When working with Sherlock, bruises are a given, so, at first, John ignores the bruises. He also ignores the tiredness, easy bleeding, and fevers. To be fair, John is not the most sedentary of men. Sherlock is constantly dragging him around and, between solving crimes with Sherlock and trying to keep his fifteenth job (or was it sixteenth? He had lost count) he has no time to stop and pay attention to his health. It isn't until the pain in his joints became so incredibly unbearable that he stops to pay attention to the symptoms. Almost immediately he realizes that he has seen them all before. Back when his father was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia he had experienced the same symptoms. He sits for a minute and reflects. No, he thinks. I can't –I can't be dying. But he knows that these are the first symptoms of cancer.
He doesn't remember crying, but he does. He breaks down and cries as the thought of loosing his life tears him apart.
Eventually he deludes himself into thinking that maybe, possibly, nothing was wrong. He would never know for sure until he contacted his doctor. So, he gets on the phone with his doctor and announces his suspicions and, before he knows it, he is sitting there, in the waiting room, surrounded by white walls and depression and an overwhelming fear of death.
His doctor looks at his bruises, asks him about the changes in his daily life, and invites him back for some tests.
He barely remembers the tests. He just remember praying, begging, and pleading to a God he never thought existed.
A week later the results come. He does have Leukemia. Now I remember why I don't believe in God.
The doctor tells him that it is definitely chronic and that he is going to die. "People your age, in your physical condition, have a lower change of surviving this disease."
The doctor tells him they could put him on Chemotherapy and maybe increase his chances of survival.
At first his answer is certain. Hell no. He remembers what chemotherapy did to his father and he does not want to relive that.
Then he remembers Sherlock.
Sherlock who was currently out of town.
Sherlock who was on a major case without him.
Sherlock who had slowly become the center of his universe.
The thought of leaving him tore holes through John's heart. He couldn't leave Sherlock and if chemotherapy could, possibly, give him a chance to stay with the love of his life, he wasn't about to turn it down.
Back when he was younger, he never did understand why his father went through such pain just to stay alive for a little while longer.
Now he did.
Sherlock is still on the case while John goes through chemotherapy. Occasionally Sherlock calls and John lies to him. He tells him that everything is fine. Just a little tired, that's all. Sherlock is too caught up in the case to recognize that he is lying to him.
John's doctor tells him that he shouldn't be going through chemotherapy alone. He doesn't know who to ask for help. Ms. Hudson did not live with them any more. In any case she was much too old to care for John.
Help comes in the unlikely form of Mycroft. The day before John has to go to his first Chemotherapy, John walks in to find Mycroft lounging in his living room.
John isn't even the least bit surprised when Mycroft chastises him.
"You know you shouldn't be doing this alone."
That's when John explodes. He doesn't know why. Maybe it's because for the past couple of days he had been researching Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, and he is fed up of reading that he is probably going to die. Maybe it's all the anger he is slowly building up towards life. Why him? Why now? He was finally happy! He had found the love of his life! Maybe it's because he found himself slowly loosing control.
He curses and yells at Mycroft.
"I didn't ask for this! I don't want this! I was so happy!"
Before he knows it, tears are rocking his body and Mycroft's arms are around him, anchoring him to the world.
Mycroft does become his anchor.
When he starts to wretch his guts out after an intense session of chemotherapy, Mycroft is there with a comforting hand on his back.
When he stops eating and slowly looses weight, Mycroft basically force feeds him food.
Mycroft holds him when he is sobbing at night.
Mycroft shaves his head for him before he can notice any visible signs of hair loss.
He is always there, taking care of him.
One day, Sherlock calls and John is sleeping (he sleeps all the time now), so Mycroft answers the phone.
Sherlock immediately gets antsy and begins to ask many questions. What's wrong with John? Why are you there? Do I need to come home?
It takes Mycroft two hours to convince Sherlock that John is fine and that Sherlock really didn't need to rush home.
From then on, Mycroft takes all of Sherlock's calls. He is afraid Sherlock will hear the sound of John's voice and know he's sick.
John takes notice in the absence of calls from his boyfriend. He knows that Sherlock gets caught up in cases, but he just couldn't bear to think that the case would last so long that he wouldn't be able to see Sherlock ever again. He couldn't help but think that if Sherlock forgets him while he is alive, what will happen when he dies?
He doesn't dwell on it much.
A couple months later, the doctor calls John back into his office. The time is getting a bit chilly, so Mycroft bundles John up in jackets and sweaters and scarves. Mycroft's driver comes to pick them up and Anthea gives John a sorrow ridden smile. It's all John can do not to cry. He somehow manages to smile, but it comes out like more of a grimace.
John takes one look at his doctor and knows. His doctor has the same expression he found himself sporting in the war. It's the same look he gave the soldiers as he said "Sorry. Your friend is not going to make it."
Chemotherapy isn't working.
"There are other experimental trials we could try," his doctor suggests.
John is dead set against it.
He remembers his dad when he was on these "experimental trials." He was nothing but a shell of a man. John would rather be somebody. He would rather be coherent and knowing. The only way he could do that was to stick it through.
"How long would he have then, doctor?" Mycroft asks. He doesn't bother arguing with John.
The doctor gives him five months at most.
John was fine with that. Sherlock was supposed to be home in a couple of weeks, right around Christmas. At least he would be able to spend another Christmas with Sherlock before he died.
"When do you want to tell Sherlock?" Mycroft asks him one night as they watch the telly together.
"When he comes home," John responds. "I don't want to ruin this case for him."
John sends out an invitation for a Christmas party to all of his friends. He wants to spend sometime with them before the news of his sickness got out.
Mycroft and Anthea and some very scary looking men who Anthea called 'Mycroft's minions' decorate the flat. Mycroft genuinely looks as though he is having fun and Anthea doesn't touch her cell phone once. When John thinks back on this moment days later, he doesn't fell so lonely.
Sherlock arrives two days before Christmas. Anthea stays with John while Mycroft goes to pick Sherlock up from the airport. They spend an hour talking about what John was planning for the Christmas party. John is so ecstatic at the thought of Sherlock coming home he can hardly hold the conversation.
John had missed Sherlock so much.
Those moments where Anthea or Mycroft were there holding him, he couldn't help but wish it was Sherlock. He just wanted Sherlock close in these final months of his life. If he has just a couple of months with Sherlock before he dies, maybe, just maybe, he can die happy.
He remembers the days where he got mad at Sherlock. Where are you now? The one time I need you and you can't even be there for me!
John remembers the days his heart fells half empty because Sherlock isn't there. Sherlock is never there.
He remembers sobbing himself to sleep because of how sad and angry he was with Sherlock. Mycroft always seemed to know when he was in these moods because, more often than not, he cried over Sherlock alone.
When Sherlock finally lays eyes on him he is not happy.
"You lied to me." John thinks it's the first time he's heard Sherlock's voice crack.
Sherlock turns to Mycroft and explodes. "He's not sick! He's dying! Since when do you think it's your job to lie to me about the well-being of the man I love? This is low, Mycroft. Even for you!"
"I didn't tell you because John told me not to." Mycroft is calm and collected, as always.
Sherlock turns to look at John, his eyes flooded with tears. The thing about Sherlock was that he hardly ever showed emotions, but when he did, it was pure and raw.
"John," he says before clearing his throat.
"I didn't want to stress you while you were solving the case."
Sherlock walks up to him and gently reaches out to stroke is cheek. John's hand reaches up to cup his. "John, you're dying. You thought that springing it on me last minute would be any better?"
"I don't know, Sherlock," he said, letting his tears fall. "You never called, so I figured you were very busy."
He rips his hands away and yells, "I talked to Mycroft at least three times a week!" John knows Sherlock isn't yelling at him; John knows Sherlock is just frustrated, yet, he couldn't help but flinch.
"Sherlock!" Anthea and Mycroft both exclaim, shocked.
Sherlock's eyes travel over to John's. "Sorry."
"I'm sorry too," John begins. "I'm sorry for all of this. I should have told you."
Sherlock shakes his head before walking over and embracing John. John doesn't realize Sherlock is crying until he feels Sherlock's tears at the nape of his neck. "Please don't leave me," Sherlock was saying.
As if John had a choice.
John gets better with Sherlock's arrival. He begins to eating more and he seems to be gaining back the weight he lost with chemotherapy. When his friends arrive for the party he is actually up and about, putting on the last few touches on the flat for Christmas. Sherlock treats him like he's breakable, constantly watching him as if he could die any moment.
Sherlock is very somber. He hasn't said many words to John or Mycroft since his arrival. He does, occasionally, have random outbursts of affection and, on more than one occasions, John has found him searching the disease. He's trailing John as if waiting for waiting for a catastrophe when the guests arrive.
Ms. Hudson arrives first, then Greg and Molly, then Mike Stamford. John looks around hoping Harry decides to show up. A few minutes after everyone had started eating and mingling Harry shows up at the door in a little red dress.
"Harry!" John exclaims. "You're here."
Then John notices two of Mycroft's men behind her.
"I wasn't going to come, but these extremely brutal men convinced me otherwise."
John couldn't help but smile (he wasn't worried. He knew Mycroft's men would never purposely harm his sister). "I'm happy you're here."
John reaches for a hug. His sister makes a face but does not move. "I'm glad you're here."
"Yeah, yeah. You know I don't do well with sentiment," she says. She leans into her brother anyway.
Soon they are all gathered around the fireplace telling funny stories about each other, most of them directed towards John and how thin and pale he was. You auditioning for a role in Twilight, brother? John hadn't laughed that much in days. Even Mycroft cracked a smile a couple of times. John couldn't help but notice that a most of those smiles were directed and Greg.
Interesting.
Sherlock was not enjoying himself. He sat quietly beside John sulking and throwing glares at the fireplace. No one said a word to him until about an hour or two into the party when Harry says to John, "This is the guy you never shut up about? I thought he was going to be psychoanalyzing me or some shit."
Everybody turns their attention to Sherlock, waiting for a clever retort. None comes.
John clears his throat at the same time Ms. Hudson says, "Sherlock, how's about you play us a nice tune on your violin."
"I'm sorry. Is my solemnity annoying you?" Sherlock asks. John and Mycroft immediately realize what is about to happen.
"Sherlock," Mycroft says as a warning.
"Don't," Sherlock growls. "Don't you dare chastise me! John is dying, Mycroft. This is not the time to eat, drink, and be merry." His tone was sarcastic and bitter.
A series of gasps rang through out the room.
"Did you think for one moment," says Mycroft, "That maybe John wanted one last normal Christmas before he died? I know you mean well Sherlock, but for a man who has the potential to learn everything in the world, I cannot fathom why you have yet to learn to think before you speak."
Sherlock doesn't respond. Even if he had responded, no one would have heard him. They were all focused on John.
"John," his sister began. "What does he mean dying?"
"I'm dying Harry. I was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia a couple months a go."
"No." His sister's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Why didn't you tell us?" Molly asks. She sounds on the verge of tears. Ms. Hudson has already started to cry.
"I didn't want to worry you," John replies.
They all stare at him like he's ridiculous and John begins to feel ridiculous. It seemed like a great idea a couple months ago: to hide everything from his friends. He was wrong. They all looked so torn.
John could tell from the look on everyone's face that Christmas was ruined.
No one went home that night. They all had different questions about the disease. No one was too happy to hear that the doctor did not expect John to last through spring. The girls were a mess. Mascara was all over John's jumper from all the times Molly, Harry, and Ms. Hudson had buried their faces into John's jumper with Mascara stained faces.
Everyone was taking it horribly.
In the following weeks, not a day went by when John did not see one of his friends. Some stopped by every day after work. Others stayed as long as they could in Ms. Hudson's old flat.
Sherlock was surprisingly benevolent towards the visitors. He didn't even argue when Mycroft told him that he would be staying with John until he died.
They all watch as John gets noticeably worse.
John doesn't kid himself. He knows that he might not even have until the beginning of spring. By February, he decides to begin to say his goodbyes.
He says goodbye to Anthea first. Sweet, charming Anthea. They are in the kitchen one day while Mycroft is at work and Sherlock is out shopping.
He begins with "I had a really great time getting to know you these past few months."
She looks at him with cold, hard, calculating eyes. "Is this supposed to be a goodbye?"
John solemnly nods. "My days are growing shorter. I don't want to leave before saying goodbye to everyone."
Anthea's eyes slowly fill with tears. "I really wish I had gone on that date with you the first time you asked. You are a magnificent man, John Watson. Out of all of us, you are least worthy of death."
John smiles. "Thank you." He really wants to cry, but he doesn't. He has to accept his fate, no matter how hard it is. "You are magnificent as well Anthea. When I'm gone, give Mycroft a hard time for me, will you?"
She nods furiously. "Of course. All the time."
"And don't forget to put down that phone once in a while. You don't know what you're missing while you're constantly typing away."
She nods again. This time a sob catches in her throat and she begins to cry.
John puts her arm around her. "Shh," he says. "It'll be okay."
"No it won't!"
John doesn't have the heart to lie to her.
Ms. Hudson comes for a visit a couple days later.
He gives her his biggest grin and says, "You're a wonderful woman, Ms. Hudson."
"Thank you, dear."
"Listen, I'm going to die soon."
Ms. Hudson's countenance changes. She becomes grim.
"Please John," she says. "We don't have to talk about this."
"Yes we do. We have to. I would hate to die and not have said goodbye to you."
"We don't have to say goodbye."
"Ms. Hudson," John starts, his voice low and a little chastising. "You know we have to."
She begins to cry. "John, you are the son I have always wanted. I just –I can't say goodbye to you."
"I know. You're like a mother to me as well, but everyone has to say goodbye sometime."
"I never imagined it this way. I'm supposed to be saying goodbye to you. I'm supposed to be telling you to take care of the flat and Sherlock -" Her voice breaks and she begins to sob.
"It's okay," John coos. "It's alright."
Ms. Hudson just sobs harder.
Greg is next. They're sitting watching a rerun of a rugby game.
When the game breaks, John turns to Greg.
"Greg," He begins.
"Yeah?"
"I had a lot of fun solving crimes with you, man."
Greg grins. "I did too."
"It's sad to think that we'll never do that again."
"You never know. If Sherlock can solve crimes in bed, so can you."
John can tell that Greg is trying very hard to make the conversation light hearted.
John shakes his head. "I'm no Sherlock Holmes."
"Thank God, eh? Imagine the world with two Sherlock Holmes."
Greg is desperately trying to avoid the subject.
"We have to have this conversation, Greg. "
"What conversation?"
"I want to say goodbye to you before I die."
The mood darkens significantly.
"And I have to beg you to do me a favor," John says.
"Anything," his voice is hoarse with sadness.
"Take care of Sherlock. You know he won't let Mycroft help him. He'll need you."
"If you're asking me to replace you -"
John cuts him off. "No," he says. "I would never ask you to do something like that. That wouldn't be fair to you and that wouldn't be fair to him. All I'm asking is that you look after him for me. He can't go through life alone, no matter how much he says he can. He'll just end up killing himself."
"Sherlock's very hard headed, he hardly ever does what I tell him. I can't promise you that I will keep him out of harm, but I promise I'll do my best."
"That's all I'm asking."
Molly is a little harder to say good bye to. The second John tries to say goodbye, she begins to sob.
"I don't want you to go." She says, furiously shaking her head. "And I don't want to say goodbye to you. Not now, not ever."
John wipes the bitter tears from her face. "Molly, I need you to be strong for me. Can you do that?"
She shakes her head again. "No. You know I can't."
"Please," John begs. "If you can't be strong, who is going to take care of Sherlock?"
"Ask Greg, or Mycroft."
"Neither of them can care for Sherlock like you."
Then Molly gets it. She understands what John is asking. She begins to shake her head again. "No. I can't. John. I can't even begin to compete with you. Sherlock loves you so much."
"I know, but, after I die, Sherlock won't need somebody to love, he'll need someone who loves him. No one loves Sherlock like you do Molly."
"You do."
"And that's why I'm begging you to be strong for me Molly. Be strong for Sherlock."
"I don't know if I can."
"You'll have to."
Molly envelops him in a hug, burying her face in his chest. She can't reply. All she can do is sob.
Harry is next.
She is rambling on and on about what they could do after she finishes rehab and John has gotten better.
"Harry," He says, when she speaks about going ice skating. Remember that year dad said he was going to take us? We never did get to go. We should go. "I won't be able to do that."
"Well not know, of course. Maybe later."
John immediately realizes what she's doing. It's her coping mechanism. Back when their father died, she did the same thing. She did it again when their mother left.
"Harry, stop."
"Stop what?"
"You know I'll never be able to do any of those things with you."
"John-"
"Harry. I'm dying. I might not even be alive tomorrow."
John watched as his sister's expression hardened. "No, please don't. You're not making this any easier for me."
"Harry, we have to face this. It's happening. There is no way we can avoid this."
"Please John," Harry begs. "I can't think about this. I've tried, but then my throat constricts and I stop being able to breathe for a while. John, you're all I have left. Please, I've watched so many people leave me in my lifetime. Please, please don't leave."
"Harry, I know it's not easy-"
"John, it's more than that. I'm drowning John. If you leave, I'll have no one! Where will I find the will to live?"
"You have to keep holding on, Harry. Remember when dad was dying? Remember what he told us?"
Harry smiles through her tears. "'British people are notorious for having a stiff upper lip. We don't cry about anything.'"
"Can you do that Harry? Can you keep a stiff upper lip?"
"I don't think so."
"What if I told you that I called Clara?"
Harry stares at him in shock. "You did what?"
Tears were long forgotten.
"I called Clara."
"Please tell me you're joking right now or I will end you!"
John laughs. "That's the Harry I know and have to put up with."
"Don't laugh. Don't you dare laugh. Did you really call her?"
"Yes," John says. "And she says that she still loves you."
"She does?" Harry's voice was awe filled. "But she left me."
"Because she didn't want to be there when you drank yourself to death."
Harry, at this point, wasn't even listening. "She still loves me."
"Yes, we just went over this."
Harry bends to place a kiss on her brother's forehead. "Thank you little brother. You are, officially the best!"
Mycroft was the one to approach him. "I think it's time I said goodbye to you, John."
John looks up at him from where he is lying. "I've been saving you and Sherlock for last."
Mycroft gives him a small smile. "I could tell. So, are you going to give me a lecture about taking care of my brother."
John weakly shakes his head. "No. You would do that anyway. I do have to thank you though."
"Thank me?"
"If it wasn't for you, I would have been dead a long time ago. You came in and took care of me when you had no obligation to. You're like a guardian angel."
"I can assure you that I'm nothing of the sort."
"It sort of feels like you are."
Mycroft smiles at him once more. "I suppose I could take that as a complement."
"Take care of yourself, yeah?"
"Of course."
"And take care of Greg."
Mycroft gives him a wondrous look. "Why would you say that?"
"I saw the looks you were giving him at the Christmas party."
"What looks?"
"Mycroft," John says, his voice a little chastising. "Humor me, okay. Ask him out for drinks."
The corner of Mycroft's lips twitch. "Maybe. . ."
"That's good enough for me."
John knew he was going to die. He felt the life leaving him. He had mere minutes before his passing. Sherlock sat beside his bed holding his hand.
"Sherlock, I'm dying."
"I know."
"No, I mean I'm dying right now, and I need you to just be quiet for five minutes, okay."
Sherlock nods.
"I love you," John says. "I love you so much, and I know you love me, so you don't have to tell me. Please, never forget me. I had so much fun knowing you. You are, literally, the best thing that has ever happened to me. I love you with every inch of my being and it's because I love you that I'm telling you that you have to move on after I die-"
"What?"
"Shh. I just want you to be happy Sherlock and you know you won't be happy if you sit around all day mourning me."
"John, I love you. I will always love you. No one else could compare."
"Someone might, Sherlock, if you let them in."
"I can't do that."
"Sherlock you have to. You have to move on after I die. Please."
"No, John."
"Please, it's all I ask."
Sherlock begins to sob. He can't answer.
"I love you Sherlock. I love you so much."
Seconds later John takes his last breath and descends into peace.
Sorry if I got some facts about ALL wrong. I've never actually witnessed someone die of Leukemia before. If I got something wrong, feel free to chastise me.
Disclaimer: I do not own.