Broken Soldier

Chapter 1: My Broken Hallelujah

By DeathlyCarrots, Beta'd by Vozana666.

Maybe I've been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.

(***)

Sherlock sat huddled in his sheets late on a Thursday night, his mind turning over and over, ruling out any options of sleep.

He couldn't help but worry about his roommate, who had being displaying some rather worrisome traits as of late. Forgetfulness, irritability, aggression, mood swings, confusion. It had been going on for several months, and Sherlock grew more and more anxious with each passing symptom.

He knew full well what these symptoms meant, but he couldn't bring himself to draw up that conclusion. So he waited and waited, biding his time.

He wondered how long it would be before the major changes started happening.

Sherlock was fine with losing an acquaintance, a friend, a roommate. But to lose John, even the thought was unforgivable.

Sherlock was not a selfish man, but he was using his own fear as a reason to not draw attention to John's attitude.

This fact disgusted him.

So therefore he made the decision to suggest John go for a brain scan. Just to make sure.

Sherlock is almost never wrong, but this time, he prayed to whatever God that would listen to him that he was.

(***)

"Sherlock, this is ridiculous." John stated in his most disdainful tone.

"Humour me." Sherlock snapped as he pushed his friend to the doors of the hospital, exactly one week after he had booked a brain scan for John.

"You're being ridiculous."

Sherlock remained silent.

"Why do you care so much? I'm just a bit grumpy! It's normal!"

"Because I'm your friend, John. And I care."

"Are you?" John asked with genuine curiosity. Sherlock fought hard to remain silent at this obvious sign of impairment of the semantic memory.

"Yes, John. I am your friend."

"Oh." John murmured quietly, lost in thought. Sherlock sighed and paced impatiently in the waiting room, taking deep breaths. He honestly had no idea why the possibility of John dying scared him so much. He'd never been very fearful of death, or what brings death on, but for the first time, he was afraid to be alone.

(***)

As the torturously long minutes ticked over, Sherlock grew worried.

'What's taking this long? A brain scan need only last 5 minutes! It's nearly been 10!'

Just as Sherlock formed that thought, a grumpy looking doctor exited the now open doorway, closely followed by an irritated John. Sherlock nearly fell over in his hurry to greet his friend, but he withdrew into himself, his face becoming the cool, calculating look that it usually occupied. He turned to the doctor.

"Well?" He demanded in a low voice.

"Sir, I think you should probably sit down."

Sherlock swallowed the uncomfortable lump in his throat and turned to John.

"John, go wait by the door."

"What-no! You should hear the things this incompetent man is coming out with, Sherlock. Madness!" John spluttered.

"That's an order, Watson!" Sherlock snapped, and regretted his words almost instantly.

Any reminder of John's days in the army almost always brought a pang of hurt to the soldier's face, and Sherlock felt guilty for pulling that card. John snapped to attention, his eyes blank.

He seemed to begin to defy Sherlock, but he slowly turned to the door and shuffled over there, his shoulders slumped and his head bowed. Sherlock sighed and silently hoped that this situation wouldn't bring on nightmarish repercussions. He himself did as he was told, and gracefully lowered himself into the chair.

"It appears that Mr Watson has a disease that goes by the name of Alzheimer's. Do you know of it?" The doctor murmured.

"Yes." Sherlock replied simply, his voice catching at the end.

"Do you realise what will happen to him?"

"Yes."

"If you like, we could keep him here, at the hospital. There is nothing we can do for him, but we would make him as comfortable as possible."

"No. He's coming home with me." Sherlock stood abruptly and made his way over to the scowling John.

"Come along, John. We're going home."

(***)

John tossed his jacket on his chair and fell down wearily on top of it, closing his eyes and sighing. He could sense Sherlock staring at him, and opened his eyes a few millimetres to see his roommate staring at him with shrewd, waiting eyes.

"What?" John asked, shifting uneasily in his seat.

"John, you're dying."

John huffed. "Don't sugar coat it." He said sarcastically.

"It would do you no good."

"I'm not dying, Sherlock. I'm absolutely fine. Just tired."

Sherlock groaned in impatience and pulled scan results from his briefcase. He threw them at John, knowing that the army doctor would not be able to ignore medicinal possibilities.

He waited patiently while John glanced intently at the sheets of plastic, his brow furrowing as he began to understand what he was seeing.

"I...this is my...this is my brain?" It was more of a whispered statement than a question, but Sherlock replied with an equally weak voice.

"Yes."

"I am dying."

"Yes." Sherlock breathed, fighting to remain strong. John's brown eyes were watery and pained as he looked up into the equally troubled blue-grey eyes of his best friend. He gulped, breathing heavily.

"Sherlock...help me."

(***)

Maybe there's a God above
And all I ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you
It's not a cry you can hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah