Chapter 10: The Beginning of the End

Sherlock cracked a heavy eyelid open and blinked violently as the bright sunshine seared into his retinas. He knew it was Mrs. Hudson who was sitting by his bedside because the room positively reeked of her sickly sweet perfume. "You might want to consider going easier on that stuff," he rasped, suddenly realising how dry and sore his throat was. Mrs. Hudson lowered the magazine she was reading and smiled at her tenant, who rolled his head to the side to see her. "Why are you here?" he asked quietly, afraid of throwing himself into another coughing fit. That sounded much more accusing than it did in his head. The thing was he was genuinely surprised that people were still sticking around, and for the life of him he couldn't understand why they were all still there.

"Because I've brought you soup dear," Mrs. Hudson replied in a scolding tone, obviously not impressed by Sherlock's apparent rudeness. "That and John had to go and see Mycroft. Also, do you want him to get you anything from the shop when he comes back?" Sherlock shook his head slowly, he was still scrabbling back from the clutches of sleep and he was finding it a little difficult to focus on what Mrs. Hudson was saying. She obviously could tell that he needed a couple of minutes, so she continued with the magazine she was reading.

After a short while Sherlock felt with it enough to speak. "What time is it?" he asked; voice still raspy.

"About one in the afternoon, so lunch time if you want any. The nurses left some sandwiches while you were sleeping, but you can have the soup if you want." Sherlock nodded and slowly pulled himself into a sitting position. He couldn't find the remote for the bed and he didn't want to make a big thing of it. Once he was sitting up he felt a little better, he didn't like lying down when he was talking to people; it made him feel somewhat vulnerable.

"Where did you say John went?" he asked as Mrs. Hudson poured the soup into a mug. He could smell it; it was rich and it made him feel nauseous, but yet again he didn't mention it. He didn't want anyone fussing over him. Instead he took the mug when it was handed to him and shot Mrs. Hudson a fake smile of gratitude.

"When you fell asleep he went to see Mycroft, apparently your brother texted him." Sherlock didn't reply, he merely growled at the mention of his sibling.

There was a lull in the conversation as the detective took his first sip of the concoction Mrs. Hudson had put together. He knew under normal circumstances he would consider it delicious, and that it was an awful lot better than the rubbish the hospital tried to pass as food. However, it still seemed to cling to the sides of his throat and coat his tongue and the inside of his mouth causing his stomach to churn.

He frowned at the soup, unsure how much he could stomach before throwing it up again and Mrs. Hudson obviously noticed because her expression instantly turned to one of concern and she opened her mouth ready to voice it. But then there was a timid knock at the door, causing both the room's occupants to turn their heads, and there stood what appeared to be a huge bouquet of flowers with legs. Sherlock sighed in relief at the distraction but shook his head in exasperation, why Molly thought bringing him a load of flowers was a good idea was beyond him.

"Oh, hello dear. Those look beautiful, let me help you with those." Quickly Mrs. Hudson stood up and hurried across to the pathologist and took the flowers off her, placing them on a table near Sherlock's bed, revealing a very flustered looking Molly Hooper.

"Hello Sherlock, how're you feeling?" she asked. She was feeling very awkward and Sherlock could tell; this was the first time she'd seen Sherlock since Lestrade had informed her of his leukaemia. She had no idea how to act, how do you act around a sick Sherlock?

To Sherlock it was obvious that Molly did not want to be there, the only reason she was visiting was probably out of some distorted sense of duty. "How do you think?" he replied quietly, looking away from the young pathologist, his hands subconsciously grasping tighter onto the sheets. Mrs Hudson frowned at his sudden change in demeanour but decided against saying anything.

"Oh, okay then," she replied nervously, shooting an unsure look towards Mrs. Hudson, who nodded towards one of the chairs. Taking the hint she sat down, her shoulders tensed with her hands clasped tightly together between her legs and her whole body leaning forwards.

"Oh! I have something for you, Sherlock," she said enthusiastically trying to ignore the fact that the detective was very obviously sulking. She rummaged through her bag and eventually retrieved a pale blue envelope and stretched across to hand it to Sherlock. For a few seconds Sherlock stared at it, contemplating not taking it because if Molly didn't want to be there, then she didn't really want to give him the card, but in the end he decided to simply oblige. It would be easier in the long run.

"Thank you," he muttered before tearing the envelope open and pulling the card out, it was not what he expected. He'd been expecting a card with some flowers on it or some stupid teddy bear dressed as a doctor, or something equally insufferable. What he found was quite different. It was simply a picture of a dog sitting in a grassy field. But it wasn't any old dog; it was a brown Irish Setter. It wasn't his dog, he could easily tell the difference, but it was close and sent a torrent of memories pouring through his mind. "I… I hope you like it," she stammered unsurely. How did she know? His mind was racing trying to figure out when he might have told her about Redbeard, but his mind couldn't remember even mentioning him to her, let alone confiding in her what that dog had meant to him. He couldn't even think why he might tell her. But this couldn't be coincidence. Of all the cards she could have picked, of all the different dogs she could have selected. No, this was definitely not a coincidence.

"I thought it might make you feel better when it got really bad," she said nervously. She had no idea how Sherlock would take it, and he still hadn't taken his eyes off the card. Carefully he lifted a shaking hand and stroked his fingers gently across the glossy pictures before raising his gaze slowly until his eyes met with Molly's. His expression was unreadable, but Molly got the impression that getting the card was a good choice.

"Thank you," he said, his voice was raspy but nonetheless full of gratitude. It was the most sincere Molly had ever seen him. He would ask how she knew at some point, he just did not want that conversation in front of his landlady, not even she knew about Redbeard.

Looking back at the card he opened it reluctantly, not wanting to get rid of the picture of the dog. Inside he took in the perfect curls of Molly's handwriting.

Dear Sherlock,

I know that this must be difficult for you, but you are the strongest person I know. If anyone can beat this disease, it's you. But don't forget you don't need to fight it by yourself; you have friends that care about you and want to help you. Make sure you remember that, because I know sometimes you forget. I hope you have a swift recovery. I'll make sure I keep all the interesting bodies ready for you to examine once you're up and about.

Lots of love,

Molly xx

A small smile played at the corners of his lips; he'd never had friends in his life, he didn't know why he should expect to start having them now. Molly seemed pretty adamant that people did like him, and even though he didn't believe her remotely, he decided to let himself be swept up in her delusion, just so he could feel like there were people who would miss him if he did die. It felt good.

~0~

When John eventually made it back to the hospital it was to find Sherlock sitting up in bed; he still looked terribly ill, but there was something about him which seemed happier than when he had been in before. In his hands he clutched a cup of tea that the nurses must have brought for him. His hands were shaking, and every so often spatters of hot tea would escape and scald his hand. The doctor in John wanted Sherlock to put the drink down and have it through a straw when he realised that it must be burning his friend but he managed to suppress the urge. Sherlock actually looked relatively happy, and John knew that making him feel like more of an invalid would distress him more than a bit of hot tea.

He greeted Mrs. Hudson and Molly as he entered the room and smiled at Sherlock as he took the last seat in the room. There was a massive bunch of flowers giving the room a sweet scent and there was a car with a dog on it lying in Sherlock's lap; it was all very curious. John was deliberating what to say to Sherlock, but his friend beat him to the punch. "I think that there is something wrong with Dr. Harrison." It took a John a moment to understand what Sherlock was saying but then nodded in agreement.

"I thought that as well."

"Sorry, who's Dr. Harrison?" asked Molly curiously. John looked at Sherlock, expecting him to answer, but instead of that he was looking into the depths of his tea as if they held the answers to the mysteries of the universe. John shook his head in a mixture of despair and fondness.

"Sherlock's oncologist."

"What's wrong with her dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her curiosity piqued. Yet again Sherlock made no indication that he was intending to answer and remained engrossed in the tea, so John answered for him.

"There's just something about her that puts us on edge, well Sherlock probably knows exactly what it is but I can't put my finger on it. I've hinted to Mycroft to find him a different oncologist."

At this, Sherlock's head snapped up. "Why would you do that?" he asked; frustration permeating his voice and John furrowed his brows in confusion.

"What do you mean? We both know there is something funny with her, I want to make sure you have a good oncologist."

"No, no, I don't doubt her abilities as an oncologist. It's just her in general."

"Dear, I don't think that the rest of us are really following." At this remark, Sherlock actually looked surprised and looked at everyone, each of them shook their heads. He rolled his eyes and took a sip of tea trying to hide a yawn. He was unsuccessful. The shaking was getting worse as he began to tire.

"Her behaviour was off, even you picked up on that John, she was acting sort of mechanically, as if everything had been scripted. Even when she began to get frustrated, it was as if she was being told how annoyed she could get." At this point he stopped to have a sip of tea to try and keep down a cough which would inevitably turn into a coughing fit. This time his strategy was successful. "I can't explain it perfectly, but that's the best way I can describe it. Do you know what I mean, John?" Sherlock's expression was worried, as if his inability to produce conclusive evidence would mean that people would doubt him, so John made sure he was quick to reassure his friend. As it happened Sherlock had hit the nail on the head and John agreed wholeheartedly.

"That's exactly what it was like, I didn't know how to describe it, but that does it perfectly." At this Sherlock visibly relaxed.

"I'm unwell, which unfortunately prevents my brain from working at full capacity." Molly patted Sherlock's arm reassuringly, he sounded incredibly distressed that he couldn't think as fast as normal, but she quickly stopped as he jerked away. He splashed tea on himself in the process, which he didn't seem to notice, so nobody had the heart to point it out.

John smiled as he saw Sherlock's eyes droop in exhaustion but then the detective shook his head vigorously to wake himself up. "She's dishonest too." Nobody bothered to ask, they just looked at him curiously waiting for him to explain.

"Her clothes are rumpled but they don't smell clean which means that they haven't been stuffed in a drawer after being washed, they're the clothes she wore yesterday."

"I don't follow, how does that make her dishonest?" asked Molly, knowing Sherlock wanted someone to take the bait.

"Of course you don't. Any doctor I know would change their clothes after a shift at the hospital; apart from the fact they're on their feet all day they could get any number of bodily fluids on their clothes. This indicates she was not at home last night. Why wouldn't she be home last night? She was staying at someone else's."

"So, she slept with someone. That doesn't make her dishonest; I didn't notice a wedding ring." John commented, he hadn't been looking but he was sure she wasn't wearing one.

"Who wears a wedding ring when they're cheating on their husband?" Sherlock asked sounding exactly like his old self. Sadly though his hands had started shaking to the extent that he had put his half empty tea cup on the table and placed his hands carefully in his lap. "Anyway, doctors tend not to wear rings at work because it can make gloves rip. I don't blame you not for noticing though."

"Not noticing what?" John asked despite knowing h would probably regret asking, when Sherlock started making deductions he always got interested.

"Well she is pale, obviously not been out the country for a while. But there is a faint paler patch of skin on her ring finger indicating she is married."

"How can you tell she's married and didn't just divorce a while ago?" asked Mrs Hudson.

"As I said, she obviously hasn't been out the country for a while, you can tell from how pale she is. The only sun we have had recently that could have been strong enough to produce even the slightest tan was two weeks ago and she was obviously wearing her ring then."

"Fantastic," John said. No matter how many times he heard Sherlock's deductions they never got any less amazing. But the way Sherlock looked when John made that comment astonished him, apparently being ill was lowering his mask slightly, because he was positively glowing at the praise John gave him. John knew Sherlock liked to have his ego boosted, anyone who went within twenty feet of the man knew that, but he had no idea how much Sherlock apparently thought of his opinion.

Nobody spoke for a short, but it was Sherlock who broke the silence. "What were you and my brother talking about that took so long?" Sherlock asked, his ability to stay awake was fading but he fought it.

"Oh, I was only talking to him for a few minutes. I went to Tesco and then and went to Scotland Yard."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked curiously, there was a hint of excitement in his voice. "Is there another case?"

"Um, not quite. I went to see Greg and he's given me a load of cold cases for you to look over if you want to and if you're feeling up to it. Just something to keep you occupied."

"Fantastic, where are they?" Sherlock asked excitedly.

"Um, I left them at the flat; I took the shopping back and left them there. Do you want me to go and get them?" Sherlock glared at John but nodded enthusiastically in reply.

"Alright, just get some sleep while I'm out Sherlock, you look wrecked."

"All I ever do now is sleep," Sherlock growled angrily. John remained un-phased by Sherlock's outburst, he couldn't really blame him, John knew he would be absolutely terrified and frustrated if their positions were reversed.

"I don't think anyone will blame you Sherlock."

~0~

The detective hadn't even meant to follow John's orders; he'd inadvertently drifted off to sleep. Unfortunately, forty five minutes after falling into his fitful slumber he was cast violently into reality as his stomach decided it no longer wanted to retain the small amount of food he'd managed to ingest. He could feel the bile burning his already sore throat and searing the inside of his mouth. He could see the foul concoction of tea, soup and stomach acid sloshing about in his lap but he ignored it in favour of trying to calm the dry heaves which sent pain surging through his entire body.

He felt a hand on his back, rubbing firm circles to try and relax him, and he was sure the owner of the hand was saying something, but for the life of him he couldn't hear what it was. After what seemed an eternity the retching stopped, causing Sherlock to slump back in his bed, exhausted and gasping for breath. He was too tired even to try and work out who it was in the room with him. A cup touched his lips and he raised a shaking hand and took it, water spattered onto his hand and he groaned in frustration at his inability to even hold a cup steadily. "Just rinse your mouth," came the gentle voice of DI Lestrade. "Then spit it out into the cup. I'll get you a fresh glass and find a nurse. I think you're going to want to get a clean sheet."

Sherlock's face burned in embarrassment as he opened his eyes to meet the concerned ones of Lestrade. "I'm fine," he rasped unconvincingly before taking a large mouthful of the water and sloshing it around his mouth.

"Like hell you are," retorted Lestrade, taking the cup from Sherlock once he had spat into it and went off to find a nurse.

~0~

Ten minutes later Sherlock found himself in a bed with clean sheets and in a fresh gown and he was ever so slightly annoyed. Nurses did like to make stupid small talk and he was in no mood to pretend that he wanted to talk to them. They left the room in as stormy a mood as he was in.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded. "I thought you asked John to bring me cold cases, why couldn't you bring them if you were coming here?" Lestrade sighed inwardly, Sherlock was obviously not in a good mood and that never meant anything good for anybody.

"I wasn't planning on coming over, technically I'm meant to be working right now, but Sally had to come and interview a victim in this hospital so I thought I might as well come over and see how you were doing."

"What the hell is Donovan doing here?" Sherlock demanded angrily.

"She's worried about you Sherlock. Anyway, she's not even here to see you, if you don't want to see her then you don't have to."

At that point John, walked in with an armful of folders and looked at Lestrade in surprise. "Sorry John," Lestrade said hastily. "I wasn't expecting to come over here, but Sally had to interview someone, so I thought I might as well tag along. Everything is rather quiet at the moment."

"Won't someone notice you're gone?" John asked, taking a seat in another of the chairs and quickly scanning his eyes over Sherlock. He looked worse than before.

"As far as the logs are concerned I'm going to be assisting in the interview, Sally won't let on so it's okay."

"I wouldn't count on that," Sherlock muttered irritably.

Before either John or Lestrade could say anything there was a knock on the door, a small and very smiley woman stepped in, she didn't look at all like a doctor, but she was holding a clipboard, so John didn't know what else she could be. "Mind if I come in?"

"Yes."

"No." John and Sherlock glared at each other and the woman looked a little hesitant before deciding just to come in anyway.

"Hello Mr. Holmes, I'm Jane. I'm a nutritionist; Dr. Harrison said you would see me."

"I'm fine," Sherlock said looking at his hands which were clasped tightly in his lap adamantly.

"Dr. Harrison doesn't seem to think so," she said, sitting down next to Sherlock's bed. "But if I feel she is wrong, I will let her know. Anyway, I need to apologise for not telling you ahead of time that I was coming. I only received the request this morning and considering that your chemo starts tomorrow I thought it would be wise to get our first meeting out the way."

"There's going to be more?" Sherlock moaned petulantly.

"Yes, if you know what's good for you." John had already taken a liking to the short woman; she was going to give Sherlock a run for his money by the looks of it. Sherlock turned his gaze onto her, John and Lestrade recognised it as his calculating gaze and both of them knew that they were helpless to prevent what was coming next.

"How does it feel to have a son that hates you?" Sherlock asked, trying to get under her skin to make her leave.

"Probably about as crappy as you think it does," she replied without batting an eyelid. "I know exactly who you are Mr. Holmes. I follow your friend's blog and I have heard what people say about you. You are a fantastic detective but in this hospital, you are a patient. You are here to get better, not to deduce my personal life as a part of a puzzle to solve. Now, are you ready to let me do my job and help you?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched in bemusement; this woman was quite interesting. "Fine."

"Good, now, do you want your two friends here?" she asked, her voice turning instantly kinder.

"Actually I should probably go and find Donovan. I'll be back to see you tomorrow mate," Lestrade said picking up his jacket. After Lestrade left, Sherlock didn't answer Jane's question.

"I can leave if you want me to, Sherlock," John said, starting to stand up.

"Stay." It was so quiet that John barely caught it, but he instantly sat down again. That single word spoke volumes about how afraid Sherlock must be.

"Right, well I've been asked to speak to you because there are some concerns on the effects this treatment is going to have on your weight. Chemo often causes people to lose their appetite and therefore people often lose weight while undergoing treatment. In your case it is imperative that we try to minimise this as much as possible. You can't afford to lose anything else."

"I've always been thin," Sherlock defended, wrapping his arms around his frame. John really did feel sorry for Sherlock; he knew how defensive the man was about his weight.

"That may well be, but the point still stands, it would be detrimental for you to lose anything else. So I'm going to put you on a high calorie diet. As I said during chemo you will likely be off your food so this diet will involve a lot of protein bars and that sort of thing. During the initial stage, you may not be able to stomach anything, but we'll just have to work around that and start. Do you have any questions about any of that?"

Sherlock shook his head but curled up on his side, away from Jane. He really didn't want to be there discussing his weight with a complete stranger. She smiled sadly, but it was an understanding smile. "I know this must be incredibly difficult for you Mr. Holmes, but I assure you, we won't be doing anything that will cause you harm. I'm also going to talk to Dr. Janssen when he gets in about sorting physiotherapy for you. Maintaining muscle mass is highly important when it comes to maintaining weight. I think that's all I have to say and unless you have any questions I'll be off." She was met by silence from the bed, unsurprising really.

"Thank you, I don't think there is anything," John replied for Sherlock. She nodded and smiled.

"I'll be back in a few days to see how you're doing and we'll see if you've been able to keep anything down."

Once she was gone John regarded the curled up figure on the bed and a pang of sadness assailed him. It was wrong seeing Sherlock suffering like that. "Do you want a drink or anything, Sherlock?" No reply. So John sat next to the bed and started to read through the cold case files Lestrade had left. He stayed there, doing just that late into the night, reluctant to leave Sherlock in case he needed him. Sherlock barely moved except for the occasional twitch in his sleep. He would be stiff in the morning but John reckoned that muscle stiffness would be the least of his friend's worries.

Sherlock just looked so damn frail and John got the overwhelming urge to comfort his friend, to hug him, but he didn't. The doctor didn't want to wake Sherlock and anyway, their friendship did not work that way. If their roles were reversed then Sherlock definitely wouldn't be hugging John.

John looked up blearily as a nurse walked into the room. "Sir," she whispered. "You really should go home to get some rest. He's going to sleep through the night; you don't need to be here." John knew that the nurse was probably right, but he didn't want to leave his friend in case something happened. In the end he acquiesced and decided that her suggestion was probably a good one. Those chairs really did a number on his back. He could probably get back to the hospital before Sherlock was awake again. Quickly he scribbled a note on a bit of paper and left it on the table next to Sherlock's bed and left.

Once the nurse had left the room, Sherlock, who was not even remotely asleep, opened his eyes. They were stinging so he blinked rapidly trying to abate it. Reaching under his pillow he pulled out the jacket John had given him on the rooftop and curled himself around it. He remained like that for the remainder of the night, afraid and feeling very alone, until sunlight shone into the room. Even when strange doctors and nurses appeared and wheeled his bed to another, remote part of the hospital he didn't move. It felt like they were taking him away to die.