((This is just a little drabble I got inspired to do by a creative writing prompt at school. It's extremely short, but holds a lot of meaning. Enjoy!))

It's sudden, really. The news hits John like a ton of bricks, just in the sheer fact it doesn't seem possible. His body, the body he's taken good care of over the years, is betraying him with a brain tumor.

Sitting back heavily on the uncomfortable, squishy plastic of the chair under him, he runs a hand over his face, trying everything to remain composed while panic wells deep within him. "How long, then?"

The doctor gives him a kind, sympathetic look that had undoubtedly been practiced, glancing down at the MRI scans for a moment of thought. "I'd say six months, without treatment. There are options to prolong your life."

John shakes his head immediately, the words 'inoperable' and 'fatal' still swirling around in his damaged brain. Prolong? What was the point, really, going through painful treatments simply to let him live a few more months? "No." He responds bluntly. "But I would like to know what to expect."

The doctor nods, keeping a professional, almost cold air about her in order to relay the questioned information. "As the months progress, you'll likely experience dizziness, nausea, muscle weakness, and possibly even seizures. We can give you medication, for all of these, if you would like."

John's heart felt as if it had permanently settled into the deepest pit of dread in his stomach as he shakes his head, feeling overwhelmed. "I don't," he begins, his voice breaking, "I don't know, right now. Can I get back to you?"

The doctor nods, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder and offer all of the usual, memorized condolences of the hospital.

He doesn't hear much of them.

…...

John sits down Sherlock a day later, his friend looking to his despairing features in confusion. That is, until the news is conveyed, hovering in the air like a fatal poison no one wanted to breathe in.

Sherlock's face falls into utter despair, his breath coming short as he absorbs the information, denial swirling around his every functional thought. "No." He says after a moment, as if the simple word could stop what was already happening. "John, you can't leave."

John feels tears sting at the back of his eyes at the words, but pushes them down, knowing he couldn't break down. Not yet, at least. He explains his choice not to have treatment, unable to watch as his best friend's features line with what could only be described as anguish. At the end of it all, though, with all the horrible news out in the open, John could think of nothing else to say or do except apologize. He was the one, after all, causing Sherlock to go through this grief.

"I'm sorry." He manages, clenching his fists beside him to keep from exiting the room at Sherlock's responding sob, the pained sound the only thing filling the air between them.

That is, until Sherlock shakes his head, wiping at his eyes as he crosses the room to sit beside his dying friend. "You can't do anything to change this, you owe no one an apology." He tells John firmly, pulling him into a hug.

John breaks down.

…...

He agrees to the pills two months later, after his first seizure. It had been terrifying, and though John can't remember much, he still is able to recall Sherlock standing over him, looking on helplessly as the paramedics tried to quell the damage.

The medication itself tastes foul, and leaves a bitter presence on his tongue despite the water he downs them with. He tries milk, once, but it doesn't agree with him, and causes him to wretch his breakfast into the toilet as Sherlock sits on the edge of the tub near him, hand resting on his back on a show of support.

Really, it's the only thing he can do, watching his best friend slowly die before his waking eyes.

…...

John decides not to tell many people, claiming he doesn't want them hovering around him.

Sherlock, of course, sees right through the excuse. He knows John doesn't want to face reality by repeating his diagnosis until it became impossible to deny, and silently, he agrees with his friend, makes an unspoken promise to stand beside John.

They could deny it together.

…...

John sits Mrs. Hudson down, who has been more a mother to him than anyone. He tells her quickly, Sherlock by his side for support as the kind landlady breaks down before their gaze.

"Oh John," she whispers, tears glistening upon her lower lashes as she looks between the two people she had grown to love as a mother loves her sons, "I'm so sorry."

John nods gratefully at the cliché, meaningful words, accepting the hug he gets a few moments later, his senses filled by the almost too-strong perfume of the older woman.

It's comforting, he thinks vaguely as another headache begins to come on.

…...

Four months pass before their very eyes, the symptoms only getting worse with time. By the end of the short time, John has almost constant migraines, and loses his fine motor control. He can't even walk without being overwhelmed by pain.

Sherlock takes care of him as best he can, never leaving John's side for more than the twenty minutes it takes to go shopping for all his best friend's favorite foods, despite the loss of his appetite.

It hurts, to watch and try in vain to help his deteriorating blogger.

…...

It's a Thursday afternoon, when it happens. John has another seizure, and this time, it's much worse than the last.

Waiting in the hospital is difficult, for Sherlock knows, deep down, that six months is up. It's time, and there's nothing he can do but watch the clock in the corner, the ticking hand only serving as a constant reminder to the mere days his friend has left.

The nurse comes out later, her face sympathetic. "You can see him now."

Sherlock does. It comes as a shock, at first, to see John hooked up to so many machines, but soon they all fade away into normalcy, just leaving his friend, who looks to him with a hollow smile.

John can't speak much. He barely remembers who Sherlock is, for his brain is addled by the effects of too much medication in too little time.

Sherlock still stays by his side, and even brings some items from their flat to try and comfort his friend, help him remember at least a little bit of the life they had.

…...

The nurse informs Sherlock early Saturday morning that it would probably be John's last day.

The news, although expected, still weighs him down, still causes him to crumple beside John's hospital bed to sob silently as his friend slept.

…...

John wakes late that same afternoon, his eyes glassy and vacant as Sherlock holds his hand, talking to him.

He doesn't say much, and most of what he says is simply reminiscing about the time they had together, but it seems to have a positive affect on John, who smiles weakly.

"Is there anything you'd like?" Sherlock asks brokenly after an hour of reverent silence between them, to which John nods, trying his best to get the words out.

"Could you play for me?" He finally asks, eyes motioning over to Sherlock's violin case, which had laid in the corner of the room, untouched.

Sherlock looks surprised that John remembers perhaps the most minuscule thing about their time as flatmates together, but nods nonetheless, rising to grab his case before seating himself once more by his friend's side.

It's difficult, at first, to improvise something John would like. But, at the smile that lights up his best friend's face as he plays, Sherlock lets himself get lost in the music. It begins with a soft, low note, a lonely sound that gently progresses into a sad, slow tune, which had bits of high, light notes expertly interwoven into it. The low notes, Sherlock realizes as he plays, represent his feeling of despair in the face of what was happening, and the high notes gently convey how John had brightened even the darkest, lowest points of his life. With each stroke of his bow along the fine strings of the instrument, Sherlock finds himself overcome with thoughts and memories of John. John, always commenting at every crime scene, telling him how brilliant he thought he was; brilliant instead of 'weird' or 'freak'. John, coming home late after having one too many beers with Lestrade, his smile soft and warm with the inebriating effects of the alcohol buzzing through his system. John, laughing with him, back when everything was still perfect.

So, as he plays the piece, as John's song gently fills the air around them, Sherlock meets his friend's eyes. They look peaceful, he thinks as he lets his bow slide over the strings with ease, somehow knowing in the back of his mind he's gently leading John to passing.

It only takes six more notes of the song before Sherlock watches, almost in slow motion, as John's last breath passes through his lips. Numbly, he places his violin down, tears blurring his vision.

"Goodbye, John." He chokes out, although his friend is already gone.

…...

He still cries most nights, the flat feeling empty and cold without the presence of his best friend. In the back of his mind, Sherlock knows he'll never revert back to who he was when John was alive. It isn't a self piteous thought, nor a pessimistic one, it's simply a fact, and he knows this.

After all, he thinks, staring blankly into what was once his friend's room, wasn't it fact that brought him here?