Anything recognizable is the property of the appropriate owners. I do not make any claim to ownership, nor do I make any money from this.

This is based off of the most recent BBC version starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman and J.J. Abrams' Star Trek.


Treatment

In less than a year, John underwent surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation yet his prognosis did not improve and running was entirely out of the question. Sherlock had completely given up all his work as a detective to focus on halting the disease's progress but they were rapidly running out of options. It wouldn't be long before the doctor would require an oxygen tank just to walk around the flat and they were awaiting the most recent MRI images.

"This can't be right."

"Did I move again?" John stood behind his flatmate to view the laptop.

"No, it's spreading."

Several red circles indicated new masses throughout his abdomen and a wave of nausea washed over the doctor. "Well I guess that's it then."

"Of course it isn't." The consulting detective slapped the laptop closed and placed his hands together under his chin, clearly ready to retreat to his mind palace.

"We've tried everything, Sherlock, and I'm only getting worse. It's spreading, so I'm not eligible for a transplant, and I'd rather have some dignity."

"Dignity is a fallacy I will not give in to." His eyes were hard and cold, firmly entrenched in his belief that death was only a difficult problem to be solved.

"Fine, I'm going out before you turn me into some experiment that can never leave the lab." The blond stomped across the room, pausing long enough to grab his cane for support during coughing fits before thumping down the stairs.

Sherlock stared at the blank space his only friend had left in the room. There were always other options, though not everyone had the access or the willingness to try them. He fortunately had both.


"Match on at the Beehive. Fancy a pint? -JW"

"Cardiff?"

"Vs Braehead."

"You're on."

Lestrade slid into the booth while motioning for a pint. "You're looking well, John."

The doctor scoffed. "It's the best I'll probably look again."

"I thought you were done with the chemo?"

While he and the inspector had never had much in common, they had formed a sort of friendship while Sherlock scoured crime scenes for clues. And John had turned to Lestrade after he was diagnosed for friendly support. The older man never treated him any differently and Watson was grateful.

"Chemo won't help any more."

"But you were doing well for a while."

John shrugged and took a long pull from his beer. "We've tried everything and the cancer is still spreading."

Greg considered his drink for a moment. "How long?"

"A few months, maybe less."

"Sherlock won't take it well."

"I know. We had a bit of a row when I left. Well, as much of a row as Sherlock ever has." They watched the match for a moment before John continued. "I'm just tired."

"From the drugs?"

"No, not really. Just tired of this, tired of Sherlock trying so hard. I think I'm ready for it to be on my terms."

"You don't mean?" Lestrade was already reaching for his phone to text the consulting detective if he needed to.

"No, of course not." The thought of suicide had drifted across his mind every now and then, but he never seriously weighed it as an option. "I'm just not sure why I'm fighting it any more."

"Of course you have to fight, that's what you do."

John sighed and Lestrade leaned closer over the table. "You know it would destroy Sherlock if you gave up now."

"Of course it wouldn't. He'd just go back to working cases and being a prat."

"He'd go back to how he was when I met him."

"You mean drugs?"

The silver haired man nodded. "He's never willingly given up his work before, he completely shut down his website and it's been a year since he's been to a crime scene. You've made him better and I'm afraid he'll lose that."

Watson stared at his empty pint glass. He knew all of the things the inspector had pointed out, he just needed them repeated occasionally. "I just don't know what else we can do. I mean I can't even shout at the telly without getting winded, so what use am I?"

"Just let him try. He's never failed before."

Hope and determination renewed, the doctor threw down some cash on the table and grabbed his cane. "Thank you Greg."

"Anytime."

John strode purposefully out of the pub, intending to chose another productive course of action. But he was stopped when he saw the black car idling at the kerb, Anthea leaning against the door on her blackberry. Without looking up, she opened the door for the shorter man to get in. The doctor had learned it was easier to just go along with wherever Mycroft wanted to take him and slid into the car.

Surprisingly, the elder Holmes was waiting for him, hands folded neatly on his umbrella. "Hello John. Out for a stroll?"

"Went for a pint."

Mycroft nodded, obviously deducing everything about the evening. "I thought you might like a ride back to Baker Street, since it's snowing."

"No it isn't." Watson looked out the window to confirm the state of the weather and cursed under his breath. Tiny white flakes had begun to float past the glass. "Fine."

"I also wanted to make sure you weren't thinking of giving up on your treatments."

Perhaps it was Sherlock's influence, but John couldn't resist sassing the government man. "It had crossed my mind."

"Well don't. If not for your sake, for Sherlock's."

It was the same thing Lestrade had said, but John bristled. "He's just going to have to get over it then, isn't he."

"Do not underestimate my brother, John, he might surprise you."

The car pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street and the former soldier quickly got out. He didn't dislike the older man per say, and he was incredibly grateful for all of the medical help he had received, but he was only equipped to deal with one Holmes brother. Unwilling to be overly rude, John nodded his thanks to Anthea and turned towards his flat.

Once he was out of the suddenly cold weather, the doctor took a deep breath and tackled the stairs. He made it all the way to the landing half way up when the coughing started. John braced himself on his cane and the railing and tried to bring up the mucus currently blocking his lungs. As he hacked into his elbow, lights danced before his eyes and the stairwell dimmed before going completely black.