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It's not the first time that John's woken up in the middle of the night in agony. It won't be the last. It's 03:21am and this is the third time already, just tonight.
John's slumped over the toilet seat, head hanging forward slightly and vomiting until there is nothing left to throw up. I kneel beside him and gently place my hand against his shoulder, rubbing at his back soothingly whilst he spills his stomach's contents. I know not to talk to him whilst he is in this state- his request.
I don't want to accept the diagnosis when I first hear it. How could something like that happen to John Watson? As the doctor told him the news, I saw the colour from John's face drain. But he nodded, stood up and left without saying a word. I was momentarily stunned before I bounded upwards, running after him. When I found him, he was seated on a bench outside, head in his hands, but he wasn't crying. Couldn't cry.
"John, I..." But any words that I wanted to say wouldn't come out so I tugged him into me, holding him close as he rested his head against my shoulder. We stayed like that, just the two of us.
John collapses against the edge of the bathroom wall once he has finished being sick. I already have the towel in my hand, dabbing it around his mouth as I clean the remaining dregs of vomit from his lips. He manages to nod his head slightly in thanks.
"I'm sorry." John says, throat dry, barely audible. I manoeuvre the two of us so that I am the one sitting with my back against the wall and he is between my legs, his back slouched against my chest.
His words confuse me- a feeling that I have been experiencing a lot of lately. "What for?"
"I woke you," and as if an afterthought, "again." The man in my arms chuckles softly before grimacing.
"John?"
"I'm fine, Sherlock." I know he's not. Anyone could realise that. "It's just, you know, the headaches."
"And the fatigue and the sickness and loss of appetite. John, you do not have to pretend that everything is well. It is obvious that it isn't." I attempt to keep my voice steady but the emotion in it betrays me. I can feel a tear threatening to spill over. I never expected it to be this hard.
"What am I meant to say?" John asks, struggling to breathe as he says his words. The fingers on his left hand twitch slightly and I reach out to him, locking our fingers together, caressing my thumb over the palm of his hand. He's absolutely freezing. The doctor coughs, the movement causing another agonising jolt of pain to attack his body. Pressing his eyes shut, he releases a sob. He cries and he cries and I let him. This is the first time since the diagnosis that he has cried and I will not be the one to prevent him from doing so.
"What do I do?" I ask, knowing that there isn't anything I can do.
"Just be here for me." He says and I know how difficult it is for him to ask me this. But I will oblige and I will do absolutely anything I can to support him.
I kiss the top of his head, not focussing on the fact that he no longer has any hair. Around an hour later, John has fallen asleep and I carry him back to bed, carefully resting his head against our pillows. He doesn't wake up until 14:00pm the next afternoon.
The first session of chemotherapy was awful. Absolutely, horrendous. Seeing John so weak as the chemicals coursed through his veins, fighting tiredness as he slowly made his way back up the stairs to 221B, was a sight that I knew I would have to get used to for an indefinite amount of time. The thought terrified me.
He only gets weaker, loses more weight. John spends most of the day sleeping, oxygen with him at all times, as I work on cases from home. I won't leave him. The only time we leave the house is for hospital appointments and even then, he is unable to walk. He just doesn't have the energy anymore and so he has his wheelchair.
In one of the moments that he is awake, he calls me over. I perch on the floor beside where he is laying on the sofa, resting my head on the same cushion that he is resting his on. Our noses are touching slightly and I lean forward, touching a kiss to his cheek, careful not to jolt his oxygen mask.
"I love you, Sherlock." He says quietly, breathing heavily. My lips pull into a smile that does not reach my eyes and I cup his cheek with my hand. We stay in that position for a while, neither of us talking, just enjoying being in the presence of one another. John's eyes, his beautiful, gorgeous blue eyes never manage to leave mine and for that, I am grateful.
He is not well. He's not going to get better.
"I think..." John utters, every word a struggle for him. "I can't do it."
My heart drops and I feel sick. I knew this time would come, there would only be so much time that it would be beneficial for him, but the feeling still hits me like a punch to the gut.
Glancing down at him, I see his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Ok, John."
Shortly afterwards, he falls asleep again.
I spoke with John's nurses and doctors and they agreed with his decision. All treatments were to be withdrawn as soon as possible.
It is barely three days after everything has been withdrawn that he really begins to deteriorate. He is rushed to hospital, blue lights blaring.
John lays in his hospital bed, oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth. He is being constantly supplied with morphine to relieve the pain. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly are all sitting around him, speaking to one another, voices laced with sadness. I am right beside John, holding his hand and speaking to him, reliving some of our favourite cases. Of course, he is unable to respond.
One of John's nurses, a polite young woman named Eleanor, attends to John throughout the day.
"John fell into a coma shortly after his arrival." She tells me, but I already knew that. "All we can do now is do our best to keep him comfortable." Eleanor has been with John since he was first diagnosed. John had once told me that she was his favourite nurse- the only one who could keep up a good conversation, apparently. I am glad that she is the one who will be with him as he goes.
I don't want to accept the inevitable. I can't fathom my life without John by my side. But I know that it must come. And it does.
I stood to the side as I watched Lestrade lean over the frail figure on the bed, giving him what could only be described as a goodbye hug. Tears which he had been trying so hard to suppress spilled over as he spoke to John, thanking him for being his friend. And it was as if John knew something was happening, knew that Greg had said the first goodbye because in that instant, everything changed and John was going too, moving on.
"Go, please!" I half shouted, half whimpered to the remaining three people in the room. Greg was out of the room in an instant, as were Molly and Mrs Hudson as they said their final farewells, both placing delicate kisses to John's forehead.
I was by John's side immediately, just holding him as he released his last few breaths. He was so light in my arms as I held onto to him, unwilling to let go of the man who was absolutely everything to me. "John, please." I whispered, a plea filled with desperation. And I knew it was selfish to ask him to stay because he had been in so much pain for so many months. He fought and fought for his life, hanging on as he just survived.
"Please John." I said again, hoping for anything. But nothing happened.
I don't know how long I was sitting with him, closing him in against my chest. I don't know when it was that I let go of him, one final time. But I did, eventually. Reluctantly.
Greg came and found me afterwards, standing outside of the hospital with a cigarette between my lips. Mycroft had bought them for me. Said I'd need them when the time came. And I did.
I looked towards the sky, watching two blackbirds fly around each other in a beautiful chase. The detective inspector pulled out his own packet of cigarettes, lighting one and doing the same as me.
"Molly and Mrs Hudson have left. They would have stayed but Mrs Hudson was distraught. She's gone back to Baker Street with her." Greg paused, sighing as he stood next to me.
"I'm so sorry, Sherlock." His voice was rough- he had been crying. Exhaling the smoke, I watched it dance up into the air, a dark contrast against the magnificent blue of the sky.
"I can't believe he's gone." I finally said, never taking my eyes away from the blue. Greg turned to face me and placed his hand on my shoulder, following my gaze with his own.
"He was a fighter."
"Yes. He was."
"You are too." Clearing my throat, I turned to look at Greg, my face a picture of confusion. "You looked after him. Cared for him. I don't know many people who would have been able to do that without getting frustrated or angry."
"I love him. Of course I would do that for him." I replied, sniffing as the emotions overwhelmed me yet again.
I would have done anything for John Watson.