Note-Yes, I know it's yet another "JD's dying" fic, but I got this idea in my head and it wouldn't leave till I wrote it down. Plus, you voted for it! Oh, and for anyone reading "My Very Odd Week", I've given up on it for a little bit because I had severe writers block. Sorry!

Disclaimer-I own Dr Anna Spencer. Big whoop? No? Ok…

I'm dying.

Blunt, I know, but it's a slow process, death. People think of it as being that certain time period, be it a moment or a year, when you realize that you're going to die soon. But really, from the moment you're born your body is constantly changing, altering, ageing, leading up to that godforsaken moment when your body shuts down completely. It just switches off, like a light, in the blink of an eye. That's what scares me so much about dying. It's not the pain, or the not knowing what comes next. It's the fact that it's so sudden. There's no time to reflect, or to say anything. People expect you to do all that beforehand, but you never know how much time you have. I had a patient once who said "I'm not afraid of death; it's the waiting I can't stand". Well, I'm the opposite. For me, the waiting is the best part.

Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis. That's what my doctor called it, and it's what I call it, but really it's a corruption of the lungs. As a doctor, I know that forty thousand Americans are diagnosed with it per year. But when it comes to you…well, it still comes as a complete shock.

"Mr. Dorian?"

I look up at the woman sitting cross-legged in front of me. She's quite pretty really, but she's wearing a moss-coloured skirt and a grey cardigan, which rather takes away from a striking face. This is Anna Spencer, and no, she's not my girlfriend. She's my therapist.

"Yeah?" I respond. My throat feels dry, like sandpaper.

"You ok?" she asks, genuinely concerned.

"I guess…" I mutter, my voice barely over a dry whisper.

"Great! I just need to fill out a file, so if you could just answer a few questions that would be great. Ok, name?"

She already knows my name.

"John Michael Dorian"

"Age?"

"Thirty three"

Questions, questions, repetition, repetition…

"Profession?"

"Attending physician in internal medicine"

"Name of doctor?"

"Dr Doris"

"Name of hospital you're being treated at?"

"St. Peregrine's"

"Ok, shall we get started?" she says, jotting down a few notes on her clipboard. I nod, even though I would much rather not. She wants to ask questions and for me to reply. She wants to check my psychological state, to make sure I'm not mentally breaking down. Which I am, I'm just good at covering up. She's concerned, but then again, she's being paid a lot of money to be. But who am I to complain?

We sit for an hour. She probes me for answers, and I unwillingly give them up. But really, what does she expect? Does she honestly think I'm going to say "Oh yeah, I'm dying, but you know, I feel great, it's the best thing that's ever happened to me"? Then the hours up, and I slowly drive Sasha back home.

Back at the apartment, I sit and watch the clock, counting seconds, minutes, hours. The hourly chime echoes with my own distant heartbeat. Repetition, replication, reiteration, always the same…

Then the reality of the situation hits me. I need to tell someone. Instinctively, I pick up the phone and punch in the most familiar number. There are four rings before the other speaker picks up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Brown Bear"

"J-Dawg! Whassup, man? You weren't in today!"

"Yeah, I was ill…"

"You sound kinda rough…"

"Um, Turk…I dunno how to put this, but…

"Ooh, gotta go, Carla's getting feisty, know what I'm saying?"

"I hear you, CB"

The line goes dead, and I put the phone down with shaking hands. Could Turk really handle this? I mean, he can barely handle brain freeze, let alone my…well, death. No need to skirt around the edges. I mean, come on, I'm not Elliot! Elliot? No. I can picture that and it isn't pretty. Carla? Maybe…she's a good sick nurse, but could she really cope with the whole "I'm dying" thing. After all, when her mom died she blamed Turk…I wonder how my mom is, I should call her. Dan? He'd bring the cake a month early and sit in the tub till the "big day". Which leaves one person…