I told myself that I'd wait until after Norbury is finished to post another Fragile Ficlet, but certain circumstances made me change my mind. My cousin was recently diagnosed with B-cell lymphoma, so my mind immediately came back here. This is one of a series of standalone one-shots that I'll be lumping together, so the chapter count will probably remain undetermined. Anyways, I hope you enjoy!
"It's cancer."
The words reverberated through her head like the sound of a resonating gong. She'd been half-expecting this news, but had also clung to that hope there was something else with identical symptoms and a superior prognosis. But no amount of hope could change the inevitable.
Sally Donovan's father had cancer. He'd been sick a few times before this, but it always happened to be something benign and easily treatable. Sally and her mother had started to believe he was immortal, but this disease still managed to sneak through whatever force had kept him going all these years. When he first called Sally to tell her about his symptoms—she didn't know why he did this, Sally was not and had never been a doctor, she was a sergeant at Scotland Yard—she didn't think anything of it. A few weeks later her mother rang and said those fateful, dooming words: "It's cancer."
They'd talked about proposed treatment options; her father had decided to go through with chemo and everything the oncologist had suggested as his best course of action. But he told Sally he was scared. Growing up, she had thought her father was incapable of emotion because he was so good at disguising it, yet he'd just admitted to her his fear and worry. She put it off as a result of the daunting diagnosis and the even more daunting treatment course.
Frankly, Sally was scared too. Nobody wanted to see their loves ones ill, and this was the first time in her adult life she would experience something like that. Well… she'd seen the effects of cancer before, but it hardly counted as a loved one. What would it have been like if she'd known him better, as more than the arrogant, annoying genius who often crashed her work site? How would she have handled it if he'd meant more to her? One way or another, she was about to find out what it was like when someone close to you went through that kind of ordeal.
She wanted to offer her father some consolation, assure him that it would be alright, but she had minimal knowledge on this topic and didn't want to give him false information—or worse, false hope. But if there was one thing Sally Donovan could do, it was obtaining information she lacked. Before saying goodbye, she told her father she'd call him back in a few days once she'd done some research.
She began by reading whatever she could find online about small cell lung cancer, but about three articles in she realized that this was exactly what her mother and father would've done as soon as they received the diagnosis. It's what anyone would do after being given such information, and her parents were no different. If she wanted to offer them something they couldn't get elsewhere, she needed a primary source, someone or something that could provide the nitty-gritty, personal details that scholarly articles left out.
The first thought that popped into her head was entirely unfeasible. She couldn't go crawling to them on her knees begging to be let in on the secrets of the worst experience of their lives. But, did she have any other options? She didn't know anyone else who'd suffered the way her father was about to. He was her only option for a firsthand perspective. If she wanted to assuage her father's worries—and her own—she'd have to talk to Sherlock.
~0~
She didn't go straight there. She started by running this idea by Lestrade, because he was as close to the situation as anyone she knew and she felt comfortable asking for his opinion. She explained her father's situation, and he immediately expressed his sympathies. It felt strange, hearing people say they were sorry for you. She was used to being sorry for victims' families, not the other way around. She supposed it was a role she must get accustomed to.
"The thing is, boss, I want to be able to help him through this, to provide for him what a library book or online article cannot, but I don't know how."
"And you think I do?"
"Not exactly. I want to talk to someone about it, but I'm not sure if my inquiries would be well-received or not." She was dancing around the point, she knew, but for whatever reason she couldn't bring herself to say directly whose help she wanted.
"Do I know this person?" Lestrade must've known who she was talking about, but he was humoring her. She relented, and gave him a straight answer.
"Yes. Is it acceptable if I go to Sherlock with a question like that?"
"Sally, I don't know what to tell you. I trust your judgment and your ability to tell if you've overstepped."
"But you know him better than I do, would he be willing to talk to me? I know we aren't exactly best mates." Their relationship had thawed since his illness, and even more since Sally had witnessed his breakdown after that nosebleed, but he still held her at arm's length. And she couldn't blame him.
"True. I can't give you a definitive answer. I cannot read Sherlock's mind—I think only John Watson can do that—but from what I do know, I'd venture to guess he'd be open to talking to you."
"You don't think he'd immediately shut me down?"
"No. He's not like that—not anymore, at least," Lestrade defended. True, at one time Sherlock probably would have slammed the door in her face, but he'd undergone quite the metamorphosis since then. Sally then thanked Lestrade for his input and started mentally outlining her questions.
~0~
Sally debated exactly how to go about this. She considered going through John Watson first, explaining the entire situation to him as she'd done to Lestrade and asking if he thought Sherlock would be open to assisting her. But if she did that, she'd then have to repeat the whole thing again to Sherlock, a none-too-enticing concept. Despite Lestrade's assurance that she wouldn't be automatically rejected, she still feared that he would refuse to speak to her at all about such matters. Her planned line of inquiry did seem a tad invasive. But what did she have to lose? Worst case scenario: she left without learning anything and potentially fell victim to a string of the detective's worst insults. Nothing she hadn't endured before.
She bit the bullet and texted Sherlock directly: "Are you home? I need to talk to you about something."
"Case?" came his almost immediate reply. Lestrade was always the one to contact him if Scotland Yard needed any help solving a crime; Sally had never done such a thing. But neither had she ever sent him a text message related to anything else, so it was a reasonable enough assumption.
Instead of answering his question, she reiterated her own: "Are you home?" If she told him it wasn't for a case, odds were he'd ignore her entirely. But she didn't want to reveal the reason for her visit so early.
"Yes," he answered. Needing no more confirmation, Sally made her way to 221B Baker Street. She doubted they'd ever had a client quite like this—and yes, she considered herself a client. She was seeking help from Sherlock Holmes, just not for the same reason most people did.
~0~
Mrs. Hudson let her in with a chirpy greeting and a smile, which Sally gladly returned. She eased her way upstairs and knocked gently on the door to the living room. She hadn't been here in ages, and she wondered if things had changed at all since her last visit. John opened the door and led her into the living room. There was no sign of Sherlock, and Sally raised an eyebrow at John as a means of asking for his whereabouts.
"Probably getting dressed," John remarked. "We haven't been up to much lately; he's desperate for a case. I don't suppose you came to propose one?"
"Not this time, I'm afraid," she admitted.
"Then why exactly are you here?"
"If it's all right with you, I'd rather just say it once," she said. The more times she spoke the words aloud, the more concrete it became in her head. Fortunately, John didn't press her for further explanation.
"John!" Sherlock's voice from the other room sounded. John excused himself and made his way over to the room down the hall. What the detective was doing in there that required John's assistance, Sally wasn't sure she wanted to know. Now, she found herself alone in their living room. Glancing around, her gaze immediately fell on the blanket Lestrade had gotten Sherlock so long ago. It had faded somewhat and showed thorough signs of use, she was glad to notice. On one of the walls hung what looked like a piece of modern art: it showed a series of photographs beginning with a pinkish white mesh that seemed to gradually darken and melt into the surface beneath it until the entire thing appeared more uniform and scaly. She asked herself why Sherlock and John would own such a thing, but then her brain made the connection, a connection which was only cemented when the subject of the photographs finally emerged from the other room.
Sally had long ago gotten used to Sherlock, but it struck her as more than a little odd that they had documentation of the healing process strung up on their living room wall. She must've failed to hide her unease, because Sherlock easily picked up on it.
"What's got you so on edge?" he questioned, positioning himself dramatically in his black armchair.
"Nothing, just admiring your choice of décor," she commented, gesturing to the picture in question.
"Oh, that? Birthday present from John. Now, why are you here?" Sally took a moment to process his explanation of the photographs before she could consider his blunt question. She knew he was expecting and hoping for a case, but she had nothing of the sort to offer. What she had to say would undoubtedly make both Sherlock and John uncomfortable, something she was loath to do. But she'd come all this way, and she wouldn't leave without at least trying.
"I need help," she began.
"With…?" Sherlock prompted. He had his hands folded as he usually did, and Sally felt her gaze linger just a little too long on the missing fingers of his right hand.
"My father," she continued.
"What did he do?" Of course, he would immediately leap to the conclusion that he'd committed or been framed for some sort of crime and Sally wanted his help getting him off charges.
"Nothing."
"Then why do you need help with him? Donovan, my skill set does not include father-daughter counseling. If those are your needs, perhaps John would be more able to assist—"
"He has cancer," Sally blurted out. Now that it was out there, part of her wanted to take it back. She watched Sherlock pale three shades whiter and felt her own feet go cold. "I just…I wanted some firsthand perspective. So I could tell him what to expect and how to deal with it, and you're…the only person I know who might be able to provide that."
She watched him mull this over for ages, all the while regretting coming here in the first place. He and John were so far past this, and she just made them return to it. It wasn't fair. "I—I'm sorry," she stuttered. "I shouldn't have come." She made to stand up and leave before the situation could become even more awkward, but Sherlock held out a hand to stop her.
"What do you wish to know?" he asked earnestly.
"Well…I'm not sure. I was hoping you could tell me what you found important, or things you wish you would've known in the beginning. I just want to make this a little easier for him."
"And I commend you for that. He's lucky to have you. I've been told many times that a support system is invaluable."
"You've been told?" John asked, eying Sherlock incredulously. A non-verbal sparring match ensued, and Sherlock amended his previous statement:
"I…know from experience…that a support system is invaluable. It would seem your father already possesses such a thing, so there's little point in my discussing its vitality."
Sally brought out a notepad she'd brought and jotted it down anyway. "Of course there's a point. If you hadn't told me that, I might've abandoned him," she joked, though she would never consider such a thing. At least her jest earned her a half-smile from the detective.
"Take all the prescribed side-effect medications," John interjected. "If not for his sake, then for your mother's, or whoever's going to be taking care of him most. This one," he pointed at Sherlock with his thumb, "refused half the time, and not only increased his own misery, but mine as well." Sally dutifully wrote this down, knowing her father might just be stubborn enough to refuse—or ignorant enough for forget.
"If I'm not mistaken, Donovan came here seeking to pick my brain, not yours," Sherlock told John. Sally let them squabble, amused at their friendly antics. When they came to crime scenes, Sherlock was always so focused that he didn't waste any time joking with John. She'd never really gotten a glimpse of their dynamic outside of Scotland Yard until now.
"Then please, offer her some of your signature wisdom," John invited.
"If possible, don't let him go to chemo alone. One—it's boring, two—sometimes you feel sick enough that you really shouldn't be in charge of getting home on your own, and three—it can be really daunting, especially the first few times."
Sally was somewhat shocked he'd been willing to reveal all of that right off the bat, but she listened raptly and wrote down some of the things she thought would apply to her father. She quickly glanced at John while Sherlock spoke, and saw him nodding along. So this must be true, not something Sherlock 'deduced' would be things a cancer survivor might say in this situation. She was glad she hadn't backed out of coming here; she was already learning even more than she'd hoped she would.
"Thank you," she said earnestly. If she left with nothing more than that, she'd consider this endeavor a success, but Sherlock wasn't finished.
"After a while, start to keep it warmer inside than you normally would. A lack of body hair coupled with likely weight loss can really freeze you, and sometimes extra layers aren't enough." She saw him involuntarily shiver, and wondered if John had been forced to agree to upping the heat in 221B.
"But not so much that every healthy person boils alive," John grumbled. They met eyes, and Sally bore witness to yet another non-verbal conversation. There must've been an incident regarding the temperature that they both remembered vividly. She diligently wrote this down too, still relieved and a bit surprised that Sherlock was so open to talking to her about this.
"Thank you," she repeated.
"Is your father bald?" Sherlock asked bluntly.
"Not yet," she answered. Hair loss was the most well-known side effect of chemotherapy, and she wondered exactly what Sherlock would have to say on the topic.
"I recommend shaving it before it can start to fall out. Reaching up to scratch an itch on your head and coming away with a fistful of hair can be quite distressing. At least for me, it felt better to be able to dictate when it came off instead of waiting for it to wither away. After it's all over, it'll eventually grow back, but I've heard sometimes it has a different texture than before."
Sally thought about the fact that it had been years since Sherlock finished chemotherapy, yet he was still bald. She wasn't exactly sure why that was the case, and a part of her wanted to know. But, of course, that wasn't really an appropriate question, and she didn't want to upset Sherlock by saying something insensitive when things had been going so well. She opened her mouth to ask another, unrelated, question, but Sherlock beat her to it.
"Yes, I can grow hair now, but I shave it," he explained. "It doesn't grow on the grafted section, so the part that does grow looks hopelessly out of place."
"How did you—?"
"You were being rather obvious," he interjected. "Trust me, what you see right now is a big improvement on the half-hair look. But do make sure your father has plenty of hats for wintertime; one doesn't appreciate the insulation that hair provides until it's gone."
Sally stared dumbfounded for a moment, unable to comprehend Sherlock's blunt honesty. She had never seen the detective so forthcoming with personal information. She still remembered when he'd go nearly a week without food or sleep and lie about it so he could continue working on whatever case. She also knew there'd been a multitude of minor to major injuries he'd acquired chasing down suspects that had been cleverly disguised until they could no longer be ignored. The Sherlock she thought she knew was an immensely private person who hated to be seen showing any sort of weakness. Evidently, she no longer knew the real Sherlock Holmes.
"Are you all right?" John asked her. She shook herself, realizing she'd been staring into space for much too long.
"Yes," she replied curtly. She glanced back over everything she'd written down and thanked both of them again for their advice.
"One more thing," Sherlock smiled in preparation for whatever he was about to say, "As Lestrade will tell you, there are a multitude of clever tee shirts out there for cancer patients. Sometimes a good laugh is far better than even the good drugs."
She didn't ask what he meant by the 'good drugs,' though she assumed it meant anything that wasn't chemo—and not something illegal. Briefly, she let her thoughts wander to how his status as a former drug addict affected the doctors' approach to pain control. She hoped he hadn't been denied stronger medication because of the potential for relapse. Sherlock may be an arrogant prick sometimes, but he didn't deserve to be denied relief at a time like that.
"Half the time you refused the 'good drugs' because you said they clouded your mind," John countered.
"Yes, but you turned them up on me—without my permission, may I add—and I was doped out long enough to figure out they weren't holding back in their prescriptions."
"Of course, you would know."
"Yes, I would know. I'm a chemist."
"That's not why you know."
Sally knew this argument probably wouldn't conclude as swiftly as the others had, so she stood and silently made for the door. They were so occupied with each other that they barely noticed her departure. Her goodbye fell on deaf ears, and she descended the stairs and returned to the busy sidewalk outside the flat. She folded up her notes and shoved them in her pocket, eager to share what she'd learned with her father. As reluctant as she'd been to come here, she was twice as relieved she'd mustered the courage to go through with it. Not only had she learned about the aftermath of cancer and chemo, but she'd learned a lot about Sherlock Holmes.
Going back to read over this, I realize I made John and Sherlock bicker like an old married couple. And it doesn't even seem out of character...
Anyway I have several more ficlets planned. Both Fraternity and Fred will be gaining a chapter. This story has two more unrelated chapters (one of which is half-written, the other of which is just an idea so far). And there will be at least one more standalone, almost certainly more because my brain keeps coming back to this universe.
I write based on the ideas that my mind conjures up and hope that you all enjoy them, so I just thought I'd say that I'm open to suggestions if there's something specific you'd like to see me write, whether it's related to Fragile or not. Thanks!