John looked at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand and returned it back to his trouser pocket with a heavy sigh. Two more weeks. He had managed to hide it for this long, a little longer would make trivial difference.
It was surprising in fact, for him to have hidden such dread from Sherlock so effectively. But it wouldn't be long until the symptoms kicked in, until weakness and pain controlled his bodily functions, until death knocked on his door. Coronary heart disease it was, caused by his diabetes.
The doctors had warned him of the risks and circumstances ever since he was a child. Growing up with the fear that every breath of happiness could possibly be his last lingered around him like a ghostly curse, threating to strike. It's why he joined the army, since he couldn't help himself, helping others remained the only alternative.
Until he got shot that was. A disastrous pain destroying his motives like acid burning the layers of human skin. The world he lived in erupted and reality broke once again. Attempting to live life normally without fear of death catching up seemed unlikely. That was when he met Sherlock of course. It was also when everything started, the chest pain, shortness of breath, fatigue, weakness…
They were okay though, just small outburst now and then. Sherlock assumed it was trauma from Afghanistan, a horror of the past that haunted me. But for the first time, he was wrong. It wasn't the horror of the past; it was horror of the future. The thought death was what used to scare him, now? Now it was Sherlock.
It had been two years since their first acquaintance and gradually, they both developed a relationship, which John believed didn't quite have a name – a line between friendship yet something more. Two halves that somehow, in someway, fit together by need, requirement and love. It was true, and eventually John compelled to let himself in. He loved Sherlock. Hell, he was dying too. Dying without confessing something, which was both a blessing and curse.
He opened the door to his flat, and walked in.
OOOOOOOOOO
"John….?"
Sherlock was sitting on the sofa wearing his usual nightgown, his legs tucked firmly beneath his chin and his face set with concentration, which commanded silence. His hands were clasped together and placed lightly on his lips, a sign of focus and warning both.
"John." Sherlock repeated, his voice firm yet also distant.
"er, y-y-es?"
John stuttered, he promised himself that he would control his fear albeit every time he returned for his doctor's appointment, a fear throbbed from the bottom of his heart, fear that Sherlock had found out. He was after all, a detective. Consulting detective. Only one in the world.
"I asked for your phone"
"You – you asked for my phone? Jesus Sherlock I was out for God's sake!"
"Hm yes, phone John, now, its important!"
Sherlock jumped up from the sofa, his eyes gleaming with curiosity and intelligence and grabbed Johns phone, texting a brief sentence before returning it back to John.
"Oh yes, yes of course you're welcome." John spat bitterly. God how did he survive with the man? How did he even come to LOVE him?!
"Oh, you're angry?"
Sherlock stopped, pausing in mid air to appear genuinely surprised at John's response. But before he could respond, the phone rang. It was Lestrade.
"Sherlock? Theres been another Murder, and theres something different about this one – will you come?"
"I'll get the next cab."
OOOOOOOOOO
They were off once again and arrived at Scotland Yard where Lestrade greeted both John and Sherlock worryingly, his forehead creased with lines of tension and eyes dark from deprived sleep.
"Where's the body?" Sherlock demanded, and twelve seconds later we were led through Lestrade office, only to face a pale dead man placed on a chair, with a note stapled on his forehead.
Sherlock examined the body for what seemed like 5 minutes before straightening his head, brows clustered with curiosity and bewilderment later followed by delight.
"You got anything?" Lestrade said.
"The mans not a target the man was used. Previous murders of Sir Jonathon and Matt Darvil were related; the victims obtained the same jobs, same hobbies, and same signs but this one? No, no. This one's a baker, evident by the brief spots of powder on his sleeve, so coming home from work by cab; no one goes around like that. But he didn't get a cab did he? They took him, took his possessions, seems like a professional rich baker yet he has no expensive possessions on him so they stole them too. Wallets gone, bullet through the head but the bloods dried so dead for say 5 hours giving by the smell, and the note? "Back Off". Not for you, for me. Gang murder, case of drugs, they don't go to much extents so easily found, theres the good news but here's the bad - the threats not directed at you Lestrade it me, they know who I am, they know what I can do, so why not drop a corpse at 221B?
Get your men Lestrade theres been another murder, they'll be dropping one off at the doorstep of my flat, if you get there quick you've got the golden ticket."
"Shit" Lestrade breathed, phoning his men and obeying Sherlock's orders.
"John are you up for some running, theres something I need to - "
But Sherlock didn't get to finish what he was saying, because at that moment John's chest pain began once again, causing him to stumble and lose balance. He couldn't hear much, the pain being too powerful to be able to concentrate on his surroundings, but he heard Sherlock calling Sarah and trepidation erupted inside him. She knew about John, what if she told him everything?
OOOOOOOOOO
"Just give him some rest, nothing indicates anything terribly bad, could be a result of worry. Take it east John and Sherlock? These are his medicines, ensure he takes them regularly"
They were at 221B Baker Street and John was carried to his bed, only later to be examined by Sarah who listed some medicines for Sherlock to prescribe. She hadn't told him. She knew.
"Thank You Sarah" Sherlock nodded, escorting her out and it was at that moment when John realised something had to be done, and quickly. He had to detach himself from Sherlock, push him away, leave and float away like a balloon.
He didn't have long.
He could feel his heart slowing down.
He lost conscious just as Sherlock entered his room once again.
OOOOOOOOOO
The next morning John decided to leave. He had to do it now, or he'd never be able to gather to courage again. Plus, Sherlock had just finished a case, if another began; they'd be no way of leaving.
Sherlock was already awake, his entire concentration on his laptop apparently.
"Going somewhere?" he said, compelling John to stop straight in his tracks.
"S-sorry?"
"I said going somewhere John?" his voice sounded different. Firm as always yet…emotional?
"I…. Yes actually. I'm moving out today er with erm Sarah. Yes we've, we've decided to take our relationship up so I said… she called me…last night… and - "
"Strange…"
"Strange?"
"First of all, I was talking about you heading to the bathroom without slippers and second, I was with you all night John, I heard no phone."
John blushed, partly due to the reason Sherlock knew he was lying, but mostly because he stayed with him all night.
"I also tucked you in see" Sherlock continued "Found a little something in your pocket."
And this time, John understood. It wasn't just emotion hidden in Sherlock's voice, it was anger concealed with disappointment. Jesus. He knew. He had found Johns medical letter.
OOOOOOOOOO
"How long?"
They both sat on the sofa, sitting beside each other surrounded by an atmosphere of tension, woe and guilt. Strangely however, John felt comforted. Some part of him was glad Sherlock knew. It meant that they could both enjoy the pleasure of each other's company for a few days more…well, 10 to be precise. And despite himself, the thought of being with Sherlock till the last of his days brought a smile to his face.
That's all he ever wanted, needed in fact.
"I… Just after we met…"
Sherlock sighed, defeat, dread, shock all in one breath.
"There must be something" he got up. "I've been searching all night, if it's not too late then - "
"Its already too late Sherlock. Theres nothing left. i.. I only have 10 more days."
"John…." Sherlock's voice cracked, and the sound of it brought tears to John's eyes. Sherlock wasn't sentimental, he didn't get attached. You didn't have to be a consulting detective to understand that. But gradually, they both developed a relationship, which perhaps didn't quite have a name – a line between friendship yet something more. And it was breaking. The universe of life commanded it to end.
"Have you told anyone else?"
"Just Sarah."
"So… you're going..?"
"Sherlock… Ever since I knew, ever since I found out, I – I've been looking for a way out. I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't want you to know. Sarah was a cloak to hide under. The reason to hide was you."
Sherlock stopped. His brain focused. It all came together to him, yet still, he was unsure. Had he read between the lines incorrectly or did John really mean….
"I shouldn't mind dying, Sherlock. It's what we all owe. I wouldn't mind, except you."
And Sherlock sighed. All these years, all these years he prevented himself, detached himself from feeling. Sentiment was a disadvantage. Yet still, with John it was different. He lowered his guard. He developed something, some sort of passion and requirement more than that of a friend. And listening to John now, he realised John felt the same too.
"John…"
"I guess I'm fortunate in some aspects, because - " John swallowed. It was either now or never. And hell, he was a dead man anyway. If he had read Sherlock's emotions wrong, if he wrongly thought Sherlock loved him too, then death would swipe him away. Along with the pain. "I get to spend my the rest life with the man I love."
It was there. John saw it. Pain and relief displayed in Sherlock's eyes.
Sherlock reached for his hand cautiously, and they both sat silently on the sofa. Holding each other. Undone. He lifted John's chin up gently, allowing his eyes to speak. Confessing was not one of his strongest points. It was there. Everything he has to say. Everything there was to be.
"I don't want to leave you Sherlock" john choked, crying into Sherlock's chest until he fell asleep.
OOOOOOOOOO
Sherlock sat cradling John's dormant body. He didn't quite understand how to feel.
Happy that he had his love? Relieved? Sad? Scared? Emotions. They didn't have rules.
A silent tear slid down his cheek. For once, Sherlock felt…empty. Normal? Dull. Knowledge used to be the most important thing to him however gradually, unexpectedly; John became the person to replace that.
It came out know. All the fear, horror, woe. It all came out in tears. Silent tears. Painful drops of a lifetime that he would lose. Happiness slipping away.
"Sherlock…" John murmured. He was waking up, Sherlock realised, gathering the effort to quickly compose himself.
"I'm here John. I'll always be here. Till the end, I promise."
John looked up dreamily, about to say something but abruptly stopping. Something tightened in his chest. Twisting and clawing his heart to cause a sudden urge of pain as his face scrunched up with agony.
"John?" Sherlock balanced him up steadily, fear traveling through him like lightning. "John are you alright? JOHN. JOHN CAN YOU HEAR ME?"
"I… I cant breathe" john wheezed, tears escaping from his bloodshot eyes.
"John I'm going to call an ambulance. Keep your eyes open John look at me LOOK! CONCENTRATE."
Sherlock grabbed the phone and called 999 as John screamed, clutching his chest, his eyes dropping shut just as the bell of the ambulance arrived near.
OOOOOOOOOO
Sherlock was standing outside John's hospital room; the doctors wouldn't let him in. Scans they said.
He couldn't think. There was nothing in his mind, nothing. No knowledge that could save his friend. Nothing.
Why were they taking so long? What was it that happened to John? A seizure? Lack of medication?
"Sherlock?" Sarah came out, her face worried, upset, defeated. "It was…it was a heart attack Sherlock. He's.."
"No, no that's wrong I need to see him, let me in Sarah. He's fine. Let. Me. In. He needs me."
She stepped back, allowing him space to enter. She didn't say anything, she couldn't. She just watched Sherlock run.
He stopped.
John's eyes were closed. His chest wasn't moving. The life monitor was beeping. The doctors just stood there.
No.
"No. No he told me, he told me, he told he, he had, he had 10 more days HE TOLD ME! SARAH."
Sherlock turned to face Sarah, tears now swimming down his cheeks. He never cried in front of people, it showed weakness, vulnerability. But right now he did not care. Sherlock needed John. He wouldn't give up so easily.
"Sarah he told me he had 10 days come on HE CANT BE DEAD THERES SOMETHIN- "
"Sherlock theres nothing we can - "
"Shut up. Shut. Up. Use the defibrillators. NOW FOR GOD SAKE."
"Do as he says. Just, just do it."
The doctors did, and Sherlock ran to John, clutching his hand tightly.
"Come on John, listen to me, can you hear me? Sarah, defibrillate him again, please, please. Listen to me JOHN. JOHN LISTEN TO ME. THE FIRST TIME WE MET? DO YOU REMEMBER? You said 10 days to me John, hang in there, come on, come on. Please. John….John I love you."
"Sherlock…Sherlock he's gone…"
Sherlock staggered back, dropping to the floor with such force it seemed as if someone had pushed him. He stopped crying. He just sat there. His eyes empty but cold. He face wet and pale. His body, motionless.
"Defibrillate him again" Sarah said.
They did.
Nothing happened.
Nothing could happen.
John was gone.
OOOOOOOOOO
Two days later they had the funeral. Ms Hudson, Greg, Mycroft, Sarah, everyone came. Everyone he knew.
But Sherlock didn't care. What he cared about wasn't here. What he wanted was gone.
He ignored everyone who said their condolences, ignored the speeches and looked disgusted when people partied. He just looked, looked at Johns coffin.
He wasn't even wearing his suit. He was wearing his nightgown. It had John's presence on there. He didn't want this. Any of it. It was stupid. He wanted everyone gone. He wanted to be alone. With John. That's all that mattered.
He left, silently, back to 221B Baker Street and straight into John's room. He stood there for a few seconds, starring. It smelt like John.
Sherlock lay on his bed, feeling the covers that they both could've been it. The tears came slowly first, and then quicker as reality dawned on him. Sherlock wept into John's pillow, thinking, wishing, about them 10 days he could've had with the one he loved.
Them 10 days that they could've spent together. Them 10 days more of John.