"John, I have something to tell you." Sherlock was pacing the room. His eyes were bloodshot and John was sure he was high.
"What drugs are you on?" the doctor sighed and sat down.
"I'm not on drugs," he spat, and joined John on the couch. He coughed and ran a hand through his hair. "John, I..." he sighed. "John. At your advice I took myself for a physical, as I mentioned I haven't seen one since childhood.
John...I have cancer. And I probably won't survive past a few years. I am so sorry to do this to you again."
...
Sherlock lay still, propped up by pillows and surrounded my machines. He had an IV in his shrunken veins, and though he had a feeding tube down his nose he was clearly emaciated. His face was gaunt and ashen, and his piercing blue eyes were sunken in but attentive as alway, and they watched as John awkwardly shuffled to his bed and stood at its side. He hadn't showered in days, and permanent shadows of exhaustion and tried circled his eyes. He managed a smile at Sherlock, hiding his surprise at Sherlock's change of state. Ten minutes ago when he had left to grab a coffee, Sherlock had been in a coma, and now he was up as though he had never been asleep. He slid his fingers between Sherlocks so that they were holding hands. It had been barely 18 months since the diagnosis: Prostate cancer, stage 4. Almost always a death sentence. Sherlock had been in a coma for nine days, before that a brief week of consciousness, and before that a coma again. He was fading fast, and John hadn't left his side since this hospital admittance (about 3 months now. Mycroft was helping him with rent, and Ms. Hudson wasn't charging them much anyway). He had been there every night, singing Sherlock to sleep because John knew that any day could be his last, and John didn't want Sherlock to feel alone. He wasn't family, yet the nurses had accepted that somehow hospital visiting hours didn't apply to John, and let him stay. He was sure that if they had tried to object, Mycroft would silence them anyway.
"Hey there," John crooned brokenly.
"John," wheezed Sherlock, trying to sit up.
"Sherlock, it's okay, stay down. You're okay."
"No, John, I am not okay. I'm dying. I'm in hospice. I've been in and out of a coma for weeks. This may be my last coherent day. I am not okay and I need you to listen."
And John knew this, knew that Sherlock wasn't okay, and he wasn't okay either.
The chemo had done little, except rid his body of hair and make him feel sicker, and when the scans showed that the tumors hadn't slowed their growth, but had infiltrated every crevice of his body, he made the request to stop the treatment. He wanted to die with whatever dignity he had left. He would've rather been able to pass in their flat on Baker Street, but he didn't want John to have to deal with his body. And he supposed it was okay, dying in hospital, as long as John was with him. They began their journey together at Bart's anyway, may as well end it here too.
Sherlock could barely speak, but he was determined. He could tell that today was most likely the last time John would see him alive. His stats were unstable and the doctors had a changed demeanor around him since the last time he was awake. He was as good as a dead man.
"John. I'm sorry for everything I put you through." He pulled John close, wrapping tube-entangled hands around his best friend.
"I love you. I wish I could be in attendance of your and Mary's wedding. I wrote you a speech, it will be delivered after my departure. I'm proud of you."
"God, Sherlock," John whispered, and started to cry muffled sobs into Sherlock's shoulder. "I love you too. Fuck."
"I know you will mourn for us, and for the life we lived, but I don't want you to let it..." Sherlock coughed and sputtered, and a machine began to beep in warning.
"Shhh, Sherlock, it's okay, I know, you don't have to tell me.."
"No, I do. I have been an absolute prick of a person. I'm sarcastic and self-absorbed and I never expected to make a friend in life. And here I am, and I have you, and you are the best person...the best man I know. My best friend is you. And I am a better person because of you. These last four years knowing you I have learned...so much..." his eyelids fluttered and his gaze went in and out of focus. "I solve crimes. You save people. And John, you saved me a hundred times over. I am losing vision. John..." Sherlock's voice cracked. "I'm going. I'm scared. Will you lay with me?"
John climbed into bed with Sherlock, and the detective rolled over weakly (John helped pull him against his body) and rested his head above John's heart. His fearless, emotionless demeanor was breaking, and John's heart broke with it. "I was a broken man before I met you. I wish I had forever left to spend with you. You saved me too."
"John," Sherlock breathed. He didn't speak again. John laid with him all night. Somewhere in the early morning, the machines went crazy. Sherlock had flatlined. A nurse rushed in to help, looked at his charts, and instead went to turn off the monitor-Sherlock had signed a DRN two weeks prior, before slipping into a coma. There was nothing they could do now.
John cried as he held Sherlock against him. His breathing became weak, and his heartbeat faint, until it stopped all together.
John was alone again.