A thousand thanks go to my incredibly patient and accurate beta reader SwissMiss on LJ! Without her brilliant work I wouldn't ever dare to post a story.

The medical details of this fic have been betaed by Lizardspots on LJ. Huge thanks for your efforts!

Any remaining errors are entirely mine.

Sometimes I felt that I had to sacrifice medical correctness for the sake of plot structure and character development.

Although I tried to describe the medical treatment correctly, please notice that my story is thought as fiction, not as a medical guide.

I do not own any of the characters. Not even my OMC. In reality I suppose he is probably owned by his wife; I just borrowed him, and now I do sincerely hope that they never find out...

Chapter One

Demolition

He most definitely could not go to work today. John Watson stood at the sink staring in the mirror. He really looked bad. And these days it was not due to alcohol and all-night partying like in his youth. When had he become so old, so messed up?

Stupid question. The last three years had been gnawing at him, he couldn't just get over it...

But this was different. This morning he not only felt unsettled, devastated, depressed ... the list of piteous adjectives to describe his mood every morning he rose to find himself in an empty flat, living a lonely life, could be continued ad infinitum. Today he had woken up soaking wet with sweat, his sheets damp, and it had not been the first time.

Every night during the last week he had crept to bed with a touch of fever, only to find the fever had vanished in the morning, after a really sweaty night. Night sweat. He knew the term well, yet he had no idea what had triggered this.

There had been no nightmares lately; in fact, he had not dreamt at all, he realised suddenly. Just fallen onto his bed and slept like a stone. He was so tired these days, all the time. He hadn't paid much attention; there was hardly anything to stay up to do in the evenings, so why not go to bed early and sleep if he was exhausted?

But this morning he had to admit that there was something wrong. He couldn't go to work today. He would have to go and see his doctor, get a sick note, and return to bed.

'Must be some sort of infection,' he thought, virus probably, influenza-like...

John Watson was a doctor himself. He should have known better. And he should have known that William, an old colleague and consultant in general medicine, would want to examine him thoroughly.

Going to his registered GP would have done as well, if he just wanted to skive off work for a few days. But he consulted his friend, probably because of his own suspicion that there might be something fishy about his condition. It was generally frowned upon for doctors to take on family or friends as patients. John knew that this was poor form, as their acquaintance could influence William's objectivity, but the older colleague was a capable doctor and John trusted in his competency.

Sitting in the doctor's office, on the wrong side of the desk, he felt trapped.

"How long have you gone without a check-up, John?" William asked him. "You should see your GP at least once a year at your age, you know that."

John just shrugged his shoulders. "It's been almost four years." he finally admitted.

The doctor scrolled the screen of his computer, then gave him another scrutinising glance. "You've lost weight."

John didn't know what to say. He was well aware of how bad he looked, ever since...

Most of the people he knew didn't bother to comment on it any longer.

"Do you think you can be your own doctor? Honestly, John, you should know better!"

John didn't like it, but he knew the older man was right. He just had not seen a point in anything lately, so he would have appreciated it if William didn't make such a fuss about it...

"Well, I'm here now," he replied weakly.

Almost two hours later, he found himself back in the consultation room, waiting for the results of the preliminary tests. Way too many syringes for his taste had been filled with his blood samples by the nurse, his chest had been x-rayed... and why? This was an enormous effort for some minor virus.

"Could be the flu," William had agreed, when John had finished describing his symptoms, "but for all that, you know quite well that this could also be something else, don't you?" William had not looked at him, absorbed in thought.

The door opened; John's unease grew when he saw the worry lines on William's face as the older man carefully sat down behind his desk.

"Your inflammatory markers and full blood count are normal." Before John could relax he went on firmly, "However, we need to wait for the results of the blood film. It should only take a few days." He paused, and from the look on his face, John knew there was more, and it wouldn't be so harmless. "There's something on your x-ray that shouldn't be there, I'm afraid," William said.

John sat, unmoved, stunned. "What's wrong?" he asked finally with rising suspicion.

"Bilateral hilar lymphadenopathy," William answered, alert to John's reactions. "I'm afraid..." he added.

John's brain drew a blank. He tried to focus. This was not exactly his area of expertise. Yet he had quite a good idea of what these findings might indicate - it was standard med school stuff. And he knew the prospect wasn't pleasant. He briefly considered asking to see the x-ray for himself, in order to verify, to comprehend, to analyse. Then again he felt too stunned by the turn of events. He just sat there paralysed.

"Lung cancer?" he finally managed.

"Not necessarily, no," William replied, "but we have to make sure. It's a good thing that you came as soon as you noticed there was something wrong."

Had he? Had he even paid attention? John was certain he hadn't bothered with his health much over the last couple of years. He had struggled hard not to lose his sanity; his bodily needs had not been on his list of priorities.

"What else can you offer me, what sort of cancer?" he demanded calmly.

He wanted to know. Yet, did it matter at all?

"I don't like to speculate, you see, but as you are a doctor yourself, I want to be frank with you. There's no need for you to spend all night googling or studying your medical reference books.

"Look, this could turn out to be quite a nasty thing, but if we are lucky we could get away with something non-malignant. We'll need two further blood samples today before you leave, one for the tuberculin test; tuberculosis would indeed be the most harmless of our options."

Tuberculosis... John thought about the various members of Sherlock's homeless network he'd given a few extra pounds to over the years, sometimes even leftover medical supplies from the surgery. John knew that TB was a serious problem for London. Over the last ten years tuberculosis diagnoses had increased by 50%, so that today the city had the highest TB rate of all capitals in Western Europe. It was possible he'd somehow been infected. If so, William was right: it would be manageable and likely easy to treat, compared to his other options.

William went on: "The other test will diagnose whether your ACE - your angiontensin-converting enzymes - are significantly increased."

John frowned. "Sorry, angiotensin?" He wasn't familiar with the term.

"It could indicate sarcoidosis, which can cause granulomas in virtually any organ, but as the nodules are most often located in the lungs and lymph nodes that could explain the swelling on your x-ray. It's not generally life-threatening, unless it becomes chronic. In fact it often clears up on its own. However, we could start you on corticosteroids to avoid any potential scar tissue building up."

John had no idea why he suddenly saw himself gaining weight in his imagination. This side effect of the steroids shouldn't bother him right now. At least he would have a proper chance to survive the disease.

"After that... We'll see." The older man shook his head. He clearly felt uncomfortable with what he would say next.

"However, if these tests are negative, you will have to undergo bone marrow aspiration as a next step. This will clarify whether the swelling is caused by leukaemia, or by Hodgkin's Disease."

These were terms John was familiar with: the choice between a rock and a hard place, between cancer of the blood and Hodgkin's lymphoma, a cancer of the lymphatic system.

So, these were the facts. John sat there, frozen. He felt as if he had been divided in two halves. The one, too shocked to think anything but a frantic mantra of 'shit, shit, shit!' over and over. The other half of his mind coldly analysed that this was the end which had been on the horizon for three long years.

John didn't say a word; he couldn't.

"I'm sorry, John, can I do anything for you at the moment?"

John struggled to pull himself together. 'At least try to answer,' the one half said. This was just the beginning, he would have to move on. 'What for?' the other half asked.

"Is there anybody you can go to? Friends, family? You should talk to someone..." William trailed off.

"No, I'm fine, it's... all fine," John finally managed. They both knew it was not true.

It never was, never had been. This was just one step further down the ladder. He should have seen it coming.

"Things will be clearer by next week, and then we'll discuss all the necessary steps. Just... you know, try to keep calm, John. We don't know anything yet for certain..."

Why did all good doctors sound so helpless?

The next days went by, somehow.

In fact, he had been through worse times in life already, John mused. 'Must be a shit life,' he thought sarcastically, 'if you don't even freak out when somebody tells you you have cancer.'

Of course the blood tests both came back negative.

William had examined his lymph nodes at his first appointment. Palpation confirmed that all of his other lymph nodes felt normal. 'Everything fine on the surface,' William had said.

Neither an ultrasound scan of his upper abdomen, nor a CT scan of his chest revealed any other suspicious symptoms.

"Your blood film was normal as well," John was informed, which in fact was good news, but he could not bring himself to muster any for? All hopes would be shattered in the end. He had learned his lesson, thank you. It seemed that an overdose of pain and grief had left him immune to further breakdowns. He had had his share of black despair in life already.

There were no more genuine and deep feelings left inside his chest, not even enough for they had only been replaced by this lump of dubious lymph nodes...

His fever vanished.

In the mornings he went to work. Where else could he go? He had to leave the flat to escape his thoughts. In the evenings he was so knackered that there simply was no room left for deeper contemplation.

The time went by.

William called to inform him that he had used his contacts to get him two extraordinarily short-term appointments both for a bone marrow aspiration and a full-body PET scan the next day. He tried to make light of it: "Let's see what else is glittering inside of you."

In case they needed further data, John would have to undergo a mediastinoscopy, which would mean a short hospital stay, perhaps overnight, to prevent any complications related to anaesthesia and the minor surgical intervention.

"I know it sounds stressful, but with these examinations all done, we should be able to find out what's causing this lymphadenopathy and your tiredness, and work from there to give you the most appropriate treatment options. No more delays!"

William sounded quite pleased with his work.

John thanked him. What else was he supposed to do?

He didn't tell anybody about the whole affair. Just informed his boss that he would be on sick leave for the rest of the week. They had wanted to know why so that they could arrange cover, but he wasn't really surprised to get away with a few half-heartedly mumbled excuses about his fevers. Nobody else asked any questions. People's interest in him had long since died away.

He felt fine with it. He didn't want any company. Much better off without. This was just another proof. Nobody had to worry about him now.

The day before his examinations were scheduled went by in silence. He spent it with the deceased - just one step ahead of him, he thought wryly.

That evening when he returned home after seemingly endless hours at Bart's, he felt so exhausted that he earnestly wondered how to get up the miserable seventeen steps to their flat.

'Damn it!' His flat, once and for all. It had been a while since he mentally slipped up like that. All the news which had been heaped on him lately had apparently served for a little distraction. A fresh reason to wallow in self-pity.

He felt disgusted. How could he ignore for one second that the worst had already happened three years ago? Right now he wished he believed in any sort of afterlife. Then he could almost look forward to the future. It would all be over soon, wouldn't it? But being a doctor and an ex-soldier, he was too much of a realist to draw hope from anything so abstract.

He felt a little uncertain about what to expect from the aspiration. A local anaesthetic would be injected to numb the area on the back of his hipbone. He didn't like thinking about twisting needles advancing through bony cortex into marrow cavities. He could not help imagining the disgusting sounds he would have to listen to, lying flat on his stomach. And his lower back would hurt for quite a few days afterwards...

'Doctors are cowards, aren't they?'

For almost three years he had felt his heart race every time he stepped onto the landing, staring at the closed door upstairs at 221B. He always stopped for a split second to prepare himself for anything.

He had to straighten up to face the emptiness that surrounded him. Had to make sure that he could bear the loneliness of a flat that was once shared. And since that first day at his grave, the insane notion that he could somehow be still around had never left John completely.

His usual routine: stop in tracks, take a deep breath, square the shoulders, be alert, push down the handle, open the door, take a few hurried steps through the deserted living room, enter the kitchen, make a cup of tea. Tea always helps, doesn't it?

Obviously not, but it was good all the same.

Today, however, deeply lost in thought, he only shuffled up the stairs and mindlessly opened the door. Wasn't he beyond despair? He didn't even care to head to the kitchen. Tea could wait. He could hardly make another move. Why, only two weeks ago, he had been sparkling with energy compared to this! He slumped into his armchair and -

NO.

Slowly, John Watson rose.

When entering the flat he hadn't even bothered to switch on the lights. Yet, it was not completely dark in the living room.

Street lights.

He saw -

He was staring.

No tea this evening.

Slowly, like a sleepwalker, he turned, left the room, went up the stairs, so many stairs to his bedroom, opened the door, closed the door, turned the key, locked the door.

His knees gave out.

He collapsed.

He was breathing heavily, short, fast. Couldn't stop it. Small, broken sobs gurgling out of his throat. His throat, so tight. Suffocating. His heart racing, stuttering. Can you die from a heart attack even though you are supposed to die from cancer in the near future? His limbs went numb, fingers already clenched in a typical spastic way, lips tingling, no longer able to form words, a deafening swoosh in his ears.

Eyes rolling upwards.

Drowning.

Blind. Dark. Quiet.

When he regained consciousness, he found himself sprawled on the floor.

'Must have passed out, hyperventilation,' he diagnosed himself.

His head was buzzing. He didn't want to stop it, didn't want to focus, wouldn't allow reality to creep in. Not this sort of reality. Why could this not simply be an illusion?

But never in his life had he doubted his sanity less. It was all true. This was just the final chapter of his very personal, particularly vicious John Hamish Watson Horror Story. This was so bad it had to be true. No need to question it.

If ever divine providence, fate, the ancient gods, whatever you might believe in or not, had tried to torture one human being, it could not have been more cruel. This was better than a Greek tragedy. This was his damned, god-awful, fucked-up life. A life which would be over all too soon now.

He couldn't hold back the spasmodic sobs hysterically rising from deep inside. He tried to muffle the sounds by cramming his fists into his mouth, biting hard on the knuckles. Biting till they bled.

BITING.

Choking.

His stomach turned. Wouldn't get up, couldn't move, convulsive fits, throwing up over the carpet of his bedroom.

Lying face down in his own vomit. Panting. Whimpering. He lost track. Time, space, drifting, floating.

Somewhere in the middle of the night he pulled himself together, got to his feet.

'Got to get a bucket of water, a flannel, got to clean up the mess.'

He didn't feel as weak as a newborn baby; he felt as drained as if he had been forced to live through a hundred years within a single day. This was simply too much for one lifetime.