Hi, this is my first time writing for Sherlock.

Ok, just a few quick things. I don't have the help and support of a beta reader so any mistakes spelling, grammar or otherwise you may find are mine alone and I would like to apologise for them in advance. As well as any errors that may be found regarding the technical stuff. Although I did research the technical aspects of this story I am not a medical professional. Lastly unfortunately I don't own anything to do with Sherlock; I have merely borrowed a couple of the characters for a while. But I promise to return them, honest!

Thank you to those who have taken the time to read my story. It is much appreciated and means a lot. I have made a few slight changes to the layout. I hope it makes for an easier and more enjoyable read.

For You

His face blushed and for the first time in his life his hands shook. The white, sterile room swam in and out of focus and his mind whirled with a thousand different memories. Any attempts to make his body obey his commands were futile, his arms and legs flailed and despite his best efforts he never left the cold, tile floor. Voices crept through the fog that still clouded his mind. He heard the concern and somewhere deep within him registered it was for him. But still they seemed a thousand miles away.

He felt his body lift and as the hospital floor fell away his mind transported him to a beautiful crystal clear lake, floating gently within the confines of an expertly crafted wooden boat. Softly he drifted, just the lapping of the waves to guide him. Whilst his mind was away only he knew were his body was being lifted from the floor and placed tentatively on a hospital bed.

As he was beginning to enjoy his quiet, peaceful vision he felt himself pulled away, furiously he tried to claw his way back to his own imaginary paradise. But it was too late. The lake blurred before him and the boat disappeared.

So abrupt was John Watson's return to reality that the next thing he was aware of was the blinding light as he opened his eyes. Quickly slamming them shut tight he waited patiently for his eyes to come to terms with the sudden onslaught before gingerly trying again. Continuing with this gradual process until he felt he could open them without discomfort he started to take in his surroundings and tried desperately to remember how he got there. Single words and mixed up images came back to him merging together to form a kaleidoscope of his life. Then… like a bolt of lightning it was there; hitting him with such force he momentarily reeled from the shock. Then he felt it start to build. That deep seated, white hot anger he knew he was capable of. It didn't come to the surface often. As a soldier and a doctor he had been heavily trained to suppress it and get on with the job at hand. But there were occasions when the little box he kept it in failed to contain it…and today was one of those days.

Appalled with himself he muttered angrily under his breath and the blush still visible on his features deepened once again. "…a doctor, a bloody army doctor and I faint because I get a bit of bloody bad news. Christ, I'm glad Sherlock wasn't here to see that. It is NOT something he needs to know about."

Still muttering to himself he becomes aware of warmth on his wrist and realises a nurse is taking his pulse. Her touch is soft and gentle and for that split second he revels in the touch of another human being. God he needs that; needs to feel physical comfort from someone. Then bitterness creeps in as he realises there is no one. Harry is probably too drunk by now to know what day it is and Sherlock well, he bites back a laugh. He wouldn't even know where to start. No he is alone in this mess, alone and angry.

Seeing he was aware of her presence and happy that his pulse was normal the experienced young woman continued with her assessment.

"Nice to see you back with us Dr Watson" she smiles. "Are you feeling alright?"

Wanting only to regain some of his lost dignity the doctor sprang into action. Swinging his legs over the side, he pushed himself up and off the bed and straightened his back as much as his body would allow. Embarrassment stopped him from looking her directly in the eye so he faced front and stood tall like a soldier on parade.

"Yes I'm fine. I'm sorry about …well you know… ", he just couldn't bring himself to admit that John Watson army doctor had fainted and his voice faltered to almost a whisper "…that."

The nurse, despite her limited years, knew her job well and dealing with many different people on a daily basis she had developed an understanding about communicating with patients. So with kindness and compassion but a firmness born of experience she began to speak.

"Dr Watson… John… receiving news like yours is a massive shock for anyone and we see many different reactions to it. I work on the belief that everyone is different and must be allowed to absorb what we tell them in their own way and in their own time. There is no right way to be or right things to do; you just have to follow what you feel. So if leaving us for a few moments is what you needed to do make no apology for it and don't feel ashamed. You have done nothing wrong." Coughing nervously to clear the lump in his thought he very quietly uttered his response

"Thank you."

Feeling a slight sense of satisfaction as she noticed the blush on his skin start to recede, she spoke again "Take your time and leave when you're ready. If you need anything or want to ask anything you have our number. Goodbye Doctor Watson." With that she left the room quickly and quietly, leaving the army doctor alone with his thoughts.

Walking through the bustling streets of London he watched as people he had never met went about menial, insignificant tasks; the weekly shop, the commute to work, the shepherding of overexcited tourists. All the things he'd seen a hundred times before. But this time, this time was different. This time the white, hot rage he had fought to keep contained in the hospital bubbled underneath the surface. This time he wanted to stand underneath the vast, grey sky and shout and scream at the top of his voice; scream at the nameless faces going past "How can you carry on as though nothing has happened? How can you go on as though nothing has changed? Everything has changed. How can you not know? Everything has changed." Scream at the god that has seen fit to let this happen "Why me? Why now? I find some sort of Peace after fighting for Queen and Country and you want to take me now? What could I possibly have done to deserve this?" Every inch of his body just wanted to shout and scream without restraint.

But ever the stoic military man he refuses to let his inner demons find voice. Utilising a strength of character he hadn't even realised he possessed he forces himself to carry on. Wrapping his coat around him tighter to keep out the rain, he jams his hands in his pockets, hunches his shoulders in an unconscious effort to keep the world at bay and allows his feet to take him wherever they may.

Without realising it he finds himself outside of 221b Baker Street…Home. He starts to climb the steps to the door and hears a familiar voice behind him

"Oh John I'm glad I've seen you, we haven't had a catch up in ages. You don't have to stay away so long you know. You can always come downstairs for a cup of tea…John are you alright? You look a little pale dear. Have you not been eating properly again? I could always make some supper if you're hungry…."

Needing to stop the onslaught he interrupted "Mrs Hudson, I'm fine really. We'll catch up soon ok. But right now I have to go. I...I'm right in the middle of something … you know … a case."

Realisation suddenly dawned on the landlady's face and she started to back away. "Oh of course dear, I understand. I'll leave you to it. But remember don't be a stranger John." Watching her back as she entered the tall, foreboding house he quietly whispered "Good Bye Mrs Hudson."

Lying to his landlady didn't sit easily on his shoulders. But he just couldn't handle her today…not today. Fumbling in his pockets for his key he heard the haunting sound of a beautiful melody floating through the door to his flat. Pausing for a few seconds to listen he knew the music was being played on the Violin by his infuriating, insensitive, inconsiderate, unique, brilliant flatmate and friend Sherlock Homes. Oh Christ! How the hell was he going to tell Sherlock? That thought hit him like a ton of bricks. It was over. No more running round London in search of dangerous Criminals, no more hanging on to the great detectives coat tails in search of the next adrenalin high, no more… the game is over. He'd have to move out, couldn't expect Sherlock to take it on. It was his problem and he had to deal with it. But he would miss him…despite everything…he would really miss him. Taking a deep breath he entered the flat and prepared himself to face the conversation he knew was coming.

The music followed him into the kitchen and seemed to imitate his every move. His eyes followed the wisps of steam disappear into nothing as he placed the mugs of hot tea on the table and he couldn't help but wonder what might have been. Finally he allowed himself to fall into his favourite armchair. Lying back he closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax into the music and found himself enjoying it in ways he had never known before. In that moment he started to understand what Sherlock saw in those awful classical pieces he insisted on playing. An image of him trying to obtain this level of peace with his favourite Stone Roses album blaring out in the background suddenly came to him unbidden and he had to stifle a giggle at the thought. He hoped his flatmate hadn't noticed. Unfortunately nothing he ever did was missed by the great Sherlock Holmes.

The lithe detective had been watching Dr John Watson since he walked through the door. He had heard him pause at the sound of his violin and this had got his attention. John hated Classical music and had learned early on not to take much notice of his playing. So why now was he choosing to listen? His bow slid elegantly over the strings playing the most haunting, hypnotic music. But his eagle eyes watched his flatmate, watched him go through to the kitchen and re-enter moments later carrying drinks, watched the heavy, tired way he fell into his armchair, watched the older man close his eyes and his whole body relax, watched the corners of John Watson's mouth twitch as though trying to suppress a smile. He wasn't just listening to the melody, he was actually enjoying it. This, a man who had spent many hours trying to extol the virtues of that tuneless, deafening, chaotic noise he called Rock Music, was actually enjoying a classical piece. Why? He ran his eyes over his friend slowly and deliberately, head to toe gleaning all the information he needed to make his breath-taking deductions. Then he made his move.

"Why are you laughing?"

"I'm not laughing."

"We both know you were. But if I must once again prove my skills so be it. The corners of your mouth upturned approximately 3 millimetres to both sides which in any good medical textbook constitutes a smile; the pursing of your lips and the slight increase in the strength of your grip on the arm rests for approximately 10 seconds are indicative of trying to suppress something, in your case the urge to laugh. So why were you laughing?"

"For the first time I started to understand what you saw in classical music and my whole body seemed to just…I don't know unwind. But then I started to picture myself trying to obtain the same level of relaxation to a Stone Roses album and it made me laugh. "

"Why?"

"Well because The Stone Roses are pretty much the opposite of quiet, calm and relaxing."

"You find this amusing?"

"Don't worry about it Sherlock. It doesn't matter. You had to be there."

"I was there."

John Watson smiled to himself. Again amazed at how such an observant, brilliant and intelligent man could at times be so childlike and naïve. Quickly the smile faded as once again the realities of his situation began to close in on him. It did strike him however that far from wanting to scream and shout now he didn't know if he could even muster the energy to get up. The white hot rage that threatened to consume him was back in its little box. Had he not been falling so deeply into his silent despair he might have realised that his sudden mood change was due in no small part to the music that had affected him so profoundly and so deeply.

The younger man however was still not satisfied. The good doctor hadn't opened up as much as he had hoped and he wasn't sure he had the necessary skills to elicit the response he required. But Doctor John Watson was his friend; his only friend and he would do everything in his considerable powers to help him.

"John?"

"What is it?"

"Why were you at St Bart's today?"

"I wasn't."

Sherlock released a heavy sigh. Despite lacking virtually any tact or sensitivity he had hoped he wouldn't have to do it this way. He wanted it to be as painless for the other man as possible. But he couldn't see any other way and the man sitting opposite him was his best friend and for him he would take whatever punishment the older man chose to mete out later. Taking a deep breath and getting to his feet to give his speech more impact he carried on.

"We both know you were. The scruffy worn-out condition of the appointment card in your coat pocket says its well-used so regular appointments then and the crease down the middle is where you usually keep it in your inside pocket. Until now you've been willing to hide it. But not today, today it's in the outside pocket. So what's different about today? Generally you favour your left hand when tapping out the rhythm of a melody, today the right. Why? Your left arm is a little stiff no doubt a reaction to blood being taken from the crook of the elbow also supported by the fleck of blood on your shirt sleeve. You have been experiencing pain in your abdomen for weeks now although you have been trying to hide it. But it is noticeable by the 0.5cm stoop in the shoulders you have developed and the grimacing when you think I'm not looking. You are experiencing loss of appetite also for some time judging by the reduced monthly grocery shopping and expenditure. A regular pattern of 1 hour shopping trips bi-monthly has for the last 4 months been condensed to half hour trips once a month. If further proof were needed all that is required is a cursory glance at your bank statements. A regular outgoing of £30-40 per trip is now closer to £20 per month. Why? You are not eating properly yourself so most of what you buy is for me. This in turn has led to weight loss going by the scuff marks on your trouser belt. The marks and overstretching on the third hole suggests that's the one most commonly used. Today you use the second one, no scuff marks, so very recent. I'd say at least 9lb probably nearer to a stone. Your sleep has been disturbed for approximately 2 months. Footsteps around the flat in the early hours of the morning, finding you asleep in your chair during the day increasingly often, you have recently starting closing your bedroom door permanently so there's something you don't want me to see, finally a rise in the utilisation of the washing machine from thrice weekly to daily all point to Night sweats, which in turn means more dirty washing, working on our recent case together has prevented you from keeping up with the daily laundry and resulted in the stack of worn clothing neatly folded in the corner of the room by your bed and which you did not want me to see."

Realising how drained and exhausted the other man was starting to look. Sherlock stopped his diatribe and instead whispered "Do I really need to go on John?" Tired and worn out John Watson looked up at the tall frame of the man before him and smiled inwardly. "All this time I've been worrying how to tell you; should've known that in the end you'd tell me. It's Cancer Sherlock."

"You found out today?"

"Yes. I've been having tests for the past two or three weeks and today I got the results. I have Kidney cancer. I need further tests to determine exactly how bad it is. But I'm more than likely looking at surgery at the very least. Possibly some form of Chemo or Radiotherapy if it's spread beyond the organ itself…." Frowning Sherlock interrupted him "You think it's already gone beyond the point of being curable? You think you are going to…" Despite his attempt at maintaining a calm, logical approach to the conversation, the famous detective found himself faltering. He couldn't bring himself to finish the question. So the ever present doctor did it for him.

"Given the length of time I have been showing symptoms and how virulent this disease can be; I have to prepare myself for the possibility." Looking his best friend straight in the eye he spoke the next words slowly and calmly "So yes, it may well be too late." The older man was finding this confession far harder than he had anticipated but even so he still managed to catch a glimpse of the pain that flitted across the younger man's eyes. Realising for the first time that Sherlock was suffering as well the stoic soldier in him came once again to the surface and he resolved to end this conversation as quickly as possible for both of their sakes. So with that in mind he continued on with the rest of his admission. "I haven't started packing yet. But I'll be gone by the end of the week and don't worry about the rent or Mrs Hudson. I'll speak to her and give her my half before I go. That should buy you some time to find someone else…"

He knew the good doctor was still talking but he found himself unable to listen. He had been caught completely off guard by the announcement that his friend and flatmate, only friend and flatmate was leaving. Mind still reeling and struggling to find the ability to speak he could only stutter a reply "you're …you're l…leaving. Why?"

Stopped in mid flow the doctor was stunned to realise that the world's only consulting detective hadn't seen this coming, hadn't deduced it, hadn't known it. Obvious to him it astounded the older man that Sherlock couldn't see why it was impossible for him to stay. So patiently he started to explain "I'm not going to be able to work for a while so it'll be difficult for me to keep up with the rent and frankly, soldier or not, I'm not willing to take on Mrs Hudson." He had been trying for a little humour to lighten a very uncomfortable situation but the younger man wasn't smiling. "It just wouldn't be fair. I'm going to get ill. I don't know yet how ill. But even if it hasn't spread there'll be bad days, really bad days and it could go on for months, years even. I'm not your responsibility Sherlock and I have no right to impose on you in that way. This is my problem; I won't let it become yours. The game is over and I'm going to miss it, miss you. But I have to go."

The taller man had been listening to his friend's explanation in absolute silence, on the surface the very picture of composure. But within his extraordinary mind he flicked through memories, pictures and words at lightning speed. By the time Dr John Watson had finished what he had to say the consulting detective had worked out his best friend's probable treatment plan, length of recovery time, calculated the length of time he would need off work plus the cost of rent owed for the duration, basically everything he needed to know. Then made a decision based on the facts and figures presented. That's what he'd tell people if he had to them anything at all. But deep down he knew the truth. The decision had been made as soon as the only friend he had ever had had announced he was leaving and it was the easiest decision he'd ever made.

But emotions and feelings were not something he knew how to deal with. So rather than wrestling awkwardly with vocabulary and then getting it horribly wrong he decided instead that actions spoke louder. Silently he walked over to the fireplace and took a sealed envelope from behind his skull. Passing it over to John, the detective made sure to make eye contact with the doctor, hoping fervently the strength of his feeling was conveyed in that look.

On the front of the envelope in his beautiful flowing hand just a single word…John. Staring at it in bemusement at first, the doctor eventually pulled himself together enough to empty it of its contents. Inside he found paper of exquisite quality, the kind his friend reserved for noting down his musical compositions. Unfolding it with shaking hands his eyes danced around the dots, unable to read music, unable to make sense of the gesture. Then he saw it. Two words written at the very top of the page once again in the hand of Sherlock Holmes: For You. In the background he recognised the music that had been playing when he first entered the flat. The music that touched him in ways no other ever had; the beautiful, haunting notes once again working their magic. Then it was there, everything his flatmate and friend had been trying to convey, with breath-taking clarity. He already knew, had known all along. He'd known about the Cancer, the treatment, the prognosis; had known with practised ease exactly what the army doctor would do and had been ready for it. He had made him talk about it when he knew it would be difficult for them both, he listened to his friend as he spoke from the heart; something neither man was wont to do. He had shown John Watson exactly how he felt just by the look in his eyes a few moments ago and the bewildered doctor had missed it. But beyond all of that the act that the veteran soldier appreciated the most and the one that brought a single tear to his eye lay in the music; the notes carefully written before him reflecting the notes that floated through the air; the melodies one and the same. All thoughts of leaving drifted peacefully away on a sea of magnificent music.

It didn't matter what the future threw at him as long as he had his home and Sherlock Holmes. Doctor John Watson was no longer alone.