Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but I own a lot of unuseful information about neuroblastoma now, hooray!

Sorry for the long wait, but I literally sat in front of the computer for the whole of Saturday and edited 400 words over and over again, until my arms weakened. I also did a lot of research, but please tell me if you notice something wrong or have particular knowledge about this subject. It would help me a great deal!

And holy crap, you guys! Thank you so, so much! This is the bestest response I ever had for a first chapter, really, you guys flatter me! Hehe, you must be crazy, rock on! :)

My brain feels like porridge. Or mud. Both. Definitely not good...Oh, I am awake then? I see. Brilliant.

I try to open my eyes a slit, in the hopes of making out where I am. But they both seem to have come to the mutual agreement that light sucks. Shouldn't I be the judge of that? Hell, this sort of stuff had not been in the job description. If I can't even control my brain, how do they want me to deal with all this crap?

All I can tell is that my heart is pounding rapidly in my chest, an uncomfortable sound, thumping far too firm. Far too deep, too tight. Bloody hormones. I can't wait until I start sweating like a pig- or even better, the diarrhea. FUN. FUN .FUN. Bloody, bloody hormones. Not to forget the headaches.

After all, my eyes finally decide to grace me with opening up, a few beams of sunlight piercing through my iris without pity. It feels surprisingly good, the pain. Better than before at least. It's something I can hang onto, that I can feel. Chemotherapy can make you forget these sorts of things.

But sadly, only seconds later, it is gone. And then I can see, clearer. I'm not sure whether I like what I see though. Because I spot myself, in the window glass. I look horrible, frail. My face is flushed, but my pale skin manages to still gleam weakly, faintly, almost green. The dark, violet circles under my eyes match up perfectly, a stark contrast. No hair. I had almost forgotten how thin I am.

I fear what I see, myself. Mummy always says that I shouldn't ever be afraid of anything. But there isn't a monster under the bed this time. It's me.

"Erm- are you okay?" I hear, a quiet enquiry from the other side of the room. I turn my head, trying to make out where the faint voice is coming from. "You look a bit, pale."

And then I see him. Not far away, a boy. A few years older than me, with warm blue eyes. Friendly. Kind. And staring. I must really look dreadful. "I'm okay, you?"

"John Watson." He states, looking equally screwed. And equally hairless.

"No, silly. I wasn't asking for your name." I give him a weak smile. "I'm Sherlock by the way."

He only nods. This must be his first time, here in the paediatric clinic. I've been several times. I should have just stayed at home. All the other times have just been a waste of time, honestly. Thrown out money. Surgery? Useless. Immunotherapy? Pointless. Not even to start with the Chemotherapy.

My parents had to give all they had, pay all the costs, without any result for one and a half years straight. I don't want to know how much they'll have paid by Christmas. If I'm even alive this Christmas.

I shudder, this is not a train of thought I'd like to carry on travelling with. So I refocus my attention on John again. John, John... the name. It's like I knew him somewhere. "John?"

"Yes... Sherlock, was it?" He looks at me from his pillow. He's sad. Why?

"Is this your first time- here?" I ask sincerely.

"Yes and no- I've been in another room before yours, but that's not important." He turns around in his bed, finding the other part of the room easier to look at. John really must be sad. Or I too ugly.

"Why aren't you there anymore?"

"She died." And with that the conversation is closed. At least for him. I'm persistent.

"How old are you?"

"I'm eleven."

"You look nine." I say, counting my fingers. Only three years younger than Mycroft.

"I know." He sighs. "Can I take a nap now? I didn't sleep at all, last night. And it hurts."

"No. No!" I say panicked.

"No?"

"Please?"

He rolls his eyes. "Fine."

I take another look at the small boy, Sherlock. He's weird. Normally I like weird, but I'm not certain yet what I should think of him. He's different, in a perplexing way. But I guess I- I just don't know. "How old are you?"

"Me?" He looks scared for a second. "I'm six."

"Oh." He seems older. Not physically, of course. I couldn't tell. But mentally- he just seems older.

"Where do you live?" He asks, his eyes all big. He really seems interested. Or maybe just bored. The latter is more likely, but I don't blame him. This place sucks. "Ridgmount Street, you?"

"Not far from there- Baker Street."

I nod and let my eyes close slowly, while I can't help a yawn from escaping. Perhaps I'll just go to-

"No, please don't leave me-" He exclaims, his little face terrified.

"Why not?"

"I don't want to be alone." Sherlock shifts awkwardly in his bed, uncomfortable.

"So, you want me to be your baby sitter?"

"No, I just want you to stay." He calms down a bit.

"I don't want company."

"I know, me neither, not really." Sherlock blinks. "Doesn't mean we don't need it."

Maybe this Sherlock kid isn't all that bad after all. But really, only maybe.

"And it's a good distraction." Sherlock nods. "You said you were in pain? Me too. But sleeping doesn't help, at least not in my case... When did you have surgery?"

"Who said that I had surgery at all?"

"Look at yourself. Then look at me again. It's pretty obvious, isn't it?"

"Alright, alright." I give him the symptoms of a smile. "Two weeks from now."

"I had surgery too, you know. Twice. It never worked out." Sherlock closed his eyes too for a second, only to reveal his dilated pupils after. "But never mind; let's hope it worked out for you...?"

"I don't know yet, but the doctors seem optimistic." John tugged his sheet closer. "Although there's still some Chemotherapy to be done. To fight the rest, they say."

Sherlock nods slowly, as I see his tiny eyes drooping close. Well, so much about our little distraction. If my voice weren't completely broken, I'd probably start singing a lullaby for his sleep's sake. But I'm still not as pathetic and it doesn't seem as if I need to be anyway. He's fast asleep.

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, I read. Maybe we'll get along after all. He's interesting. But I shouldn't be so optimistic, so quick. We can't be friends. One of us could be dead by tomorrow.