Disclaimer: I'm neither Moffat nor Gatiss, not even the BBC- just silly ol' me.
So here I am then. This is me in a spare white bed, aching, tied up to as many catheters and tubes as one could imagine. At least more than I'd like to ever have imagined. But it's too late for my complaint now; I know what is going to happen. I know that this is it.
Greg said so earlier, that I won't last long here. So it must be true. I've put one thing to another and have figured that I'm going to die, but my parents mustn't know. So shush! It just depends on when. And I don't know yet what I am to think of that either. I mean, I guess you're not supposed to think about these sort of things anyway when you're barely seven. But me, well I'm different.
And I am going to die, in contrast to all the average six year-olds whose existence I am acquaintance to. They probably do typical six-year old-things, think about what they'll get for Christmas, or how pretty their Mom is, yadda, yadda. Nonsense, my Mom is the most beautiful lady in the world. Period. I wouldn't know anyone else who could compare.
The room is still empty, apart from a few of my things, another unattended bed, windows with a perfect view on roadworks, a washbasin and a bible hanging loosely on the wall, there is not much to look at. At least I have my dog, Redbeard.
He's not really a dog of course, that would be stupid. Just a cuddly toy. He can be helpful though, sometimes. I always have him by my side. My Mom bought him for me for when I refused to eat my food. Never did she know that my denial of it had entirely different reasons than defiance, surprisingly not even I did.
Mycroft would, under normal circumstances, most likely have made a joke about how I could have been so stupid as to miss an issue as evident as this a long time ago. His daft, feeble, vulnerable little brother. If he weren't so busy caring for me nowadays. And I wouldn't know about normal circumstances anyhow.
There was a time when we actually played together, the both of us. Either detectives or pirates. When it was my time to choose, I always chose pirates. Because pirates are cool. Obviously. And Mycroft? He chose the detective one, of course. He wants to be one when he grows up. But I rather doubt he'll get so far, he's too slow. His knees are knobbly. And he really is slower than me, could you believe that? I mean, I'm eight years younger and beat him? Like every time. A six-year old. That's some devil's play.
Daddy's wish that I'll grow up to be a strong young man once, with strengths, dreams and expectations, I guess I won't be able to fulfil. Which is a sad thought, really. I think he had many hopes for me, Sherlock, his youngest. Of course he tries to cover it up, like every good Daddy would. But I can see that he is disappointed. Let's just hope he isn't too mad in the end.
But truly, just take a look at me, I can't even walk. The cancer has gotten too far; it's everywhere, so my bones can't be the one exception. Of course. Because my body must hate me. Naturally the doctors always say that it's the Neuroblastoma that really hates me, but I won't buy that. I will not accept some strange cancer, that's so totally not cool. I'd rather battle my body than lose to a cancer with determination of steel inside of me. At least I know that my body is weak.
The doctor will check on me soon, or that's what I heard. What the nurses told me, when I was only listening half-heartedly, some time ago. My family is gone, but I can't quite put my finger on it where. Well, they'll come and visit me soon anyhow. Mycroft will make sure of that.
So that means I'm alone, in this sodding room. Alone with a bloody fever. Not that I wouldn't be accustomed to that now, but it just sucks. Honestly, it's crap. Well then, let the battle begin...
I already feel a yawn escaping my mouth reluctantly. You probably don't get how annoying it is for me, but I am intended to sleep like three-quarters of every day. And it's absolutely horrible. The worst thing about is that I really do, like a baby. My body needs the sleep, they say. To outsleep the exhaustion.
Besides, it seems to need it too very much at the time. There is no other reason why my eyes suddenly turn on me and I see nothing, black. Even my eyes betray me. But black is better than the fever. Than the hurt. I give in.
And then, only seconds later, I hear a sound. Very distant, indistinct. But a sound, a few different voices. My eyelids are too heavy to lift themselves up again. Which is a pity. I would like to know what is going on.
"... John, we'll just do another test and next you'll be a free man-" I am able to catch before I finally drift off to sleep. John, John, sounds oddly familiar. I know him somewhere, don't I? The free man. I like the sound of that.
But then I'm finally gone, my mind completely blank. I'm not sure I like that. I'd much rather be awake.