The Death of Dear John Watson

So, I thought it would be a good idea to make the oneshot into a story? I don't know what you guys think about this, but no one suggested anything so I thought I'd just go with it. Thanks for reading so far.

Currently listening to: Oblivion by Bastille.

All rights go to the makers etc... of BBC Sherlock, I own nothing.

"Shut up, Anderson." I commanded as I slammed the door in his face. Honestly, was there a brain in that thick skull of his? He may as well be a single-celled organism; he's only capable of just enough thought to keep him alive anyway.

I approached the body lying on the ground. Hair is short, recently trimmed - there are left over flecks of hair on the collar of his work shirt. So he got his hair cut after work. Next I turned to his hands. Not married, hasn't removed the ring as the skin is soft around his ring finger. Shoes, must check the shoes. Ah, from Clarks, recently bought. What about the shirt? Yes, just as I suspected, newly bought. Slipping my hand into his blazer pocket, I withdrew a receipt. Casa Di Fiori, a nice restaurant, very expensive. More desperate than I thought.

I stood up to face Lestrade. His hands were absent-mindedly brushing his thighs, and a small dent formed in between his eyebrows. His eyes flitted around the room. Clearly, he was as nervous as I was about John's—

No.

"It was his date, the one who called us." I said, picking up my Belstaff coat from the hotel sofa.

"Really? She seemed so nice, so upset... Are you sure?" He asked, but there wasn't enough emotion in his voice to tell me he really cared. He was just saying what he expected himself to say.

I sighed in exasperation, but decided to explain it to him anyway. I needed distracting.

"He's recently brushed up on his appearance; new work shirt, new shoes and a haircut, but done too short, so he tried a new hairdresser, possibly for a new look but I would need older pictures of him to be sure. He's not married – hasn't ever been, and by thirty years of age I think it's safe to say he's getting desperate. So, what do you do when you want a wife? You brush up on your appearance and go on a date, but this wasn't just any date, no, he went to Casa Di Fiori, a very high-spec restaurant. So clearly he's been on lots of dates before that haven't been successful – he's going to the most expensive place he can afford. With a blazer like that, he clearly doesn't splash the cash much. Anyway, when she offered to go to a hotel with him, he was far too desperate for it to notice the weird way she looks at him. Next thing you know, stabbed in the stomach, dead."

"Okay." Lestrade said, too tired and stressed for much more of a reply, "Anderson!" He called.

"Yes?" Anderson's head popped in the doorway, clearly annoyed.

"We're done here. It was the date- Don't ask." Lestrade cut him off.

"Come on, Sherlock, let's go to St Bart's."

I stepped through the automatic doors and inhaled the thick scent of antiseptic. I hate hospitals. I took off towards the stairs.

"Sherlock, where d'you think you're going?" Lestrade called after me.

"To see Molly." I called over my shoulder, pulling my coat's collar up and striding towards my destination.

"Stop right there." Lestrade called with a threatening tone of voice. That was unexpected. I stopped in surprise and turned to see him jogging over to me.

"Sherlock, I know this is really hard for you, but it's harder for John, so you need to put aside what you want and do what John needs, for once in your life."

I sighed, "Graham, I am not in the slightest bothered about John's appointment. In case you've forgotten, I'm a sociopath. So please don't let the fact that you had another argument with your wife over what to watch on TV last night, that apparently escalated further than it should have judging by your creased T-shirts that have been folded in an overnight bag, hinder my decision to go and see Molly."

He stood completely still for a second, tensed, before saying "It's Greg." And turning on his heel for to get in the lift.

Bloody sentiment. Can't they see that they bring it on themselves?

I pushed open the door and jogged down the stairs to the morgue. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Sherlock, I know you don't care about John, and no one expects you to, but please come. John needs you – MW

Ah, so someone had given Mary my number. Great. Now I would be getting hourly updates on John. She's clearly trying reverse psychology, telling me not to care about John.

"Molly?" I called as I reached the morgue.

"Oh! Sher-Sherlock!" She replied timidly, appearing around the corner to welcome me through.

"Aren't you supposed to be with John?" She asked, looking into my eyes with concern for a millisecond before she nervously looked away.

I stared at her, not bothering with an answer.

"Um... So we've recently had a new one in. Male, fourty five years of age. Hung himself."

I fell into routine easily, preparing myself for the latest experiment.

"Scalpel." I held my hand out towards Molly, waiting. After a few seconds with no reply, I looked up.

Molly was looking at me, holding the scalpel tightly in her hand.

"Sherlock, I really think you should see John... Because it may not matter now, but if they find something, the time will come when it will take over his... Transport, as you call it. And when that happens, John won't be there to complain about your violin anymore, or to ask you questions about the obvious, or be your best friend anymore. And when that happens, you'll wish you could have spent every second with him. And you'll wish you could have been there with him when his final journey began. You'll have wanted to hold him while he cried, and have your hand on his shoulder while the Doctor explained the next step, and to give him your opinion when chemotherapy is discussed. And if you don't go right now, the guilt will fester in you, until it takes over your mind like John's cancer, and it will kill you too. This isn't just John's burden to bear. It's allowed to affect you, too." She finally looked away, and held out the scalpel. "That's just... What I think. You don't have to listen to me, I just-" Molly looked up when she heard the door slam shut.

She put the scalpel down, smiling sadly.

Sherlock's phone buzzed from across the room. Molly rushed over to pick it up so she could return it to him, but the text caught her eye as she did so.

It's a brain tumour. Really bad. Doc wants to talk chemo. Please come. John won't stop crying -MW

So should I continue, or not? Please let me know, and tell me if you hate it or love it. I really want honest feedback. Thanks for reading.