*****Authors Note: Hello everyone that is greatly decided to read this fic. This was titled after some lyrics in Bon Jovi's "I'll Be There For You" because he always writes such lovely words and they were some that just stood out for me and made me think up this fic. This does include illness and later death, so if you're not comfortable or okay with that then turn back now and stop reading! But for those who have stayed, thanks and I hope you enjoy! Leaving a review after reading would be greatly appreciated because it really helps to know what people who are reading my work think. Thanks again :)*****

He sat in silence, just staring into space, blank expression. The only movement was the steady rising and falling of his chest. John was watching him from across the room, the opposite chair, his eye brows furrowed slightly. He cleared his throat, breaking the dead silence between them but Sherlock didn't move, or flinch, or blink. He continued to stare. "So are you going to explain to me what happened back there?" Nothing. Not even a look. "Or are you going to continue to sit there in silence and make me work it out for myself because I'm trying, Sherlock, believe me, I really am." Sherlock's head snapped up at John's slightly raised voice but his face remained vacant.

"He got what he deserved."

"He is my doctor Sherlock! He didn't deserve any of that!" John quickly snapped back at him, Sherlock's ignorant monotone voice just making him angrier. Sherlock shifted his feet, scowling, but didn't say anything, looking at the ground. It was John's turn to stare now, with wide, hard eyes, waiting on a response from his flatmate, anything. "No." John threw his hand down on the arm of his chair in frustration. This drew Sherlock's attention back to him.

"What?" Sherlock questioned, watching John with confusion as he got up from his chair.

"No. I'm done. I'm just totally done with you right now Sherlock you... you machine! My doctor is trying to help us, help me, and you... You go and act like a child and expect everyone to just deal with it. Well guess what, Sherlock? I'm not going to. I'm-" John's voice broke off, unable to speak the words. Sherlock noticed that he had never actually said it out loud since he found out. John lowered his voice. "I'm ill, Sherlock," He swallowed. Sherlock looked down. "Really ill and... And I need you to support me through this. That's why I brought you with me today. What I don't need is you being rude to my doctor who is supporting me through this. Was there even a reason? Or did you just decide to embarrass him, and me, like that because you couldn't stand not being the centre of attention for fifteen minutes?" John's voice had grown louder again and he paused, glaring at Sherlock. "Answer me, Sherlock! Jesus Christ!" Sherlock winced as John spat his words out at him. As he looked up again he could see how wet John's eyes had become. He had really fucked up this time and he knew it.

"John," Sherlock stood, his voice very quiet, scared that John was going to snap at him again. He took a few steps towards him, slowly and gently placing his hand on John's arm. The paleness and pureness of Sherlock's skin contrasted the dark wool of John's jumper. "I'm sorry." John's eyes swept over Sherlock's face and he took in a deep breath. For a moment John had calmed with Sherlock's touch and he didn't look like he wanted to bite his head off. But that didn't last very long. John moved his arm back, away from Sherlock's hand and took a step away from him.

"I'm going out," he muttered while fumbling about with his jacket that was slung over the back of his chair.

"John..." Sherlock moved over to where he was, his voice soft still, pleading almost, and he reached out to John again. But John veered away from his comfort once more.

"I need some air." Sherlock recoiled as John pushed past him, heading for the door.

Sherlock remained still as he watched John firmly shut the door behind him. He knew there wasn't much point in going after him. John always needed time alone to cool off and being around Sherlock never helped matters (especially if it was Sherlock who pissed him off). Instead Sherlock walked over to the window, lifting the curtain slightly out of the way so he could see the ground in front of their flat. He watched as John stopped once he got outside, taking in a deep breath and pulling his hand through his hair. He looked tired. Sherlock was tired too. It had been a long day and he just wanted to curl up in bed and never come back out again. So did John.

Sherlock was worried for him, he was, of course he was but he just didn't know how to show it. Well, not like a normal person anyway. That was why he snapped at John's doctor. He was explaining things to John, about his cancer, and Sherlock couldn't take it. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear any of it. So he wrongly got on the defence, firing things out about the doctor that he was deducting on the spot. He could see how embarrassed and mad John was getting but he couldn't stop. It was his way of coping in that moment. It was a wrong, bad way and he knew that. But it was his way.

After John was out of sight Sherlock walked back over to his chair and flumped down on it. He reached a hand down the side, in between the arm and the seat cushion, and started to feel about amongst the cold, black leather. He knew they were there somewhere.With a sigh of relief he soon pulled out a box of cigarettes, some that he had hidden for emergencies after he told John he had stopped a few months back. As he placed one between his lips and brought the lighter close, Sherlock looked up. He looked across at John's empty red chair and froze. Empty. He should be there. He should be always be there. To Sherlock, that was just what was going to happen. They would always be together, the consulting detective and his blogger, Holmes and Watson, just the two of them against the rest of the world.

But that always wasn't going to last forever.