When Sherlock became sick, John abandoned his wife and children to come live again at 221B.
The rest of the world may not have wanted to deal with a bitchy consulting detective bemoaning in between retches that vomiting was beneath him, but John wasn t the rest of the world.
January came; Sherlock's curls began to fall like dirty snowflakes. John took one look at them lying on the bathroom floor and tried to control his tears while Sherlock looked on with confused, ghostly eyes.
Sherlock let Mycroft hang around more, with less of a fuss every time.
Neither of them said it; John knew his patient's bloodwork and Sherlock knew John. When John came up the stairs into the flat and saw the syringe filled with a white substance, he knew what Sherlock was asking.
Sherlock chose the date and time; acquaintances came to call. Mycroft cried; Sherlock awkwardly patted his head.
When all was quiet, John settled Sherlock in his lap. Slowly, slowly he sank the syringe into Sherlock's arm and pushed the plunger down. Sherlock went by degrees, relaxing as cocaine finished what the cancer had already begun.
When John felt the frail beats of that noble heart slow and then stop, he laid his consulting detective down, kissing his cooling forehead.
It was time to call St. Barts.