I'm sorry...

Chapter 3:

They packed up the next morning to return to London. John had managed a few more hours of sleep after their conversation, but he could tell from the bags under the detective's eyes that Sherlock had not. He couldn't function on minimal sleep like he used to, and it was obvious when he didn't get enough rest. However, he nodded off as soon as they began the drive back home and stayed asleep for a good hour.

"Feeling any better?" John questioned when Sherlock's eyelids fluttered opened.

"Guess so," Sherlock yawned. "Are you okay? I know it wasn't exactly a restful night for either of us."

"I'm alright. I'm sorry for falling apart on you like that. I guess seeing Fred just triggered some old memories, and my subconscious had a heyday turning them into a horror show."

"Fred was right, wasn't he? He reminded you of me."

"Yes. When I first stepped into that room, I imagined you there instead of Fred and I panicked. For a second I thought everything since your recovery had been a dream and you were actually still sick. Fortunately, I managed to snap out of it."

"If I'd known this would affect you so dramatically, I wouldn't have asked you to come with me. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, it's not your fault. And you didn't ask me to come, I forced my company upon you."

"As you often do," Sherlock smirked.

"Not true! Half the time, you drag me places against my will."

"Fine. But my curiosity's getting the better of me, and I have to ask you one thing. If you don't want to answer or can't remember, I'll understand, but I'd like to know what happened in your dream. You were yelling at someone to stop."

John sighed, mentally preparing himself to relive it. He was a little hesitant, but Sherlock deserved to know. So he explained, "I guess it was a manifestation of my anxiety during the worst of the necrotizing fasciitis. Every time they took you away, I wondered if you'd still be intact when they returned you. In the dream, I saw you slowly turning black and people kept chopping off the dead parts until there was literally nothing left."

"That's horrible. I'm sorry."

"You've nothing to apologize for. It's just my brain making a mess of things like it always does."

"Your brain does not make a mess of things. Sure, it can't observe and piece together clues, but it's not nearly as bad as some I've encountered."

"It managed to convince me I couldn't walk after getting shot in the shoulder."

Sherlock hesitated, a little taken aback and John's blunt acknowledgement of his psychosomatic limp, but continued, "Fair enough. But it does lots of other things. Whatever my mind is lacking, yours has in abundance. You care about people, about everyone, and they know that. People can rely on you for almost anything."

"Almost?"

"Well, nobody's going to ask you to reach something on the top shelf for them," Sherlock sniggered. Of course he'd sneak up and hit John with a short joke. It wouldn't be the first time, and certainly not the last. John felt himself physically relax, the tension easing out of him like air from a deflating balloon. If Sherlock Holmes was poking fun at his height, all was right with the world.

~0~

A month later he got the message:

Fred passed yesterday morning. It was peaceful and painless. He wanted me to tell you that if cancer had to take one of them, he was glad it was him instead of Sherlock. He said criminals would roam the streets if Sherlock wasn't there to help the police catch them. I want to thank you again for everything you did for my son. You made him happy in a time when everything else in his life was rather depressing, and I will be forever grateful.

He requested to be buried with the hat Sherlock gave him, and of course we will honor that wish. He refused to part with that hat in life, and it only seems fitting for it to follow him into death. Thank you again for everything,

—Margaret Hunter

~0~

John had been expecting a notice like this for a while. But every day that passed brought him renewed hope that maybe, by some miracle, Fred had turned a corner. He'd outlived the doctors' expectations, but in the end had lost to the relentless onslaught of leukaemia. John had to read the message several times over to let it all sink in. Fred was gone.

He felt tears begin to burn at the back of his eyes, and he cleared his throat to draw Sherlock's attention. Their gazes met, and John could see that Sherlock knew exactly what had transpired. John stood up and left his laptop open with the message displayed so Sherlock could read it. He then ran to the bathroom and allowed himself to just cry. The emotional strain was simply too much, and he needed some form of physical release. About thirty minutes later, he composed himself enough to return to the living room. Sherlock didn't appear to have moved an inch, but John knew by the hollow look in his eyes that he'd read the message.

Sherlock didn't speak for two weeks. He ate and drank so little that John began to worry he'd need a trip to hospital for IV fluids. When they first met, Sherlock had warned John that sometimes he didn't talk for days on end. That had happened on several occasions, but never to this degree. He wandered around the flat like an aimless ghost, sometimes standing in front of the window and staring at cars for hours on end. If John tried to initiate a conversation, Sherlock would just leave the room silently.

Of course this behavior was concerning, but John didn't really start to panic until Sherlock declined a case from Lestrade. A case that would've been a seven. Sherlock had never said no to a case this interesting in all the years John had known him. John had a difficult time explaining this to Lestrade, who had no idea about the magnificent little boy that had nestled a home in Sherlock's heart a mere month ago. In the end, he decided just to tell Greg that Sherlock was sick. It was believable and it didn't raise too many follow-up questions.

At the two-week mark, John was at the end of his tether. It was expected for Sherlock to grieve, but this was unhealthy. In the last two days, he'd settled himself on the sofa with the butchery blanket and curled up into a tight little ball, refusing to move. If something didn't change soon, he might just wither away and die there. John knelt in front of the couch, and tried to coax any sort of reaction out of him.

"Sherlock, this has gotten out of hand. I know it hurts, I know you're grieving, but you can't just let yourself go. Honestly, I'm afraid of losing you too if you don't at least take care of yourself." Sherlock remained stoically silent, facing the back of the couch. "Sherlock, you haven't eaten in days. You're going to waste away to nothing. I've been trying so hard to help, but you won't even talk to me. What am I supposed to do? I can't just sit here and watch you do this to yourself." Still silence. "Fred wouldn't want you to destroy yourself over this." John saw Sherlock visibly tense at the mention of his name, but he still didn't move. "Sherlock, please. I'm begging you, at least let me make you a sandwich or something. You can't go on like this forever. Something's gotta give." Still nothing. "Sherlock, I'm scared. I have no way of knowing what's going on in your head. You're drifting away from me, and I'm trying to throw out a life preserver, but you refuse to grab it. Please, I can't lose you again!"

Sherlock slowly sat up and turned to face John. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen, with dark circles beneath them. His lips were terribly chapped and his cheeks hollow. He looked John in the eye and croaked, voice hoarse from extensive disuse:

"It should've been me."

~0~

Hours later, John still had no clue what to think of that. After his declaration, Sherlock had rolled back over and returned to sullen silence. John had tried to cajole more out of him, had pleaded with him, had even threatened calling Mycroft, but to no avail. Sherlock was unreachable in his despair.

"It should've been me."

He valued Fred's life over his own; he'd be more than willing to trade places with him. If, somehow, it was true that leukaemia was destined to take the life of only one of them, Sherlock wanted to make that sacrifice. That was far too close to suicidal thoughts for John's liking. If this progressed any further, he didn't know what he'd do. A world without Sherlock was not one John Watson wanted to live in. For a while, he'd feared he might have to, and it had torn him apart.

How tragic would that story be if it came to fruition? A little boy dies of cancer and drives Sherlock Holmes to his own death, with John Watson taking the plunge not long after. What would that do to their friends? He knew that he and Sherlock were likes sons to Mrs. Hudson, and their loss would devastate her. And as hard as he tried to act aloof, Mycroft loved Sherlock deeply, the way only an elder brother could. And Lestrade didn't just need him to solve cases, no. He was as much a friend to Sherlock as John was. John couldn't even bear to think about how he'd break the news if the unthinkable ever happened to Sherlock. He himself might just keel over from sheer, overwhelming grief.

Which is why John could not allow Sherlock to drive himself off the edge, especially not when he was here to prevent it. He knew nobody could simply 'snap out of it' when it came to true depression, but he needed some way to lift Sherlock out of this funk. He needed Sherlock to recognize that none of this was remotely his fault, that there's nothing he can do beyond honoring Fred's memory.

John stood at the foot of the couch, watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall with each breath and wondering if he'd fallen asleep. He wasn't expecting Sherlock to acknowledge him, but a muffled grunt escaped Sherlock's lips: "Leave me alone."

"You're talking. That's a start," John encouraged. "Sherlock, I think we need to have a conversation about this."

"What for?"

"I need to tell you that I'm scared out of my mind watching you deteriorate like this. Every day I've hoped you'd be better, but things are just getting worse and worse and something needs to change before it all goes to hell."

"Believe me, it's already there," Sherlock grumbled.

"Maybe it is. But every time I leave the room I worry about what state I'll find you in when I return. I know you've got secret stashes in this flat, and at this rate I'm afraid you'll tap into them. You need to stop wallowing and face this head-on."

Sherlock sat up and John took a seat on the sofa next to him. They turned to face each other, and John recognized the look of sheer anguish he'd seen in the mirror all too often during Sherlock's illness.

"I just don't know what to do," Sherlock whimpered, his voice breaking.

John took a deep breath to steady himself and explained, "When you lose someone, you feel like the floor's been ripped out from under you. You try to find your footing, but there's nothing there but empty space. You could just float away and leave everything behind, but there are people on the ground who are important to you, and you know that you're just as important to them. So you have to find an anchor. Something to keep you grounded, something to help you see that you still have a purpose in this world, that it all didn't disappear."

"How do I do that?"

"You recognize everything and everyone who is still important to you and you hold them close. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft, Lestrade, and me, we all care about you. I care so much that seeing you like this breaks my heart. I've been trying to help, but you've just shut me out."

"After the message came, I would look at you and remember you panicking when you first saw Fred. You looked at him and you saw exactly what you feared would become of me. The way I feel right now, I can only imagine it would've been a hundred times worse for you if the disease had been too much for me. I feel guilty for making you endure that hardship."

"Sherlock, you can't beat yourself up over that. You didn't ask to get sick. But it happened, and we dealt with it however we could. This, too, is just something that happened. It's not your fault, it's nobody's fault, and we just have to deal with it however we can. But falling to pieces is not an option."

"Okay."

"First things first, I need you to eat something. Then tomorrow you should talk to Greg about that case he presented. Maybe work will keep your mind off things."

"How can I worry about some stupid case when the worst murderer of them all is a disease?"

"Because you can't cure cancer, Sherlock, not all by yourself. I know you experiment with all sorts of stuff around here, but you don't have the budget or the resources to tackle such a massive problem. You could put that brilliant mind of yours to thinking about it and maybe talk to some cancer research facilities if you come up with something, but that's a project too big for even you to tackle all on your own. Unfortunately, cancer kills, and it's going to continue killing. But you can bring other criminals to justice like you always have. That's exactly what Fred wants you to do."

John noticed his own usage of the present tense, and saw that Sherlock noted it also. Even if he was no longer living, Fred could still desire, and his wish for Sherlock to keep solving crimes would never die. And John knew that Sherlock's need for the thrill of puzzle-solving wouldn't either.

I hope you managed to enjoy this story, even though it's rather sad. I wish I could tell you that I'll be writing only happy things now, but that's not the case. I am very excited to announce my next full-length story: Norbury. It will explore an alternate ending to the Six Thatchers, rife with revelations, confessions, and angst. I should start posting by the end of this year, if all goes as planned. Thanks for reading!