John's phone rings and he glances at the screen, seeing Sherlock's face looking back at him. He stares at it - it's one of his favourite pictures. A real smile lights up his grey eyes and, just a moment after, Sherlock had started laughing. John remembers it so vividly.
The picture fades when he doesn't answer the call. John stares at the blank screen until the photo appears again. He admires it some more, not answering.
When the picture appears for the third time, John slides his finger over the screen and holds it against his ear.
"John? Where are you?" John can hear the concern in the voice. It should annoy him but it doesn't.
"Home," he answers, knowing that is not where he is supposed to be.
"Why are you not at the surgery receiving your treatment? They have been trying to contact you and called me when they could not reach you."
John inhales and the cool autumn air hurts his lungs, a lasting effect of the pneumonia. He watches people walking by through the open window. Regular people just going about their day. That is life. That is the world. Everything continuing as before, as if nothing has changed.
"I'm not going to have any more treatments." There is a little girl walking with her mother. She must be about six. He touches the window, brushing his fingers near where she is walking. She appears to be healthy.
"What are you talking about?" The voice is different now, a hint of fear apparent underneath. John opens his mouth. He doesn't want Sherlock to be afraid. Before John can speak though, Sherlock continues. "Of course you are going to have more treatments. You only have seven left. You are more than half way."
John closes his eyes and feels the cool breeze as it moves past him and into the flat. Goose bumps sweep across his body; he savours the sensation.
"I don't want to sleep anymore, Sherlock. I'm so tired of being tired. I don't want to do it anymore."
"John?" Sherlock says. "You are being stupid. You could di- You need the treatments to get better."
Maybe he'll go for a walk. Regent's Park is so beautiful at this time of year.
"John?" Sherlock says again, annoyed that he has not received a response.
"What?"
"Your treatments? Are you participating in this conversation? Hugo has rescheduled you for this afternoon at three. I will meet you there."
John shakes his head. "No, I don't want to."
"This is not optional. Are you dressed? I will head to the flat now and I'll accompany you."
"No," John says putting some force behind his words. "I can't. It doesn't make sense to continue. None of it makes sense."
There is a long pause - if it weren't for Sherlock's breathing John would have thought he'd rung off.
"I don't understand," Sherlock finally says. He never admits that, it surprises John. "What doesn't make sense?"
John frowns, not wanting to say it. He doesn't want to think about it. He wants to feel good again and go for a walk in Regent's Park. Maybe Sherlock will go with him. They can hold hands and sit on a bench and cuddle up. Sherlock can complain about it while trying to keep the smile off his face. John likes when Sherlock tries to pretend he doesn't like something.
"What happened?" Sherlock finally asks and John is quiet. He feels something on his cheek and brings his hand up. It's wet. He's crying. He pushes his palm into his cheek, wiping the moisture away. He repeats the action on the other side.
"She died," he says, hearing the tears in his voice. He wonders how long they've been there. He wonders if Sherlock knows. Then shakes his head - of course Sherlock knows.
"Who?" Sherlock asks. "Who died, John?"
"Cassie," John sobs. He backs up, collapsing onto the sofa. "Six, Sherlock. She was only six."
He rests his forehead into his palm and lets the tears come. "Six," he repeats barely able to understand his own voice.
Sherlock is talking to him, his voice a constant babble in John's ear. He doesn't understand the words though. He can't hear them.
"Why?" he asks to no one. "I don't understand, Sherlock. Why?"
"I don't know," he hears, foreign words exiting Sherlock's mouth. "I'll be there in ten minutes, John."
John nods, feeling a tear land on his thigh.
Mrs. Hudson is walking out the door as Sherlock reaches it. He ploughs past her, listening to the noises on the other end of the phone. Quiet sobs are the only noises he's heard since he caught a cab thirteen minutes ago. Each time John gasps Sherlock's body aches.
He pushes through the door of the flat and is halfway up the stairs before he realises the noises are coming from the living room. He turns and stumbles down two steps before getting the rhythm back. He drops his phone on the end table then sits down on the couch next to John. Sherlock eases the phone out of John's grip, sets it aside, then pulls his husband towards him.
The sobbing intensifies as John turns, burying his face into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock holds him, running one hand up and down the now prominent spine. He leans down and presses his lips into the soft blond hair.
John has lost some of it, not a lot, but it has definitely thinned out.
"I'm so tired," Sherlock hears.
"I know," he whispers back. "I know."
Sherlock adjusts until he can completely wrap himself around John, cocooning the small body against his. The sobs continue, wracking John with the same force that nightmares and illness do.
"I don't want to do it anymore. I just - I'm so tired."
"I know," Sherlock says, mentally chastising himself for the useless platitude. He doesn't know. He has no idea, not really.
John nods against him, tightening his arms around Sherlock's back. Sherlock shifts again. His shirt is partially soaked with John' tears.
After several long minutes, the sobs begin to taper off but Sherlock doesn't loosen his hold.
"She was only six," John says again. "She fought her whole life and lost. Why should I win?"
Sherlock is shocked by the calm in the voice. He wonders how long these ideas have been in John's head. This clearly is not something caused by the child's death. A child John hardly knew.
"I fail to believe that you and she were mutually exclusive. You do not get to live simply because she did not. There are two completely different sets of variables involved. Her can– her illness was more aggressive than yours. You told me that yourself." John sighs and then sniffles. Sherlock places another kiss into the soft hair. He knows that the tears aren't done, just on hold. John's body is still tense, his muscles still twitching underneath his skin.
"I am compelled to point out that if you stop treatment then there is no guarantee that you will not die." Sherlock struggles on the last word, his throat tightening around it. His voice catches as he continues. "Even if - even if you complete treatment there is no guarantee."
"It's so hard." Sherlock nods, stopping himself from speaking. He knows that it is hard, it is hard for him. It is hard to watch his husband suffer, hard to be powerless, hard to not be able to make it better. He does not know what John feels, he does not know what it is like to have his body terrorised by the disease and the treatment.
It is with a flash of horror that Sherlock realises that if John asked, if John really wanted to stop the treatments, he'd understand. He understands the appeal of giving up the fight, accepting defeat and death on your own terms. He inhales a shaking breath and squeezes John closer.
But John is not losing. It makes no sense to stop.
Every PET scan has shown improvement, every single one.
"Please," Sherlock whispers. He mentally adds 'for me'but does not voice it. It cannot be for him, he knows that.
John's body tenses for a moment and then sags. Sherlock feels the weight of it press against him. It is a gesture of defeat and Sherlock has a flash of panic before John nods.