Coughing from the kitchen.
"John ..."
More coughing.
"John!"
"Sherlock, dammit!" Hoarse voice. "If I could make it stop, I would!"
"I think you're a doctor! Aren't you able to treat yourself? You're disturbing my thinking for weeks now with your coughing!"
"I think it's still from the flu I had a few weeks ago ..."
"I don't care! Make it stop!"
Dyspnoea.
Night sweats.
Panic.
Gasping.
The sink.
Coughing.
Blood.
"Shit ..."
Fear.
Blood roaring in the ears.
"Oh shit ..."
Footsteps on wooden stairs.
"I said I need some of the gauze."
"Huh?"
"For my experiment."
"I wasn't at home, Sherlock."
"Oh … where have you been?"
" … "
"John."
"What?"
"Where have you been?"
"I … I have been … in … shopping."
"What's that letter?"
Rustling of paper. "I'm upstairs."
"John … the gauze!"
"John?"
John just went upstairs and entered his room when he spotted Sherlock in front of his desk. He stood there next to the opened drawer with a letter in his hand.
"What … Sherlock, what are you doing in my room?"
Sherlock turned to him with furrowed eyebrows. "What is this?"
When John recognized the letter it felt like a handful of lava has been poured out inside of him.
"Sherlock, did you … why are you rummaging around my stuff?!" With a quick step he went up to his flatmate and was about to take the letter from him, but Sherlock stretched his arm to keep it out of reach for John. The lava blew up and sent a wave of anger through John's body.
"Give the letter to me, Sherlock!" He was able to grab the corner of the letter and tugged at it, but the dark haired man kept a firm grip on it.
"Sherlock, damn it! Let go!"
Finally he managed to wrest the piece of paper from him – or did he let go in the end? Doesn't matter. All John was able to think about was to fold that foul piece of paper and tuck it into the pocket of his trousers. Out of sight, out of mind. If it just would be so easy.
Sherlock fixated the doctor with his eyes as if he was trying to suck those answers right out of his brain. John interrupted him before he has been able to read the letter properly, but the few things he picked up were making him breaking out in cold sweat. "John", he whispered warningly. "What. Is. This?"
Automatically John took a step backwards. He stared down on the floor as if he could find the words there to explain the situation to his friend. But he couldn't.
Sherlock felt impatience well up inside him, spurred on by that horrid foreboding that came up when he has been skimming the text of the report. The report with that round logo of the St. Bart's hospital. It remained a foreboding. Nothing confirmed, nothing final and it made him feel agitated.
By now John seemed to be lost in his own head. With a vacant expression and sagging shoulders he stood in front of him and fixated a random spot on the dark floorboards. Sherlock realised that he had to take the first step and the mere thought of asking that question, of making his assumption sound like it was a fact left a bitter taste on his tongue.
"What kind is it?" His voice sounded quieter and calmer than he expected. But that was a good thing, for it made John snap out of his trance.
"W-what do you m-"
"What kind of cancer, John!"
"Lung cancer." It was merely audible but for Sherlock it sounded unbearably jarring, it made him want to cover his ears. A giant icy fist took hold of his heart, squeezed it mercilessly to squash it. He barely dared to ask a further question. But he had to know it all. He just had to. "What … kind of specification?"
John swallowed hard and avoided Sherlock's gaze. He wasn't even able to say it out loud to himself. He remembered the day when the doctor made the diagnosis and he was afraid of seeing a reflection of his own reaction on Sherlock's face. "A … a small-cell bronchogenic carcinoma."
Sherlock met John's gaze, when he looked up at him briefly. He wished he didn't see what showed on his friend's face now: horror and pure fear.
"Chances for a cure?" Right now Sherlock wasn't able to form full sentences. He was in fearful anticipation of those answers and it made him feel like he's choking. He took a few deep breaths to make sure his lungs get filled with enough air.
John started to shake inwardly, as if a single snowflake settled inside of him and grew to lump of ice that made him freeze. He shook his head, his voice barely a whisper. "It … it already spread metastases … in the kidney and … the brain."
Sherlock's skin rose in horror. He took in a shaky breath, blinking repeatedly as he tried to suppress those tears from welling up in his eyes. He rubbed his eyelids until he saw stars. The shock and sadness gave away to uncontrollable anger. Anger about his helplessness, the realisation that there was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do to help John. It almost made him lose his mind. "How long do you know about it?"
"Since two weeks."
"Two- … You know about it since two weeks? WHEN DID YOU PLAN ON TELLING ME THIS?!" He had to vent. He couldn't show tears so it had to be anger.
John balled his hands into fists until his nails left half-moon-shaped imprints on the heels of his hands. "What are you upset about anyway! It's my business and it's my damn decision if and who I tell about it!"
"You tell me not to be upset?! So I should just not care that you're terminally ill?!"
"Oh, now you care about it? I think it was you who told me to go and cry at the bed of the dying people and see to what use it is to them? I'm a dying man too, Sherlock, why- ..." His voice broke so unexpectedly that he wasn't able to hold back the tears any longer. He turned away from him. Looking down on the floor he lifted his hand to wipe the tears off his face.
At John's words Sherlock felt like he's been punched in the gut. No, John was an exception. John was the good thing that was said to be found in everyone. What would be left of him without John?
As if he would approach a timid animal Sherlock stepped up to John. Carefully, fearing he might vanish into thin air if he moves to hastily, he lifted his hand and put it on John's shoulder. He couldn't help but close his eyes at the touch. He felt the soft fabric of his jumper, a subtle warmth coming from the body in it, he just felt John. He didn't know for how long he stood there like this, his eyes closed and his lips parted, ready to speak. A million thoughts popped up in his head, each one of them forging ahead, jostling each other to be expressed before the others.
I do care about you.
I feel so helpless, John.
I don't want you to die.
Please stay with me.
I'm scared.
There is nothing I can do.
"John, I … I'm sorry."
Slowly John lifted up his head when he heard the shaky, broken voice of the man standing in front of him. "Sherlock ..."
"Please forgive me."
John caught a glimpse of a tear shyly rolling down his cheek, then Sherlock pushed past him and went downstairs.
As he watched him leave, he stopped at the door frame, called for him, but the only thing he heard was the front door falling shut.