Terminal

Chapter 1: The News

I don't know much medical stuff, don't judge :/

This is my first Sherlock story, please enjoy and review! (p.s. Mary will not be appearing in this story- but Johnlock won't really be a thing either. These are just two best friends. That's all.)

It's been two years since Sherlock jumped. Two long years of a lonely and cold Baker Street, and two months since the headaches began.

I know I should have been to see someone before now. Maybe there would have been some treatment to save me, but I doubt it. I've got a tumour, roughly 6cms long. Doesn't seem like much does it?

Still, I'm glad. I've got six months left, which basically six months until I can see Sherlock again.

John was shaken out of his writing trance, his announcement on his blog that he was in fact, dying, as the bell rang again, more insistently.

One clear ring, maximum pressure on the half-second. Client.

After old Mrs Fahren had left, now knowing where all her money had gone, John returned to his announcement post, finished it, and posted it. And now, here comes the well-wishes, and the "I know you can do it John. Fight!".

The thing was, John was sick of fighting. He was sick and tired of living in Baker Street by himself, with only Mrs Hudson for company, and seeing touches Sherlock everywhere, from the skull that hadn't moved from the mantelpiece, to the violin, leaning on his black chair. Mrs Hudson dusted of course, but nothing had been touched since… well then.

John made himself a cup of tea, and resumed his warm spot on the armchair, as his laptop pinged with notifications from his blog. Eventually, they stopped, and John turned it off and went to bed.

"SHERLOCK!"

No, no no…

"He's my friend, let me through please, he's my friend…"

A cold hand, no pulse.

John woke up and dry heaved over the side of his bed. He wasn't sure why he had woken up- normally he woke up in terror after the whole funeral mess. He turned on the lamp beside his bed, and as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light, John found himself fighting of a major headache.

Ah yes, I have a tumor. It's going to hurt most of the time.

John wiped his eyes, and abruptly paused as he saw what had woken him. A dark shadow was perched on his windowsill, which was blowing a cold London breeze into his room.

He slowly reached under his pillow, and brought out his gun and aimed it at the intruder.

"Get up, turn around. Now."

He saw the figure slowly do as he asked, but he still couldn't see their face.

"Who the hell are you? When do I ever see clients in the middle of the night?"

A very familiar voice answered. Too familiar. Too deep, and too musical.

"Who said I was a client?"

Nope, nope- Hell no. It's not-

"Sh-Sherlock?"

The figure moved into the light, pale skinned, and a lot skinnier than when he had died. Well, apparently didn't die.

"You're dead! You had no p-pulse and…" John trailed off, forgetting what he was saying. He shook his head in frustration. "Your… DAMMIT!"

"John please, calm down. You are experiencing dysphasia, and it will do you not good to be… upset." His deep voice broke and wavered, and John finally saw him. He looked extremely anxious and concerned, not to mention sleep-deprived and in desperate need of some sort nourishment.

"You saw the blog post."

"Yes."

"Ah."

"John… Please. We have to get through this, beat it, and you never will if you are physically drained. Please.. just go back to sleep. I promise I'll stay right here."

John barely heard him, as he slipped into unconsciousness from the shock of it all.

Please review :)