Quick notice: I do realize that certain things in this chapter (you'll know it when you see it) would almost certainly not be allowed to happen in a real hospital. I just ask that you bear with me, and imagine there was some one in a million combination of circumstances that led to this, okay? Even if it's not plausible, it's crucial foreshadowing.

Chapter 26: Molly's Mistake

The first half of the week progressed uneventfully: radiation treatment twice a day along with continued chemotherapy to combat remaining malignant blood cells. Sherlock did better than John expected he would, rarely arguing with or insulting the nurses. He still managed to make a few unwarranted deductions, which John took as a sign he was feeling more himself. Of course, he was still exhausted by normal standards, but less so than previously. The only drastic difference was the moderate skin irritation, but the prescribed lotion was incredibly helpful with this.

However, after the fourth day of treatment, Sherlock spiked a fever. John knew from his medical training that a fever in an immunocompromised patient was a dire emergency: the cause had to be identified immediately or the infection would overwhelm him at frightening speed. Blood tests for every common pathogen were administered at frantic speed, but all yielded nothing. The doctors' mild panic at the mystery cause was contagious, and John discovered his hands were trembling with worry. Sherlock insisted he didn't feel any sicker than usual, and if John ever found out he was lying about a new symptom, he swore he'd kill the man.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the fever broke and his temperature returned to normal. That in combination with the lack of any cause on any of the blood work led everyone to the conclusion that it had been some sort of fluke. They kept a close eye on him for the next two days, and reinforced the isolation procedures. No one was allowed in unless they fully scrubbed and donned a gown, gloves, and mask. This didn't deter John from spending basically all his time in the room, even if he had to change mask and gloves every hour. The effort was worth the opportunity to keep Sherlock company. When he wasn't asleep, he listened to John read their book—even though his voice was muffled by the mask-or allowed John to watch whatever crap telly he wished and took pleasure in spoiling the ending for him.

In fact, John only left to use the restroom or grab a bite to eat. Mycroft had taken to texting him every day to remind him to take care of himself. He'd asked Mycroft how his donation preparation was coming—there was some sort of treatment that stimulated marrow growth in the donor—but he was adamantly silent about whatever procedures he had endured. He did confirm that he did whatever the doctors asked him to and was on track to donate, and that was all John really needed to hear.

The morning of transplant day dawned, and John slipped out to grab a coffee to keep him awake. Sherlock had been implanted with central line a few days ago through which the new marrow would be administered. It hadn't been a long procedure, but John still shivered at the memory of the worry that being separated from Sherlock of someone else's accord had brought about. As it was, he tried to make his excursions as brief as possible. Logically, he knew that everything was under control and Sherlock wouldn't spontaneously combust in his absence, but the knowledge that he might not reach him fast enough should the impossible happen if he was out of the room nagged at the back of his head like a persistently biting flea. If only he knew how much could go wrong during a half hour coffee break.

~0~

Molly was stressed. She'd been inundated with extra cases to take up the slack of her co-workers, and the strain was slowly getting to her. She was generally pretty resilient when it came to the pressures of her job, but this in conjunction with Sherlock's illness had her hovering precariously on the edge of sanity. She'd promised John that she would come to visit today, and she wasn't going to let a monumental stack of paperwork break that oath.

She arrived at the hospital still in her lab coat and made her way to the front desk. It had been so long since she'd been here that she forgot which room Sherlock was in. She asked the man at the desk for Sherlock Holmes, and, after looking it up in the computer, promptly responded with a floor and room number. She could have sworn that wasn't the room she'd visited last time, but chalked her confusion up to her stress levels. Besides, she'd never been the best at remembering details like that. That was Sherlock's job. She followed the direction she'd been given and arrived at an unfamiliar room. Two nurses stood hovered by the door, deep in discussion. She didn't think she should bother them when they seemed so engrossed, and the room number matched the one she'd been given, so she simply stepped inside.

She'd been suspicious of John's reluctance to accept her desire to visit, but she hadn't been able to decipher the reason behind it. One glance at Sherlock's sleeping form brought the answer right to the forefront: he hadn't wanted to scare her. Things had changed since she'd last been here. The most startling was the loss of his hair and the appearance of a crescent shaped scar on his scalp. She also noticed the nasogastric tube taped to the side of his face: his nausea must have been severe enough to warrant another method of providing nutrition.

Almost as shocking was the absence of John. From what she'd heard, he hadn't left his side except to handle biological necessities like food and drink. However, she noticed a note on the bedside table that had been left for Sherlock that read: "Gone for coffee. Don't come after me." She assumed he didn't want him exhausting himself further; she knew how rough cancer treatment could be.

She sat down and pondered what to do with her time. She didn't have very long before she had to get back to work, and she didn't know if Sherlock's awakening or John's return would come before that deadline. She didn't want to wake him, so she settled for grasping his hand in hers. He looked so peaceful when he was asleep, the constant frown that the idiocy of humanity brought to his face absent. It made him look more human and less like the machine everyone suspected him of being. She just sat there in the silence for a few minutes until the beeping of her watch alerted her that she needed to get back to work.

"The dead won't examine themselves," she sighed, standing up and returning Sherlock's hand to his side. Before she left, she acted on a nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her visit felt incomplete without something more meaningful, so she leaned over and gently kissed Sherlock on the forehead. She couldn't deny that it was a something she'd always wished she could do, and she felt a little guilty at taking advantage of him like that, but she didn't regret it. He stirred slightly when her lips touched his skin, and she heard him mutter something that sounded like, "It was all of them."

She wondered what that could be about, but her time constraint didn't give her much time to dwell on it. She exited the room, finding that the two nurses were no longer standing by the door, and left the hospital. She texted John that she'd come to visit and was sorry she'd missed him, but she needed to return to work. Upon returning to the mortuary, she noticed the beginnings of a sore throat, but dismissed it as severe thirst. During a long shift, she could easily forget to drink water. Her work environment wasn't exactly conducive to a healthy appetite.

~0~

John received Molly's text explaining her rushed visit and made his way back to the room. Before entering, he removed his jacket, donned a surgical mask, washed his hands thoroughly, and put on a gown and gloves. Ever since the fever, this ritual had been mandatory for everyone who went into Sherlock's room. It was tedious, but John was glad to do it in order to keep his friend safe from harm.

Upon entering, he found that preparation for the bone marrow transplant was well underway. It wasn't complicated, more like a blood transfusion than anything, but everything had to be in order before they could inject foreign cells into a person. Sherlock appeared to have just woken up from the mild confusion evident on his face. His ice-blue eyes followed the movements of the staff around the room.

"Molly just came to visit," John informed him. "Were you asleep the whole time, or did you get to talk to her?"

"I don't remember seeing Molly, so I probably slept through it," he replied forlornly.

"That's okay. She told me she's sorry she missed us, but she had to get back to work," John explained, attempting to console him. He knew it must be incredibly upsetting for the once lively and unstoppable man to be so exhausted.

"We're ready if you are," one of the doctors, which John suspected was Janssen, but he couldn't be sure through the mask. It was incredibly how different one appeared with the entire lower half of his face obscured. Sherlock and John both nodded at him, and he proceeded to connect the central line to the bag containing Mycroft's cells. As momentous as this occasion was in the overall course of treatment, it was rather anti-climactic. John noticed Sherlock's look of disgust towards the innocuous red bag. He and his elder brother had a complicated relationship, and John knew he resented needing his sibling to fix yet another problem he'd landed himself in. John imagined what it would feel like knowing the essence of another person was flowing through his veins, and he understood Sherlock's discomfort. However, he knew how beneficial this would be towards achieving remission from the leukaemia.

"John, do you think I'll act more like Mycroft after this?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"I know you're not a doctor, but you definitely know that personality isn't transmitted through bone marrow," John chastised. "If you do, you'll go down in history as a medical anomaly. But don't pretend it changed you just for attention. Having Mycroft's marrow flowing through you will be no excuse for whatever ridiculous scheme you cook up next."

"You're less of an idiot than I give you credit for; that's exactly what I was planning to do. Right after I eat an entire cake."

"Very funny. Unfortunately, I don't think it would fit," John chuckled. He deeply regretted those words the instant they left his lips. The reference could have been interpreted differently, but of course Sherlock would immediately recognise it for what it was: a jab towards his nasogastric tube. The lightness in his eyes that had manifested while he was joking about becoming Mycroft instantly darkened into an abyss of self hatred and pity. "I-I'm so sorry," John corrected. "That was not funny and totally unwarranted." He knew his apology was feeble, but it was still better than nothing. Sherlock rolled over as far as the central line's connection to the IV pole would allow, and John got the message. He turned around and left, leaving his gown and gloves in the designated hamper.

John left the hospital, attributing his careless actions to overstress and being cooped up in this building. As much anxiety as separation from Sherlock elicited, lashing out due to cabin fever was not a preferable alternative. He told himself over and over again that nothing bad would happen in his absence, and even if it did, it wouldn't take very long for him to get back. He decided to return to Baker Street for a long, hot shower and a night's sleep in his own bed. He wished Sherlock was well enough to do the same.

~0~

Upon entering the familiar flat, John was immediately accosted by Mrs. Hudson. He understood her concern, as he'd neglected to give her regular updates like a good friend should. Whatever she knew she'd learned from Mycroft, and John presumed the man had been frustratingly vague.

"Oh John, how is he? The poor dear," she said.

"Mrs. Hudson: things are different. Not worse, per se, but different. They put a device in his head to make the chemotherapy more efficient, and they had to give him a feeding tube because he threw up anything he ate. Now, he's been irradiated and is receiving a bone marrow transplant from Mycroft. All things considered, he's doing well," John explained without revealing his frustration. He'd come here to avoid facing Sherlock's illness, yet here he was laying it all out.

"Oh goodness," she sighed. "I should really go and see him, oughtn't I?"

"Mrs. Hudson, I don't think that's necessary." John didn't want to put her through the shock of seeing Sherlock in his current state. "He's in isolation—highly restricted visitation."

"Why?"

"In order for the bone marrow transplant to take, they had to destroy his immune system so it wouldn't attack the new cells. But it also makes him incredibly susceptible to infections."

"How long will that last? He won't be like that forever, right?" John heard the concern in her voice, and his sympathy for the poor landlady grew. Sherlock was like a son to her.

"It's not permanent. It will rebuild itself with the new marrow, and he will get better," John assured, as much for himself as for Mrs. Hudson.

"Thank goodness. Is there anything I can get you?"

"No thank you. I just need to be alone for a while."

"I understand. You've been at the hospital for ages, it's about time you took a break."

John followed through with his intention of taking a hot shower, and he felt truly clean for the first time in weeks. Of course he'd been showering regularly throughout this whole ordeal, but they were always squeezed in the little time he was willing to spend away from Sherlock. After drying off and putting on clean clothes, he sat down in his chair with a newspaper. The action felt so familiar, yet so foreign due to the lack of a long, lanky figure crammed into the opposite chair, hands steepled beneath his chin.

He reassured himself that things were looking good. If Mycroft's bone marrow took, Sherlock was well on his way to remission. If he allowed thoughts of any other ending to this ordeal to invade his brain space, he was doomed. Optimism was the best remedy—both for him and for Sherlock. He wasn't giving up on his best friend, and he wouldn't allow Sherlock to give up on himself.

Satisfied that he'd chased away most of the negativity, he put the paper down and wandered up to his bedroom. It had been so long since he'd crawled between those sheets, they felt completely unknown. He actually struggled to find a comfortable position, having gotten used to sleeping upright in a hospital chair. He was used to the antiseptic smell of a hospital room and the steady beeping of the machine monitoring Sherlock's heart. The oppressive silence prevented him from falling into the bliss of sleep.

He considered returning to the hospital, but figured he wouldn't be welcome after the way he treated Sherlock. Maybe a day or two apart was exactly what they needed. The stress of the situation wasn't ideal for their friendship or their respective mental health. However, he didn't foresee falling asleep in this bed any time in the near future. He'd probably die of old age before he succumbed on that alien mattress. He saw only one other option, but he was reluctant to attempt it.

Quietly so as not to draw the attention of Mrs. Hudson, he crept back downstairs and down the hallway into Sherlock's bedroom. If anyone knew about this, they'd never let him live it down, but he would take it to his grave. The entire room screamed Sherlock. From the haphazardly strewn objects on the bed to the periodic table poster on the wall, everything reeked of the detective. John cleared the miscellaneous science equipment and books from one half of the bed and slipped beneath the blankets. When his head hit the pillow, the scent of Sherlock's shampoo washed over him. The aroma calmed his nerves, reminding him of the good old days before his best friend had gotten sick. Before he knew it, blissful sleep washed over him.

~0~

After John had unwittingly insulted him, Sherlock locked himself away from the outside world. His greatest fear had come to manifest: John found him weak and disabled. While this was true, he'd relied upon his flatmate's stubborn denial to keep himself sane. He didn't know what he would do if John didn't come back. The doctors had told him that he wouldn't be leaving this room until the marrow transplant took and his immune system began to rebuild itself. When he first heard this news, it didn't seem all that life-altering—he hadn't left the hospital since his daring escape attempts—but he soon realised that cutting out the trips down the hallway to radiology made him feel like a caged animal awaiting euthanasia.

He didn't consider himself claustrophobic, he was known for curling up into a ball as small as possible on the couch back at Baker Street, but even after just a few hours of knowing he was trapped in that room, the walls felt like they were closing in. He curled up on himself as much as the stupid central line would allow and clutched his head in his hands. The smoothness of his scalp felt despairingly alien, and he didn't dare think about what it looked like. He'd seen the way John looked at him since they'd shaved it; he rarely allowed his gaze to travel above Sherlock's nose. He ran his fingers over the raised area where the Ommaya reservoir had been implanted, scar tissue still marking the C-shaped incision and numerous puncture wounds from chemotherapy needles.

The reality of his condition deeply enraged him, and it wasn't until his fingers came away bloody that he realised he'd been clawing at his own head in distress. Somehow the physical pain relaxed him, bringing him back from the brink of despondency. He hoped he wouldn't bleed like a haemophiliac as he'd done during the early days of his sickness. Even if it stopped, the next nurse to come in would surely freak out. He could push the call button and get someone to bandage the wound for him, but he decided he'd let his own body prove its worth and clot itself. He'd wash off the dried blood later.

He must have fallen asleep because suddenly his head was clean and a small bandage had been placed over the claw marks made by his own fingernails. Had they not even bothered to wake him to ask what had happened? Or had they tried and failed? His sleeps were so deep these days as his body tried to cope with all the chemicals and foreign matter they were pumping into him. However, if they'd tried and failed to wake him, it would have raised much more of a fuss, so he doubted that was the case. Maybe cancer patients scratching themselves like that was common enough that it didn't warrant immediate interrogation.

What did concern him was how much it hurt. It was just a small scratch, yet it throbbed incessantly and burned as if someone was holding a match to his head. He gingerly touched it with a finger, and the slight contact sent a shooting sensation all across his scalp. Should he alert someone to this new development? Maybe. But he didn't want to invite the feeling of being poked and prodded like one of his own experimental specimens. He decided that he'd mention it if it got any worse, but for the time being chose to pick up the book John had left him. John had already read about half of it to him during radiation sessions, and he'd already deduced the ending, but it was better than just sitting around doing nothing. It was slow going and reading the words for himself didn't have the same effect. He missed the gentle lilt of John's voice and his fruitless attempts at forming distinct accents for each character in the novel. As much as he'd been offended by his offhand remark, he hoped his reaction hadn't driven him off permanently.

~0~

John awoke in his own bed for the first time in what felt like forever. He sat up and stretched, grateful for his first good night's sleep in a long time. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and went to the kitchen to make himself breakfast before returning to the hospital. Hopefully, Sherlock would have forgiven him by now, and if not, he'd just have to deal with it.

Mrs. Hudson was nowhere in sight, and the flat felt depressingly empty with only John to occupy it. He made himself some toast, which burnt despite his vigilance. In fact, it burned as much as one would expect after leaving it in for ten minutes, even though it had only been four. John found this incredibly strange, but attributed it to the toaster gone bad or something of the like. As a replacement, he grabbed an apple and sat down in his chair with a newspaper.

As he flipped through the pages, he noticed something across from him. Of course he noticed and abhorred the absence of Sherlock curled up in his chair, but now the entire chair itself was missing. What on Earth happened to it? How can a chair just go missing?

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called, wondering if she had moved it to vacuum beneath it or something. This seemed unlikely: at her age, she likely wouldn't be able to lift the massive armchair, much less transport it out of the room. There was no reply, which he found odd, but he didn't have time to dwell on it because the phone rang. He reluctantly got up to answer it, and blanched upon seeing the number. It was the hospital.

"Is this John Watson?" a voice asked.

"Yes, speaking. Why are you calling."

"Unfortunately, we have some bad news for you. I'm terribly sorry, but Mr. Sherlock Holmes has passed."

It wouldn't be a proper story without a little cliffhanger, would it? I'm rather excited to see how you all react to this chapter's ending, so please go ahead and react away! I can tell you there are some deductions, so to speak, that can be made based on the text of this chapter that will lead you to the correct conclusion as to what the heck just happened here. Thanks for reading!