to pull the strings behind the scenes to make something happen. His death had been sudden- a heart attack- Sherlock was sure it had been from the stress of work, and his long hours.
Two years gone, and Sherlock still missed him every day.
He was not going to lose John.
He just couldn't.
XXX
The ride to hospital was agonizing. Thankfully, there had been very little argument about Sherlock riding in the ambulance with John. A quick show of their matching wedding rings and a few glowering looks and a deduction or two ended that brief conversation.
When they had reached the hospital, he was told that he had to stay in the waiting room and a doctor would come out to speak with him when John had been stabilized and more was known about his condition. Sherlock watched helplessly as his husband, the man that he loved, was wheeled away to an unknown fate.
Afternoon shifted towards evening. Sherlock watched the sun start to dip into the sky, painting the world in a bath of fiery reds and oranges. People came and went in the waiting room, ebbing and flowing like an ocean. Sherlock sat there and deduced them, because he had nothing better to do. A man with a few months left to live, a kid with a broken arm because he'd try to sneak out to see his boyfriend, a little girl who was trying to get a transplant to save her life. The faces blurred into one indeterminate mass- life and death mixing and swirling together in an endless dance.
Even if Mycroft had still been around, there was nothing that The British Goverment could have done- he still would have had to wait in the interminable waiting room, pacing back and forth with his long legged stride like a tiger in a cage. It had been tough losing both him and Mrs Hudson- A broken hip at her age was often fatal- within a year of each other had been a tough blow for them, but they had made it through. Mrs. Hudson had left the entirety of 221 Baker Street to them, but they hadn't done anything with her flat, preferring to keep it as a bit of a shrine. They didn't actually need the space.
“Mr. Holmes?” A strong, low voice made Sherlock turn towards the sound- married, two kids, seeing one of the nurses on the side-
“Yes?” All of his senses were on high alert, his chest tight.
“Come with me, please.”
Sherlock broke. If the doctor couldn't talk to him out here, it was bad.
VERY bad.
“Mr. Holmes, my name is Doctor James Morgan. I'm Mr. Watson's..”
“Doctor Watson.” Sherlock corrected.
Doctor Morgan frowned at the interruption, but corrected himself. “Doctor Watson's primary physician.” He reached out to shake Sherlock's hand, but when it was obvious that he wasn't going to take it, he frowned again, put his arm down, and continued.
“Please, have a seat.” He said, taking his own seat behind his desk. The room was small, cluttered with bookshelves full of medical texts, various diplomas on the wall, and random charts of different systems of the body- the brain, the pituitary system, the lymphatic system, and others, some partially hidden by a full size adult male skeleton hanging from a metal rod in the corner.
“I'm fine.” Sherlock snapped, anxious to just get to the point.
“Alright.” Doctor Morgan replied, watching the nervous man as he paced as best as he could in the small office.
“I won't sugar coat things, Mr. Holmes. We have been running extensive tests on Mr...er.. Doctor Watson.” Sherlock glared at the almost mistake, but kept quiet, resuming his pacing.
“He has a large lesion on the frontal lobe. We were able to do a small surgery to do a biopsy of the tumor. It is Glioblastoma multiforme. It's the most common and most deadly type of malignant brain tumors.” He took a breath and continued. “It is very unusual for this size lesion to grow so quickly without additional previous symptoms. According to what you told the paramedics, he had been having headaches and had been showing some fatigue and slight personality changes. I believe you meantioned that he had become short with you on several occasions.”
He looked to Sherlock for confirmation, but the man had stopped dead in his tracks, mid-step. He was staring straight at the doctor, unblinking.
Sherlock couldn't speak, couldn't move. His whole word had shattered in four words- ' I t is Glioblastoma multiforme '. John was going to die.
John was going to DIE .
“Mr. Holmes.” Doctor Morgan softly cleared his throat. “I am terribly sorry that I have to give you this information. Because of the location, the tumor is, unfortunately, inoperable. Doctor Krell, our Oncologist, has put him on a rather aggressive chemotherapy regiment. Normally, with this type of cancer, the survival time is less than 15 months. But his cancer is quite far gone, and it has, as is common with this type of tumor, metastasized and spread to the surrounding tissues.”
Sherlock felt like his legs were jelly, like he was going to collapse into a heap on the floor, a mass of tissues. He was close enough to the chair that the doctor had directed him towards to lean on it for support. It was the only thing that was keeping him upright.
“H-how.... long...” He managed to stammer out, surprised that he could even get those words past his lips.
“I'd says weeks, a month at the most.” Doctor Morgan replied, his voice low and sad. If they had been talking about anything else, Sherlock would have ripped into him for trying to sound sincere when telling someone that the love of his life was about to die soon. How dare he try to sound like he understood what Sherlock was feeling, what he was going through?
The surprisingly sharp spike of anger faded after a moment. The doctor was only doing his job, and Sherlock understood that there was no easy way to break this kind of news to another person.
“I want to see him.” I need to see him, I have to watch him breathe, see those eyes, kiss those lips. Please. PLEASE.
“Of course.” Doctor Morgan got up from his chair and walked over to his office door, opening it. “He is resting now, we are keeping him sedated for the time being. Be warned, we had to shave part of his hair, and he has a bandage on his head, along with several IVs in a central line in his neck, and machines to monitor his vitals. It may be a bit of a shock to see him as he is now.
Sherlock frowned. The man had no idea what they two of them had been through in the past, how many hospitals they had visited. They had even been to this one several times, as The Princess Grace Hospital was the closest A&E to Baker Street.
“I need to see John.” Sherlock repeated, stressing every word individually.
“This way.”
The hallways were a maze of corridors with seemingly endless doors leading any and all types of ailments, maladies, and injuries. Sherlock was running on autopilot, his brain was a blue screen, wiped clean, absent of any thought other than John, John, JOHN.
Finally, after an elevator ride and enough twists and turns to lose almost anyone- except someone with the eidetic memory of Sherlock Holmes, they stopped in front of Room 127. Doctor Morgan kept a distance, turning back towards Sherlock. “The nurse's station outside his door is always staffed. As you are his spouse, you are able to stay with him as long as you wish. There are convertible beds available for a small fee per day. His room has a small ensuite bathroom. Unfortunately we have no visitor shower or washing facilities, but you are welcome to leave and come back and visit him any time. I need to attend to my other patients, but the nurses can reach me if needed.”
Sherlock knew that he should thank the man, or say something, anything. Instead he silently turned towards the closed light wooden door in front of him. His brain wouldn't let him reach out the short distance to turn the metal knob. His hands lingered just over the handle, like it would burn him if he touched it.
Finally, he took a deep, steadying breath, turned the knob, and stepped inside.
XXX
Despite everything that Doctor Morgan said, nothing would never had prepared Sherlock for the sight in front of him. The room was dark, the lights off, but there was enough ambient light from the door and the slight break in the blackout curtains to let Sherlock take in the room.
It was small, no more than 30 square meters. John's bed took up the majority of the far part of the room, though he noted that there would indeed be room for a small convertible bed, which he intended to request right away. There was a TV mounted on the wall in front of the bed, which was off, a small bedside table on one side of the bed, and small dresser on the other for clothes and other sundries. There were two, rather uncomfortable looking chairs for people to visit sitting against the far wall, next to the small loo, only big enough for a toilet and sink- and barely that.
John.
Sherlock's eyes finally came back to the bed- and in it was John. He looked tiny in the large bed. The metal railings were up on either side so he wouldn't roll in his sleep. He was connected to all kinds of wires and cables. There was a line in his neck that branched out to three tubes, one went to an IV, the second was another bag that he could only assume was the chemotherapy, and the third he assumed was the sedation. He had a pulse oximiter on his index finger, and leads hooked up to an EEG and machines that monitored his other vitals. As the doctor had warned, a wide, white bandage covered John's head, making his hair stick out at odd angles from the top of it. His skin looked paper thin, almost translucent, glowing in the soft, diffused light. His eyes were closed, but they were sunken in and dark.
He looked like hell.
He looked like death.
Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. This was John. HIS John, laying before him. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths, the only indication that there was still life in his breast. He was torn between not wanting to see his lover so sick and vulnerable and utterly fragile, and not being able to tear his eyes away, afraid that if he blinked, John will pass away before his very eyes.
The detective walked tentatively towards John, ghosting his hand over the man's fingertips, not wanting to disturb his slumber, despite the continuing sedation. Oh, how he wanted to kiss his man, shake him until he awoke and then take him in his arms and take away all of the pain, the suffering, the cancer that grew inside of him. Sherlock would take it all, suffer and wilt away and die if it meant that John could live and thrive.
Sherlock sunk into the seat, gently lacing his fingers with the hand that didn't have the pulse ox connected to it. He sat, and he stared, and he despaired.
XXX
Sherlock had no idea how long he sat there, riveted to the spot, before a realization came to him.
He had to call Harry.
Harry, who was half a world away, quite literally.
Sherlock checked his watch, it was nearing midnight, which meant that it would be almost seven in the United States. Harry would be home from work, and she would he heading to bed in a couple of hours. He could let her sleep, enjoy one last restful night before he shattered her entire world.
Or he could call her.
She wouldn't be able to get any flights tonight, so it wouldn't really do any good to speak with her now. Besides, if he waited until it was morning there, he could book a flight for her- he was glad that in the wake of the seizure, he had thought to bring his laptop bag with him. He figured that he would be in for a long day.
He just had no idea how long it would be.
A few minutes later, he had the laptop plugged in and he was searching for the earliest flight that he could find from Atlanta's Hartsfield to Heathrow. Due to the time differences, it was hard to find an early flight, but he managed to find one that left at 0900, which would get her to London by 2200, which meant with customs, luggage, and transportation, she would be lucky to get here before midnight.
It would still take a long time for her to get here, but it was the best he could do on such short notice. It was easy for him to find both her mailing and email addresses, and he already had her phone number programmed into his phone. He booked the flight and sent the information to her email, carbon copying himself. She'd have to bring her luggage to the hospital, and he could arrange for her to stay with him at Baker Street once she arrived.
Now, he just had to make sure to call her before she checked her email and wondered why she was flying to London.
XXX
It was a long, anxious, sleepless night. Sherlock kept vigil over John's bed, only moving when a doctor or nurse made him get up as they did their hourly rounds. Sherlock distracted himself by deducing them. There was a young lady who was trying to sleep her way through the rest of medical school, and another older woman who had been married but was now widowed and only went back to nursing to get out of the house and have something to do.
Outside, the stars twinkles in deep and dark sky. The room was almost pitch black, but Sherlock had memorized every bit of it, and his eyes were adjusted to see well enough to get around. It was half two in the morning when he picked up his phone again, this time to give Harry Watson the call that every person dreaded.
“Harry, I think you need to get here as soon as possible.”