As usual, my lovelies, I own nothing and no one.
Facing Death
It has been three years.
1098 days to be precise.
John allowed a weak smile to cross his features as he thought Sherlock would have been proud of his word use in his thoughts.
The Doctor looked around his personal ward dully. Nothing was new.
The food tray was untouched when the usual nurse came in to fetch it.
"Doctor Watson, you must eat." She implored as she lay a hand on John's arm.
"And delay the dying process?" John said brokenly as he looked up at her with sad eyes.
The nurse couldn't reply – John knew he was making other lives miserable, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
Within the following hour, a duo of Doctors appeared at his bedside; taking his pulse and examining his eyes. They took his blood once more for testing before they disappeared almost wordlessly.
John resumed his stare at the magnolia coloured wall in front of him.
The ex-army Soldier had been admitted to hospital over 8 months ago because he had been labelled a burden on poor Mrs Hudson. The Hospital Doctor's still did not know what was causing John's illness; but the dullness of his eyes and skin, his posture and general weakness were all symptoms of something 'a bit not good'.
The days would pass by slowly, John tucked safely away in Sherlock's abandoned Mind Palace. This was where the Doctor spent most of his time – he figured he had inherited it seeing so Sherlock had no further use for it, being dead for over three years now.
John had built the Palace in his own imagination, building it brick by brick with the constant thought of Sherlock in mind.
The halls were grand, the wallpaper was inlayed with gold and the rooms were full.
John could spend endless hours lying in the hospital bed with his eyes closed, perusing material that he could only imagine Sherlock kept in there.
He had a room for evidence, a room for cases and a room for experiments…the bedroom – John had created himself. Once or twice, John had caught a glimpse of the Consulting Detective himself, either in the fictional library or the cerebrally created kitchen, eating toast.
John was ready for death. He had faced it before with fright; he now faced it with determination. Eager to see his best friend once more when it came.
In reality, Mrs Hudson, Harry and Mycroft would drop in very occasionally, they wouldn't receive much from their visits; just a view of the unresponsive dying man.
Once or twice Lestrade would visit, only for minutes at a time before he would awkwardly cough and turn heel to leave.
Only once, did Molly come to visit. She was in great distress but John couldn't will his mind to care or find out why.
John was transferred to a psychiatric ward within another two months. He spent his days sitting up in bed and staring out of the window over London town; his favourite location in the whole world.
One day, however, things changed.