John stumbled into the bathroom around midnight, the effects of the hallucinogen in his system combining with the adrenaline of the night to make him a bit shaky… and have to pee a lot. As he struggled with his pajama bottoms, he couldn't help but laugh a little at the ridiculous idea that Sherlock had tried to drug him using sugar. It was silly, and wrong. He wasn't going to let the know-it-all forget about it very easily. He looked to the door on the left as a small 'thump' sounded in the room next to him. Sherlock must be up and doing something to the poor hotel room that the staff will have to clean up the next day. Rolling his eyes, he flushed the toilet and side stepped to the sink, turning on the water and scrubbing his hands. As he rubbed them on the soft hotel towel, a red pill bottle on the edge of the sink, the name 'Sherlock Holmes' on the label, caught his eye. He'd never seen it before. He shared a bathroom with Sherlock back at 221B, and he'd never seen a single pill bottle with his name on it before. But the vile was half empty, so it was hardly a new prescription.
The doctor in John had a curiosity that beat out the moral part, and he picked the pills up and read the label. A word jumped out at him immediately: 'azidothymidine'. But that meant Sherlock—John dropped the bottle as if it were on fire. No, no. Certainly Sherlock—But why wouldn't he tell John? He picked the bottle up and knocked on the door leading to Sherlock's room.
"Come in." Sherlock's voice was even and focused.
John stuck his head in the room and said in a trembling voice, "Sherlock, I didn't mean to snoop, I just…" The detective looked up and saw the pills in John's hand, then went back to the microscope he was staring into. Silence stretched out. "Sherlock, do you… have…?"
The black curls didn't move when the level baritone spoke. "Have what, John? You can say it. You're a doctor after all." John shifted his weight uncomfortably. He may be a doctor, and he may have had to say it to other patients before, but never to his best friend. It was too difficult. Sherlock rose from his chair calmly, snatched the pills out of his hand and said with a steely voice, "Yes. I do. I have HIV and AIDS. What do you want from me? I am paying the consequences of the decisions I made as a younger man. You know about my drug use in the past, well now you know that I wasn't the smartest when it came to where I got my needles from." John dropped his eyes and tried to apologize for invading his privacy. "I forgot to bring the bottle back into my room this time, John. It's not your fault you can read."
"How long?" John asked quietly.
"Just under seven years." Sherlock went back to sit in his desk chair, turning it to face John, who was moving to sit down on the bed. "You obviously want to talk about this, so let's talk. What questions do you have?"
"Why didn't you tell me? I can help."
"John, it's incurable. You know that."
"But that doesn't mean I can't try to help. You take so little care of yourself, it's a miracle you are still talking to me today."
Sherlock became very silent. Then spoke slowly, cautiously, "Do you want the truth?" John nodded. "I was diagnosed seven years ago, but I didn't care. I wouldn't take my medication; I wouldn't do anything to help myself. Especially not stop my drug use. Mycroft learned about my diagnosis very quickly, paying off my doctor to tell him everything. He practically kidnapped me, sending me swiftly and quietly to a rehabilitation center, where they got me off the drugs, forced me to eat and sleep and take my medication. I hated it there, because it was dull. But, I finally got off my program and was released a year before I met you. It didn't take long for me to stop taking the medicine again, because I didn't care if I lived or died. But then I met you, and you became my only friend. I don't know why I started taking my AZT again, but one day I just did. I started eating more often, and sleeping at least three hours a night. I wanted to live just a bit longer. I didn't want to tell you, because at first, I thought you would judge me and leave me without a flatmate to split the rent. But as we became closer, I feared you would worry for me, because," Sherlock paused and took a deep breath. "Because I'm dying, John."
John stood up and wrapped his arms around his friend, comforting him as the tears started to fall from both sets of war worn eyes. "I was dying before I met you. We've both fought our demons alone for so many years." He gave a strengthening squeeze to Sherlock's shoulders. "Now we're not alone. So we don't have to fight like it, either."
Sherlock died ten years later; a simple head cold being his final undoing. They'd had their ups and downs throughout the years they'd known each other, but John still stuck with him to the very end. The day he passed away, John got a phone call from the hospital, saying his friend had been admitted early that morning and was asking for him. Mary had understood why he had to skip their daughter's orchestra concert; Sherlock had taught Liza how to play, after all. John walked into the room, the gravity of the situation hanging in the air like fog. The ex-army doctor sat down in the arm chair next to his best friend. Sherlock was asleep, the purple bags under his eyes prominent against his pale skin, and his weight had dropped so drastically over the last week, he was barely there.
John put a hand over his face and took a shuddering breath; his best friend was dying again. This time for real. "Did Liza remember to practice the flourish I taught her for the end of her solo?" Sherlock whispered.
John looked up and smiled. "Every second she got. I thought you were asleep."
"I never sleep. You know this about me."
The two friends laughed. "How do you feel?"
Sherlock took a deep breath, knowing better than to lie to his blogger. "Like if I sneezed, I'd fall apart."
John nodded and took his hand. "I understand."
They were silent for a long time, listening to each other breathe. Both knew the ending of the night, but neither wanted to say it. Finally, Sherlock said, "I'm scared, John. Actually scared."
John gripped his hand tighter and spoke softly through his sudden tears. "I am, too Sherlock."
A tear carved a path down the former detective's pale cheek. "Thank you, John. Because of you, I got to live twelve extra years. And they felt like a lifetime." And a sigh left his lips as the sound of a flat line filled the small room, breaking the dam behind John's eyes, and all his resolve as well.
The funeral was small, Sherlock only having a few people close to him. Liza played a beautiful tribute to her uncle on the old violin he left to her, one of his original compositions. It was familiar and filled the small crowd with life and want and memories. The wooden instrument sparkled in the places where Liza's tears splattered silently, her devotion to her uncle and his piece weighing heavily on her shoulders. John rarely ever cried, but that day he ran out of tears to shed as he stood at the grave, the real grave, of his best friend. Mary gave him his privacy, walking back to the car with Liza to wait.
"We won our war, Sherlock. Fought our demons, lived our dreams, and helped build a strong family. And I'll miss you. You're whole family will miss you. But we know you'll be watching over us. And I thank you for that." He touched the headstone lightly. "Good night, old friend."