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Sherlock looked at what he had scribbled down over the past couple weeks and knitted his eyebrows together.
- Fatigue
- Weight loss
- Pain
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock closed his notebook and glanced over at John. “Hm?”
“Are you alright? You’ve had your nose in your notebook all morning.”
“Yes, I’m fine.” Sherlock stood up and walked over to the couch, plopping ungracefully onto it. “Are you, um, are you alright?”
John looked over at Sherlock and snorted. “Yes, I’m alright.” He looked closely at Sherlock and squinted. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” Sherlock stretched across the couch, put his hands together and propped them under his chin. John watched his eyes close and knew he wouldn’t be hearing anything out of him for a couple hours.
John walked towards his room. “I’m going to go rest.” He didn’t expect a reply.
Once John was out of sight, Sherlock leaped up and opened his notebook, slipping in another bullet point:
- Resting more than usual, tired
John doubled over, coughing. He straightened up and leaned against the stone wall of the bank. Sherlock suddenly stopped chasing the criminal. “John? John, are you alright?”
John nodded as the coughing continued, he motioned for Sherlock to continue running after the criminal. Sherlock looked towards the criminal; he could catch him if he tried. He looked over to John who was finally catching his breath. Sherlock took out his phone and quickly dialed Lestrade’s number and walked over to John, putting his hand on John’s shoulder.
“Lestrade, he’s two streets over from your team right now. He passed the bank we were investigating at earlier today.”
“Sherlock, is everything alright?”
“Yes, just go get him.” Sherlock quickly stuffed his phone in his pocket and focused his attention back on John.
“John, look at me.” Sherlock placed both of his hands on John’s shoulder. He took in all of John; his cough, the small wheeze that escaped between John’s lips when the coughing calmed, and the coughing fit that would start again. “John,” Sherlock whispered. “John, breathe with me.” Sherlock moved his hands from John’s shoulders to the side of John’s face. “Breathe in.” Sherlock breathed in slowly, hoping John would be able to do the same. Sherlock watched John struggle to do the simple breathing technique, but he patiently waited. He would never leave John behind, not when he just got him back.
Minutes later, when John had calmed, him and Sherlock walked side-by-side back to Baker Street. Neither commented on John’s fit as they walked to their front door, inside, up the steps, and inside 221B. Neither said anything as John went into the bathroom to take his shower and Sherlock went off into his room with a quiet goodnight.
A week later, John went in for chemotherapy. He didn’t tell Sherlock, in fact, he didn’t tell anyone.
After chemo, John felt worse than he had before. He felt even more fatigued and noticed he had lost a little more than a stone just over the past month. John knew that Sherlock knew, but neither said a word about it.
John stood in the shower as the water fell over him. He carefully washed his hair, begging for hair not to fall as it had been the past few days. Last night was the first night actual clumps had come out. John slowly lowered his hands from his head and looked at them. Hair stuck to them and a small clump fell to the bottom of the shower. John bit his lip as unwanted tears escaped his eyes. No, no, no. I can’t. I just got him back.
John turned off the shower and stood there and leaned against the shower wall. I just got him back. Unwanted tears kept falling from his face as he grabbed the shampoo bottle and threw it against the shower curtain. John heard the bathroom door click open and soon Sherlock had pulled back the shower curtain and stepped in the shower, fully clothed. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s waist and helped John out of the shower. He helped John get into his boxers and sweatpants, leaving the white shirt on the floor. Sherlock did a good job of ignoring the hair that had gathered around the shower drain.
Sherlock got John into his room and climbed in next to him, pulling the covers up.
“Sherlock,” John whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Sherlock smiled sadly. “You have nothing to be sorry for, John.”
“But I do. I just got you back, I can’t leave you.”
Sherlock furrowed his brows. “You won’t.”
John stared at the darkness that surrounded him. He could feel the heat of Sherlock’s body by his side and scooted closer to him, putting his head under his chin so his nose brushed Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s waist and kissed the top of his head. “No, you won’t leave me.”
Sherlock never fell asleep that night. He catalogued John instead; skin against skin, his breathing patterns, how his breathing felt against him, the tickle of John’s hair on Sherlock’s chin, and most noticeably the fever that broke out around 2 in the morning. The fever broke around 4, but John had severe night sweats. Sherlock never let go.
- Persistent cough
- Fevers/night sweats
John woke to Sherlock already staring back at him with his startling blue eyes.
“Hey,” John whispered. “G’morning.”
Sherlock nodded. “Good morning.”
Silence: a still silence, silence that leaves a ringing sound in your ears.
John closed his eyes. “I’m sick.”
Sherlock watched John.
“I’m sure you know already. I know you know. You’re Sherlock.” John slowly opens his eyes. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Sherlock watched John.
“Please say something.”
Sherlock said nothing.
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock leaned forward and covered John’s mouth with his, wrapping his arm more tightly around John. Messy, untidy, disorderly, hurried, rushed kisses. John tasted salt. Salt tears. He didn’t know if it was him or Sherlock, he’s pretty sure it was both. They don’t stop. They keep kissing and getting closer to each other, as close as they can get.
“John,” Sherlock whispered against his lips. “Please, you can’t leave me. I know I left you, but you can’t leave me.” John opened his eyes and saw Sherlock with red eyes, looking vulnerable, and about to shatter to pieces.
“I’m not leaving you, Sherlock.”
His funeral was held five and a half months later. It was a small ceremony; close friends and family. Sherlock spoke at John’s funeral against his will, but he knew John would have liked him to.
Sherlock no longer took cases, no longer ate, and no longer slept. He sat on the couch. Mycroft would visit him every day and try to encourage him to eat or take a case. Nothing would ever happen. Sherlock would stay sitting, wrapped in his flimsy blue housecoat.
Sometimes Sherlock’s body took over and forced him into sleep. He hated sleeping because he would end up dreaming of John or having a nightmare of John taking The Fall, which was somehow worse than him dying of cancer.
Sherlock knew where John’s Browning L9A1 was. He knew which drawer he kept it in. He knew where the bullets for it were. Sherlock moved from his position on the couch and walked up to John’s room. The scent of John hit him and he held his breath as he walked over to the dresser and opened the top drawer (hardly a secret place, thought Sherlock). Sherlock exhaled his breath and let himself smell John one last time. He closed his eyes, picturing John in front of him. “I’m not leaving you, John. I’m joining you.” Sherlock smiled.
Sherlock Holmes had been lost without his blogger, John Watson.