It took John nearly a full hour to walk from the surgery back to Baker Street.
He couldn't see the point in hurrying, not right then anyway. What was he supposed to do? Hurry back and tell Sherlock that he would be getting weaker and weaker because he had a stupid normal human problem that was killing him from the inside out? The detective would probably blame regular sleep cycles or eating habits, and then force John to leave him. What use could a broken doctor be?
With a heavy sigh, John shuffled his way up the stairs, bypassing the living space to head straight up to his bedroom. All he needed was a lot, scorching hot shower, a scorching hot cuppa, and a long kip. It would all just be a bad dream, that's all. Just a nightmare. He probably ate a bad bit of Chinese or something, yeah, that had to be it.
Sherlock didn't stop him, though he had obviously heard him come up. John had seen him through the open door to the kitchen, had seen him focusing his scope on something that smelled suspiciously like rotten pig. It all seemed so normal.
Everything was normal, for everyone else. So why did it feel like his entire world was collapsing around him?
Mrs. Hudson was still baking downstairs, like she had been when he left hours earlier. There were still hoards of people racing around the streets, shopping and laughing and fretting and not a single one of them realised what John just learned.
"Robbed," John muttered to himself, letting the burning hot water run down his back as he stood in the shower. "Robbed of my life."
With that realisation came tears. He leaned himself against the tiled wall, clutching without purchase, sliding to his knees as he sobbed. John didn't move from that spot for a good forty minutes, letting out all his pent up frustration and sadness out on the wall. Unfortunately for him, the crying fit only let to a heavy coughing fit, leaving him doubled over and gripping at his slippery knees.
After another ten minutes, he collected himself enough to scrub at his hair and body with the bar of soap, slowly washing himself up and hoping that his face didn't look as wrecked as he felt on the inside.
Sherlock wasn't at the microscope when he finally descended the stairs into the kitchen. The detective was in his chair, flicking through a file with a look of absolute boredom. He didn't look up when he heard John set the kettle on the stove. John would have to tell him sooner or later, and true to British ways, it was going to be done over a cup of tea.
By the time the tea was steeped and prepared with the proper fixings, John and Sherlock were sitting across from each other, still not making eye contact. He could put it off, couldn't he? He didn't need any sort of treatment just yet, did he? Maybe it wasn't such a good idea that he had scurried from the surgery before he had discussed anything with Sarah. He'd have to find an Oncologist. Bugger it all, he couldn't bring it up.
"Do share what is on your mind, John, before your tea grows cold." Sherlock's voice broke him from his reverie, nearly causing him to spill said cooling tea all over his plaid button up. He had forgotten to add a jumper on top.
"Well, best just get it over with," He whispered to himself, taking a calming sip from his mug before setting it down and steeling himself, preparing for the worst possible situation and response. "I've got cancer, Sherlock."
Silence.
Three whole, dreadfully long minutes of silence.
"What kind?" Sherlock asked, setting aside the file and his own tea, steepling his fingers under his chin and giving John a good once-over with his far-too-inquisitive eyes.
"Lung cancer," John began, casting his gaze down and pushing away the horrible, gut-wrenching feeling that was crawling around his stomach. "Non-small cell lung cancer. Don't know what type yet, or what stage."
Sherlock simply nodded, his lips turning down as he eyed the doctor cautiously, as if too strong a gaze could possibly break him. It took five minutes before their eyes connected again. John had no clue what was going through his flatmate's mind, and even less idea on how to deal with the repercussions. All he knew right now was that he couldn't keep up running around London like he used to, there was nothing more than that. He could have kept up the pretense that he had a bloody cold, why did he have to go and spoil everything and ruin everything that he had with Sherlock? There was no way he would be kept around now, and his hopes were lowering and lowering every minute the detective kept quiet.
"Have you told anyone?" The tea was long gone and the hope of getting a reply had been diminished; John had given up and picked up the stack of mail when Sherlock spoke up.
"Well, you. Sarah knows, and Marty, from the x-ray down at the surgery." John sighed, rubbing as his temple. All he got in reply was a curt nod before the detective swept up from his chair and to his bedroom, closing the door in his wake. He could very nearly feel the tears returning at that, but there was no use in crying all over again. He'd save that for his showers and the nights he'd be stuck awake, wishing his death would be swift and painless.
Sherlock, on the other hand, was nowhere near as emotionally perturbed by the news. Of course, he had suspected his flatmate was sick, but not to such a degree.
There was something he could do, surely. John would try his hardest to help him if he had ever found himself in such a state, right? He certainly made sure he had the best surgeon on staff that one time he had gotten a pen shoved straight through his hand. There was the smallest of scars left, because of that surgeon.
Cancer was a different idea all together, though. It would leave more than just a scar, if the abnormal cells had their choice of the matter.
Well, there was always one thing he could do. A big thing, a horrible thing. But, for his blogger, his doctor, his only friend, it would be worth it. Asking a favor from big brother Holmes could lead to the death of Sherlock, but there was the hope that it could lead to the long life of John.
That's all there had been to settle it.
"Mycroft," Sherlock phoned, clearing his throat and shoving his chin out, positively gritting his teeth to complete this task. "I have a favor to ask."
John could hear Sherlock talking on his mobile, probably making preparations to have John moved out of the Baker Street flat as soon as was possible.
He couldn't just sit there any longer, his feet were itching to go for a walk, but he knew that he would probably just end up at Regent's park, out of breath and angry. Instead, he settled for heading downstairs and knocking on the door of 221A. Mrs. Hudson was all smiles, beckoning him in with promises of fresh cooked apple pies and a steaming mug of tea.
John sat on her small sofa in silence, smiling and nodding as thanks whenever he was handed something or told something. It was a good thing that there were so few people he was close to, otherwise he doubted he would be able to make it through very many repeats of sharing his news.
"Mrs. Hudson," He interrupted her spiel on the neighbors wondering cat, looking at her with a deep frown that she quickly copied. "I've got something to share with you."
"Oh no," The old woman squeaked, pressing herself into the small loveseat beside him, her eyes going wide. "Don't tell me you and Sherlock are on the outs!"
"No, no, Mrs. Hudson, this isn't about him. It's, well, about me," John rubbed at his eyes, draining the last of his tea before setting it off to the side. "I'm afraid I've got cancer."
This time, the silence didn't last even thirty seconds before the poor old landlady burst into tears, clutching her chest and gaping at him.
"No!" Mrs. Hudson shook her head, grabbing his hand and searching his face to see if he was lying. "This can't be, John, you're such a healthy young man!" He just nodded, accepting all of her sad words of condolence and letting her treat him to another slice of pie. It wasn't soon before long that he just couldn't stand it anymore. He pardoned himself, going upstairs just to grab his coat and head back down them. John could already feel a cough coming on, but he waited until he was halfway down the street before he let it burst from his chest. Stopping at the corner, the doctor stared out at the street, blankly watching cars go past. Again, he was struck by the odd feeling these people gave him. Whenever he coughed, people looked as though he might spread cold germs to them. Every time he held back an arrant sob, onlookers suspected there was something more than a physical sickness running through him. He supposed they were right. This was going to destroy him in every way, it was already apparent.
John didn't pay any notice to where his feet were taking him until he pushed open the door of his favorite pub and got hit by the sound of laughter. Blinking and taking a glance around, there was a group of women in the back corner, giggling and knocking their glasses together. People were still celebrating while he was dying.
Sherlock's voice popped into his head: "We are all dying, Watson, don't be dull. You are nothing special, you just happen to be decaying faster than the rest of humanity."
"I should consider myself lucky," John told himself, settling himself into a seat at the bar. "Not getting bloody murdered on one of Sherlock's cases."
The bartender passed him a pint when he motioned for one, eying the doctor and seeming to know better than to make idle chat with him. It was well on half seven when the crowds began to show up, cheering and laughing and rooting for their teams. John had to move himself to the very end of the bar to keep out of getting shoved around by the group of rugby fans that surrounded his previous seat. As soon as he was getting ready to leave, he felt a familiar hand drop onto his shoulder.
"Watson! What are you doing here?" Lestrade asked, stealing the stool next to him while the bloke who was in it went off to flirt with a married woman. John found it hard to fake a smile, even with a buzz coming onto him after his third beer.
"Needed time away." Was all he said, unsure if he was ready to share this information with Lestrade. Sure, he was a friend, but he was also an officer, and it was ultimately his decision if he was able to cope with being on cases.
"Ah, I get you," Greg chuckled, ordering another two beers for them. "I can only image what kind of handful Sherlock could be when you're livin' with him." John laughed along just for the hell of it. It took John another two beers to spill the beans and let out the real reason he was off getting himself drunk.
"Cancer, huh?" Lestrade repeated after the doctor shared the unfortunate happenings. "Bloody hell, John, I had no idea." The mood over the two of them was much more solemn than seemed to hover over the rest of the bar. The DI didn't offer him many words of comfort or blessing, but had instead offered to treat him to as many beers as he could for the rest of the night. John took him up on that offer.
It was pitch black out when John hailed a cab back to Baker Street. He didn't know whether to prepare himself to see all of belongings on the front step or the locks to be changed, but the ride was so short that he didn't have much time to speculate.
Luckily, neither seemed to be the case. He made it all the way up the stairs to the living room with only the tiniest of coughs, trying to keep himself quiet as he stumbled over his own two feet and hung his jacket on top of Sherlock's.
He guessed himself to be drunk, and somehow remembered that if he didn't want a splitting headache the next morning, he should set himself up with some toast now and a water and paracetamol for the morning. Halfway through faltering his way through the dark kitchen, John heard movement behind him. Of course, in his frazzled state, he had completely forgotten about Sherlock. He didn't expect his flatmate to be asleep, but it also didn't occur to him that the detective would be in the sitting room, waiting for him.
"Oh, didn't see you there," John giggled when he bumped headfirst into the taller man, getting bread crumbs all over Sherlock's silk dressing gown. "My bad, Sherlock!"
Two throats cleared in response, and it took John a good minute to realise he wasn't the second one. Looking around and blinking through the haze that covered his mind, he definitely saw two tall figures looming over him, but they didn't seem to be the same. If he wasn't seeing double, then he was definitely seeing both of the Holmes brothers standing in the doorway to the kitchen, looking at him as if he were a chicken with his head cut off.
"Doctor Watson," Mycroft greeted in his far-too-aloof voice, nodding once in his own form of 'hello'. "I do ever apologise for my brother's lack of consideration."
"Uh, what?" The words were way too fancy for his muddled brain to properly hear. All he wanted was some toast and jam and a nice rest on something soft. And if he was already dreaming, he really considered this to be much more of a nightmare, not expecting anything pleasant to come from a visit from Mycroft.
"Sherlock has informed me of your... condition, and yet, he still allowed you to wonder your way about the city and get yourself intoxicated. Perhaps it was wrong of him to call me and ask for assistance in assuring you live far past this expiration date your body has set for you."
"You... You're here to help me?" John asked, frowning and glancing between the two.
"Certainly, John. We can't have you dying and abandoning our dear Sherlock, can we?"
A/N - Wow, honestly, the response to this fic is brilliant. I've gotten a bunch of favorites and alerts and already a handful of reviews. I don't know how I've managed to write three chapters in four days, I'm usually rubbish at spitting out quality and quantity (and I feel this story has been both, so far!). A million thank yous to every single person who has read this, and I ask that you keep favoriting/alerting/reviewing!