Blood everywhere. It covered his hands, his arms, his shirt. It was everywhere. John was covered in it. In the distance he saw a grave surrounded by mourners. It didn't take long to realize he'd seen this funeral before. He knew who they were burying there and he didn't want to see that but something told him he had to. He walked slowly toward the grave but no one seemed to notice him. Away from the crowd, John saw a man and knew it was Sherlock. No, that wasn't right, he shouldn't be there. That's when John noticed that the crowd had disappeared and the name on the stone was not the one that he had expected; it was his own.

John bolted up out of his bed. He was sure that he had been screaming before he awoke and wondered if Sherlock had heard him. Part of him wanted to; the room felt so dark and lonely and he didn't want to be alone. He felt sick again and made his way for the bathroom.

When he was finished in the bathroom he opened the door and was startled to see Sherlock in the doorway. The flat was quiet and it was so late that John was sure that Sherlock had been asleep and he hadn't been as quiet as he would have been had he known he was still awake. But there he was looking calm and unaffected yet looking directly into John's eyes. Sometimes he was sure Sherlock could see clear into his soul.

"Oh…hi Sherlock," John said trying to get around Sherlock but Sherlock didn't budge.

"Is everything alright John?"

John almost told him. Right then and there he wanted to tell him everything. He wanted to tell him that everything wasn't alright. He wanted to tell him how afraid he was. He wanted to beg him to help him carry this load that felt too heavy to carry. But he didn't. He couldn't.

"Yeah."

"Are you sure? I heard you scream."

It was hard to lie to Sherlock. He never believed it when John did. He was just so perceptive he saw everything. Even at his most convincing, John had never been able to deceive Sherlock about anything. And right now he wasn't at his most convincing. He still felt weak and shaky from the nightmare and bought of sickness. So, he decided to go with a very vague version of the truth.

"I had a nightmare. No big deal."

Sherlock didn't seem all that convinced that that was all there was to the story but he didn't press John for anymore information and backed away so John could pass.

John walked back to his room and got back in bed, curling up with his arms around his stomach. He felt weak and tired and he hoped that he could go back to sleep. He knew it was just a nightmare but he could still feel the blood on his hands and sense of doom hanging over him. He used to have nightmares all the time after the war but they had ended soon after he moved in with Sherlock. It had been a long time since he had had one and he wasn't use to them anymore.

He pulled the covers up and tried to clam down enough to go to sleep but all he could think about was his father whose death now haunted him. He'd always wanted to be like his dad. His dad was a solider and had always been strong and brave. John was only a teenager when his dad had gotten cancer in his stomach. One day it seemed as if he were fine and the next he was sick. By the time the symptoms had shown up it was too late. He had thought his symptoms were mild enough but when he had gone to the doctor they had told him it was cancer and it had spread. They'd done treatment but it was a losing battle from the beginning. John saw the strength quickly sucked right out of his dad in no time. He saw fear in his eyes. It hadn't taken long for the disease to claim him.

He believed that what had happened to his dad influenced his decision to go into medicine and he knew it had a direct impact on his decision to join the military. He'd always admired his dad. But now he feared that the same disease that claimed his dad was now coming for him. He already had the symptoms, the same symptoms and if they were obvious it probably meant that it was too late.

John thought about Sherlock. Why hadn't Sherlock pressed him for more information? Its what he would do if the tables were reversed. He didn't believe for a second that he had fooled Sherlock into thinking nothing was wrong. He wasn't sure what he expected from Sherlock. What did he really want from Sherlock even if Sherlock knew? He wasn't sure but he knew that he didn't want to be alone and he didn't want to lie to him. And even more, he knew that he didn't want to leave him forever.

John was hiding something. Sherlock was certain of it. He stared at him across the crime scene where he was kneeling near a recent victim making his own deductions. Most people wouldn't notice the subtle signs but Sherlock did. John was not as steady as he normally was, he moved a little slower, and a flash of pain would cross his face from time to time.

For weeks now something had not been right with John and Sherlock had observed the physical and emotional signs. But for some reason, he had not shared the information with Sherlock.

At first the signs were subtle. He had noticed that John missed a meal here and there. He had asked John about it and John had just commented that he thought he was getting a stomach bug. John had not seemed worried about it and so Sherlock thought it was nothing.

But that was not the case anymore. John's health was obviously declining. Instead of missing an occasion meal here and there, he was missing most of his meals. Sherlock could tell that in the past few weeks he had probably lost about 15 pounds. Sherlock also knew that John was vomiting on a more and more frequent basis, like last night when he'd found him in the bathroom. He'd also found small flecks of blood, John's blood, on the floor in the bathroom. John looked tired and worn most of the time.

But there weren't just the physical symptoms. John was worried. He'd become quieter and quieter as the weeks went on. He was keeping more to himself. It wasn't at all like him. He laughed and smiled less and seemed to have a constant crease of worry on his forehead. He was more contemplative and deep in thought more often and it seemed that the thoughts filling his head were troubling ones. John wasn't obvious about it and he might not even be aware of how noticeable his changed behavior was.

The strangest thing about it all was that he didn't tell Sherlock anything. It was not like John to keep to himself so much and not share things with Sherlock. It seemed he always wanted to talk about something whether it was something Sherlock wanted to hear or not. And he always talked about the things that were troubling him. Why was this time different?

Sherlock had told himself that there was nothing to be concerned about. John was a doctor. He would know right away what it was that was bothering him. He would take care of it. If he hadn't brought it up, then Sherlock was sure that it wasn't that serious.

John was just getting up from crouching next to the victim when he put a hand to face, closing his eyes. He was dizzy. Sherlock rushed over to him. "Are you alright?"

John shook it off. "I'm fine," he said but he was pale and looked sick.

"John…"

"I said I'm fine," he said brushing Sherlock off and rushing off leaving Sherlock alone.

John hated hospitals. Being a doctor had not given him any more appreciation for them as a patient. If anything, being a doctor made being a patient even worse. He knew everything that was happening. He knew everything they weren't saying. He knew all the worse case scenarios. As a doctor, it was like he didn't even notice the things that he bothered him now. The overly bright lights. The cold and sterile setting. The detached feelings he got from the staff who were prepping him his endoscopy. But he saw them all now quite clearly.

He laid in the bed just waiting for the doctor to come and in and it was terrible quiet. He had left the flat telling Sherlock he had some things to do. Sherlock had not asked him for details. He wished he had. John didn't want to be here alone and he knew it wouldn't be quiet at all if Sherlock were here.

Since the fear of this disease first presented itself, John had thought a lot about Sherlock. Something had been nagging at him that he couldn't quite identify. He'd wanted something from Sherlock but he had never quite identified it.

John had known from the moment that he met Sherlock that Sherlock was different than anyone he had ever met. John was sure that anyone who ever met Sherlock could say that about him. But Sherlock was something different to John. Within 24 hours of meeting Sherlock he had moved in with him, began chasing criminals with him, and had even killed a man to protect him. Granted, Sherlock was clever and fascinating, but why had John pledged himself so completely so soon to this man?

It wasn't normal in general and it defiantly wasn't normal for John. John had always had a hard time trusting people. It wasn't that he wanted to but he always just seemed to have a hard time getting close to others. He had a few friends here and there in his past but not like others had. He realized that he expected a lot from others and they usually didn't measure up. They always seemed to let him down in some way. He made an effort with people but he usually never felt truly comfortable with them. He didn't give his trust lightly to someone.

But he had pledged himself to Sherlock instantly. He realized now that he had; not in spoken words but in his heart. On that first day, with that first case, he had promised to follow Sherlock anywhere, to protect him at all costs. He'd given Sherlock his loyalty, his trust, and his friendship. Because his heart knew something that his mind didn't quite understand.

His heart knew that it had found its match. His heart had found its home, its other half. Not in a romantic way as some (to his complete embarrassment) thought; but in a familial way. Sherlock complemented him in every way. He gave John's heart life, and happiness and motivation when there had been none there. He gave his life excitement and pushed him to be more every day. Sherlock was more than just his friend; he was his family. John had never experienced this connection with anyone else so he really couldn't blame people for getting it wrong; it made little sense to him as well.

This whole experience now made his mind realize what his heart had known all along; that Sherlock had become like a brother to him. All along he'd hidden his illness from Sherlock because of this. He really didn't want Sherlock to worry; he wanted to protect him. But he also was worried that the depth of Sherlock's feelings didn't run as deep for him. He wanted Sherlock to care, to worry whether he lived or died. He wanted Sherlock to give him strength, to make him not as afraid. He wanted Sherlock to be at his side just as he had stood by Sherlock's from day one. He didn't just want these things; he desperately needed them now. And he just couldn't stand the thought that he might not find them. He wasn't strong enough to handle that and that was why he hadn't risked hoping for them.

But as the medicine started to slow his mind and make his eye lids sink he thought of Sherlock and tried to gain strength from him, even thought he wasn't there.

John had taken a taxi home and by the time he got there the drowsy feeling left over from the medicine had worn off as well as his shock at what the doctors had told him when he woke up. Well, that hadn't worn off completely but he was at least composed enough that he could face going back home.

When he got back up to the flat Sherlock was sitting in his chair reading a book. He took notice of John. John was afraid for a moment that Sherlock could read it all there on his face. What Sherlock said instead took John by surprise.

"Did you get the milk?"

It took John a moment to be sure he heard Sherlock right. "What?"

"The milk. I asked you to pick some up before you left."

Given everything that was going on in his head right now, he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "No, you didn't."

"I'm certain I did. You just weren't listening."

"What?" John almost lost it then. He was the one not listening? He was the one not paying attention? This was too much. "You know, Sherlock I do have other things on my mind once in a while than just doing all your chores."

John went to his room and shut the door. He sat on the bed and put his head in his hands. The news wasn't good. They'd found a large tumor on his stomach and they didn't know if it was benign or not. It had been too large to remove during the endoscopy so they had scheduled John for surgery in two days. It wasn't good news he knew and he knew that the doctor who had given him the news thought the same.

Soon, he would get answers whether he wanted them or not. He'd have to know if he was sick or not. He would have to have to tell Sherlock and he would have to know what Sherlock would say. He didn't look forward to either.

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