Title: here be the dragons
Summary: Sherlock smokes. John dies of lung cancer. / John is a prophet foreseeing his own doom, and Sherlock imperfectly forgets in denial. / AU, before Reichenbach.
Warnings: Character death.
Author's Notes: I, honestly, know nothing about cancer save the slightest bit I've researched to write this. If I manage to insult someone or get any facts incorrect, apologies in advance. WHICH is the reason why I don't go as in-depth as much as I wish I did.
Enjoy.
Sherlock smoked.
The habit started years ago, back at Uni, back when life was spiraling, spiraling, spiraling out of control.
But, the habit would stick.
Sherlock took a deep drag from his half-burned cigarette, watching London behind the window pane. It was a cool, murky morning, and the world move sluggishly. The sky was a dull grey, dripping with the softest patters of rain. He let out a small huff, breath and smoke fogging the glass.
John sat in his armchair, fingers wrapped around a hot mug of tea. He held it up, blowing to cool his drink. The steam licked his face. "Sherlock-"
"Hm?" Sherlock grunted absently, continuing to stare.
John, lowering his mug, glared. The wool sweater he was wearing over his pajamas did nothing to make him look menacing. "Those are going to kill you."
In response, Sherlock turned his head slightly sideways and let out a long puff of smoke, just enough for it to tickle John's ear.
"Git. Second-hand smoke is gong to kill me."
A small smile flitted across Sherlock's face. Still relaxed, he quipped, "That's why I got your ear, not your nose. I'm not that rude."
"Right." John mumbled.
"Pardon?"
"What happened to cold turkey, Sherlock?"
"What cold turkey?" he asked innocently, turning to face John. His bare feet skidded slightly against the floor.
John sighed before rising. "You deleted it, didn't you."
Sherlock ignored him and set down the nearly burnt-out cigarrete in an ashtray by the window. He raised his violin to his chin. "Any suggestions?"
"Yes. How about the song stop smoking?"
Sherlock, unperturbed, raised an eyebrow and began to play, ignoring John's clear annoyance.
"Seriously, Sherlock," John grumbled, rising out of his seat and placing the mug onto a desk. He shuffled to the nearest wall, a hand rubbing a few scars made by scorch marks and nicotine breaths. "Mrs. Hudson isn't going to be happy."
Sherlock continued to play. The cigarette finally simmered down to nothing but embers.
It starts.
There are times when Sherlock just sprints for the fun of it. The feeling of soaring, the wind whispering about him to go on, to be free- well, it's almost as good as flying.
So when he can't think because the rain is too loud and the drapes are too red and he can't smoke because John hid his cigarettes (and nicotine patches)- again, damn it- running is one of the firsts things he flees to, aside from his violin. (The thing's back in the shop, again, getting practically reconstructed due to a certain incident involving chocolate, Bunsen burners, and half a pancreas. It was still a sore subject when brought up.)
Wrapping the scarf around his neck with utmost expertise, he called from the bottom of the stairs, "Hurry up, John! Lestrade wants us there by seven!"
Because of course he needs an excuse to run.
"Maybe if you didn't insist at causing the sink to blow up at two in the morning I wouldn't be this- this-" a cascade of coughing is carried to Sherlock's ears. He rolled is eyes.
"Grumpy?" Sherlock continued, half-amused.
John, halfway down the stairs, leaned against the wall as the cough persisted. Finally, face red and voice hoarse, "We're-" a needed breath, "-not finished with our conversation."
"Which one?"
John glared, not a trace of laughter in his eyes. "Stop smoking, Sherlock. You're going to kill me."
There are certain absurd beliefs that Sherlock holds absolute faith in.
One, John is perfect, and because of this, two, he cannot die.
Sherlock's seen death, of course. To say that he hadn't would be a lie.
He's seen his handful of men with bullets in their brains matching the guns in their hands. He's seen women brutally abused and left for dead.
But no-one close to him- no human, anyways- has ever failed him by dying.
So when he thinks John is immortal, John is a legend, John is the friend he doesn't and will never deserve- well, it's not just a thought, it's a fact, in Sherlock's eyes.
They are unstoppable, even unto death.
Which is why Sherlock wore a grin saved for rainy days (not that he ever has them) and trudged on. "You're not going to die."
Despite what Sherlock believes, John's not immortal. He's made of flesh and blood- he's human. "I'm going to get a check-up."
The grin shies away from Sherlock's eyes, which he rolled in response. "Come on. The rain's just stopped."
Denial is a funny thing- it pushes away the bad, glass memories and builds new good ones out of stone.
They haven't even rounded a block when the wind attempted to kill them.
Almost as if on cue, John was sent into another bout of wheezing, leaning forward and hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.
Sherlock dashed back to his side, silent, though his eyes show some sort of childlike whining mixed with worry. "Not good?"
John held up a hand. Nearly a minute later, he managed a, "Sorry," voice still hoarse.
"I've already got that appointment scheduled." Sherlock said, and in the corner of his eyes, John managed to catch Sherlock slip his phone back in his pocket.
The world still swayed when he straightened up. "Thanks."
"Mm." Sherlock mumbled. He walked a few meters to his left, opening up a cab door and gesturing in. The childish gleam was now gone from his eyes. "We're taking the cab to the station."
"How did you manage to call one that quickly?"
"I didn't."
Though their race around the city wasn't quite completed, Sherlock felt some sort of satisfaction leaving someone in the dust.
"Twelve days," Sherlock thought aloud, as he crossed out another day on their new doctor-approved calendar. (One of the perks of being a doctor was getting free stuff- from pens, to checkbooks, to calendars. One of the perks of befriending a doctor was the access to all those things.)
"Hm?" John called from the sitting room before entering the kitchen. His face looked drawn with fatigue. "Pardon?"
"Nothing." Sherlock replied, placing the red Sharpie he had used on the counter and stepping away from the refrigerator. The calendar clung to the door with its three strips of masking tape.
John glanced from the Sherlock, to the calendar, and back to Sherlock again. He sighed. "Back to cold turkey for you."
A groan. Though John didn't look exactly threatening in his fuzzy brown jumper and bathrobe, Sherlock still playfully protested. "But John-"
"Nope!" John interrupted, still managing to pop the p. A smile graced his face. "We're breaking out of this habit for good."
Sherlock didn't go with John on the first trip to the doctor.
John returned, breathing heavily. "They're referring me to a pulmonologist."
"Hm?" Sherlock asked, lounging in his chair. His hands form a steeple, fingers drumming themselves among each other. "Why do you need a lung specialist?"
John doesn't answer, his face was drawn and gaunt. The jumper he wore at the moment hung off of him slightly, like a skin not fitting its master. "Because."
He said the word in a voice that's given up on something.
"And why did you need the cane?" Sherlock said, turning his head to see John leaning it against the wall.
"So I don't have to bend over to catch my breath."
"Hm." Sherlock repeated, ruminating. He closed his eyes and propped his feet up.
"Did you make the tea?" John asked, wandering into the kitchen. After a few silent moments, he tried again. "Sherlock? Sher-lock."
Turning, he found his flat mate in an almost sleep-like position.
John began to fill the kettle with water. "Bloody mind palace."
"Ignoring the signs, aren't you?" Mycroft said, leaning against the make-belief desk.
Sherlock looked outside his study. The world was a muddled grey, and he didn't have the energy to conjure something up to make it more colorful. "No."
"My condolences."
"He's not dead yet," Sherlock hissed, standing up in protest. "He's a soldier. He'll survive."
"He's a doctor," Mind Palace Mycroft threw back, "He knows he won't."
"They're going to do some scans the next time around." John said, feeling the need to update. Two mugs were in hand. "Tea?"
Sherlock opened one eye and took the hot mug. The warmth spread through his cold fingers, while the steam gave off some rejuvenating scent. "Scans? For what?"
John sighed, sitting down in the other chair across the taller man. "Never mind."
Sherlock eyed him for a moment. Heavy, concentrated breathing- John's free hand clenching his chest in hidden pain- a box of tissues just a finger's reach-
Sherlock ignores all of these.
Denial is a funny thing.
Sherlock is accustomed to waking up at one in the morning. He's also accustomed to pulling all-nighters for a case, or an experiment.
He also knows John's sleeping schedule like the back of his hand.
On busy weeks, he rarely gets any nightmares, due to the sheer exhaustion. On normal weeks, he gets two or three around the mid-weekdays (Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday) around 11:00-1:00, which is why Sherlock tends to keep his violin near the area during these days.
Sherlock doesn't know what to do during those rare times when nothing's happening, because something's always happening.
So when he heard John coughing at 1:48 AM, something was bound to be wrong.
He dashed to the bathroom, grabbing his violin by the sink while tossing his goggles by the microwave.
"John!" He nearly yelped.
John was bent over the toilet, the onslaught of coughs wracking his body muck like a volley of bullets.
John Watson is fighting his fight, but he's losing.
The air is soiled with the thick scent of blood.
"I-" John gasped, before being taken up again by another attack of coughs. His right sleeve was covered in a coat of familiar red. His left arm grasped the edge od the toilet.
Sherlock placed the violin on the floor, kneeling beside his friend and rubbing his back. The cotton felt comforting under his hands.
Both of them know John isn't the only one in need of comfort.
The rest of the morning is a haze of bringing John to the emergency room and waiting.
The waiting is what nearly kills Sherlock.
After a few hours, Sherlock found himself glancing around the room.
Everything was white.
White walls (milky white, recoated last year) and white sheets (polyester, 100%) and white machines that dripped in nutrients from an IV and white machines that helped John breathe and white machines that graphed John's constant heart rate.
He hated it.
"I told you to stop smoking."
"Shut up." A pause. Sherlock shifted around in his bleach white plastic chair. "The doctor said you have cancer and-"
"I know, Sherlock." A shaky breath. "I bloody well knew."
"Knew what?"
"That I had- have cancer! The signs were clear!"
"Self-diagnosis isn't wise, Dr. Watson."
"Smoking isn't wise either, Mr. Holmes!"
Another short, angry silence followed.
"I thought you didn't care." John admitted reluctantly, pressing a button on the arm of the bed. The bed slowly moved, arching itself to bring John into a sitting position.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, an eyebrow raised.
"You saw the signs and you smiled, like it was some-" another breath "-some big joke."
"John-"
"I was coughing up blood-"
"John-"
"I was choking on the air that was supposed to save me-"
"John."
From then on, things are taken in small, bitter steps.
John quit his job. Sherlock, however (no matter how much he might want to [which he didn't,]) couldn't.
They've gotten into the habit of waking up at eight and, for John, at least, going to bed by nine. Sometimes, he heard Sherlock scuffling around the kitchen before falling asleep.
For the first few weeks, Sherlock miraculously stays up for days, searching through countless textbooks and calling handfuls of people for an answer.
"If there was a cure, everyone would have known it by now." John rasped on the thirteenth day.
It was a Saturday, but the weather doesn't give the people time to rest as it pours down torrent after torrent of rain.
Sherlock continued to silently gaze into his microscope, but even from afar, John could see his gaze harden.
Neither of them mention it when Sherlock cleared the kitchen counter from any trace of cancer research.
"Look, Sherlock," Lestrade began, the apologetic note in his voice unhidden, "I know you want to spend time with John, but it's an eight. Please come."
Sherlock, at the other end of the line, raised his eyebrows as a grin settled in. "We'll be there in ten. However, I do charge for my assistance."
"Alright, I'll find a way to pay you back- wait, 'we?' But-"
Sherlock slid a thumb across the angry END CALL button, slipped the phone into his pocket, and turned to John. "You took your meds?"
"Yes." John grumbled, grabbing his cane while rising from his seat on the sofa. Sherlock's grin melted into a small smile, amused. "What, Sherlock?"
"I didn't even make the offer." With one quick movement, Sherlock's coat, gloves, and scarf is on him. The smile returned to its original state as a grin. "Come on, then."
John made tea while Sherlock constantly put him in danger.
John forgave while Sherlock forgot.
They both thought that the other was indestructible.
"Chemotherapy's boring."
"For you, it is. For me-"
"Admit it, John."
"...fine, it's boring. But if it'll extend my life, I'll take it."
Sherlock disliked how he used the word extend instead of save.
Sometimes, during chemo, he'd find himself staring blankly at the clock.
A minute whizzed by. A second follows it, as impatient as the first, and also flees.
But no matter how speedily they dart by, the session as a whole seemed to crawl by sluggishly on all fours.
That, John thought in his spare moments, was a curse of being immortal. Thank goodness he wasn-
The thought dispersed itself in moments.
John was left to ponder nothing, because ruminating on anything would end up dragging back to the subject of his forthcoming, untimely death.
"John."
"Hm?"
A sharp, nevous intake of breath. "Do you forgive me?"
The phrase was dressed in a casual manner, as if Sherlock was a normal human being and merely talking about the weather, but the second John's eyes snapped onto the other blue pair, he saw something.
Sherlock kept his steely gaze, at this instant but both men knew that the other was afraid.
John halted what he was doing (which was putting away the groceries, because whether he liked it or not, Sherlock was never going to buy the milk,) to place both hands on Sherlock's forearms. They stood, embracing the moment's peace.
Finally, John spoke, eyes kept in Sherlock. "Read me."
He could see Sherlock's gaze flicker about his being.
After a minute, Sherlock met John's eyes again, but this time with a solemn, broken oath. "Thank you," he near-whispered, before gently pulling himself out of John's grasp.
There were days when John's smile can fool him.
(Those days they spend talking, solving, walking, running and free.)
There were days when it doesn't, but the mask still pulls through the beatings his own body gave.
(Those days Sherlock spends playing the violin, his faithful strings and bow bringing some comfort into the room.)
And there were other days when John didn't even bother to put on a mask.
(And those were the days Sherlock would scrounge around through his old notes for a cure- maybe he missed something, maybe there was another, obvious clue-)
John dies of lung cancer.
It was a cold Thursday.
The rain dribbled down in a messy manner, splattering itself against the window and anything it could reach, just to intrude a moment.
John hoped just seeing the rain might sooth the pain.
He mustered all his strength to hobble (rather ungraciously) and stand by the window. Every breath he took just hurts and his chest felt like he was on fire and
everything hurts.
One hand held onto the cane for support, while the other retreated back into the jumper and began to rub his chest.
Sherlock wasn't here- he was out for a quick case, and he should be back before the hour finished.
For now, John is alone.
And the thought was frightening.
He had (tried to) aid an alcoholic sister. He did fought in a war. He was shot. He (used to) chase down criminals around the great cesspool of London.
But he was never alone through all of that.
He leaned forward on the window pane, the cool touch immediately making his shoulders relax.
He kept his eyes opened, looking down. Thousands of people swirled below him, never bothering to look up.
If any did, John wondered how many would see a dying man. Or a stalker. Or a doctor. Or a soldier. Or a vigilante.
Or if they would see anything at all.
His chest felt like it was going to collapse in on itself.
Maybe it would be a great collapsing-in, like when the Elizabeth Tower would finally bend its knees and fall, or when those Twin Towers in America stood its ground while it crumpled in on itself.
Or maybe it would be small, but forced, like those office buildings construction workers tore down due to 'problems with plumbing' or 'mold' or 'infestation' or whatever the problem was with the poor thing.
Being alone left too many stray thoughts.
Though the rain brought a comfort to his chest, it made his shoulder ache.
"Damn." John muttered, and began to turn around to retreat.
Before his heel could pivot, his legs buckled beneath him.
His chest felt like a thousand needles were puncturing through it and into his lungs and-
Breathe, Watson. You'll survive.
His mind was reeling, knowing the looming inevitable fate that was coming too soon. No, not now, when he had a thousand things to finish, a thousand other things to start, people to take care of-
Blackness.
Then nothing.
Sherlock smoked.
John died of lung cancer.
Sherlock found him on the ground thirty minutes later, mind trying to turn and turn like a well-oiled machine that just broke down due to some hopefully-worthy cause.
Denial, Sherlock learned, was a funny thing.
Sherlock does the eulogy because he wouldn't let anyone else do it.
"John Watson," he begins, "was a man."
Fin.