John walked home in a daze. After spending over two hours talking about and hashing out every tiny little detail of his future with his doctor, John was at a loss. He didn't know what he was supposed to do.
Fifteen months. Fifteen months to five years, that's all he had left. Confirmed. Not 'possibly' or 'there's a chance'. The time he had left to run around on wild missions with Sherlock was even less than that. A month, maybe.
He didn't know how to share that particular bit of news with his flatmate. Sherlock would certainly see him to be useless, once he was ill from chemotherapy. John would have to quit the surgery until he was better. Money would be a bit tight; he'd have to cut back on letting Sherlock use his milk for experiments if he wanted any to drink.
Barely registering that he had arrived at Baker Street, John shrugged off his coat and shuffled into the kitchen to make tea. Seeing as the detective was at the Yard bugging Lestrade about misinformation in a cold case file, he had time to sit and collect himself before facing anyone and sharing the results.
John froze with his mug halfway to his mouth, frowning.
"Deja vu." He muttered, scrubbing his hand through his hair. More and more times over these past two weeks, John had felt like he had relived the same days far too many times. He had the same thoughts and the same feelings and the same worries. His friends all reacted the same to everything he told them. Is that what this sickness did to him? Made his life seem like a tiny little circle that he just traveled around, revisiting the same conversations day after day?
In no time, he was sharing the newest part of his story to his flatmate and landlady. As expected, Sherlock took the news with a steely expression while Mrs. Hudson clutched to John's arm and cried about him being too young for death. When John went out for a pint that night in hopes to clear his head, the handful of Yard officers that were there, including Lestrade, helped him by buying round after round for him as consolation.
Time seemed to fly by, over the next few days. Cabs and crime scenes and working at the surgery and far too many black cars taking him to warehouses that held nothing but Mycroft, John could hardly pick one day from the next. The next he knew, he was getting in a cab and heading to the hospital. It was the time for action, not for talking things over and making choices. John was at a good spot in his cancer development, meaning he could get intensive treatment and come out on the better side of it. Mycroft and Doctor Sawyer's team all agreed it was better to start sooner rather than later.
So there he was, standing at his doctor's door, hand raised and ready to knock. As it had been for the past three minutes. But every muscle in him seemed to be freezing up. John could readily admit it: he was scared. Sure, he wanted treatment and he wanted to get better and he wanted to live as long as he possibly could, but just, shit. Chemotherapy. It sounded horrifying, and he didn't want to do it.
John felt like he stood there for fifteen, twenty, maybe even thirty minutes, when in reality, it wasn't even a full five. He was cautious meeting the other doctors, but they were all warm and welcoming and reassuring.
"Doctor Charlie Pace," A young, rugged looking man announced, holding out his hand. John shook it before he was introduced to the rest. "Doctors Sayid Jarrah, Ben Linus, and Juliet Burke."
Greeting each of them, he felt strange knowing that these people already knew not only his name, but also his condition. John had told not but a few people, and here stood a group knowing the ups and downs of every little thing that his life was about to turn into. There were more people in this room that knew about his illness than did outside of this room. Feeling uncomfortable at the thought, John just nodded with everything that he was being told. He followed wherever he was lead, did the things he was told to do.
Half an hour into his appointment, he was settled into a large chair, arm prepped and at the ready for an IV. John watched the team explain and show him each of the things that were about to happen, but his mind was wondering. Even the medical side of him wasn't overly intrigued by the specific medicines inside the bag or the exact things that would happen to his body. He flinched when the needle pushed into his arm, but didn't turn away from the sight.
John hadn't had too many IV's in his day, but enough to feel the difference between a simple saline solution and the concoction that made up his new treatment. There wasn't an immediate effect felt from the drugs, but not before long, he was beginning to feel nauseous.
Closing his eyes and leaning his head into the soft leather of the chair, John took deep breaths through his nose and tried to relax himself enough to nap. He was going to be stuck in that same spot for hours, after all, and the long he sat there, the longer he worried about trivial things.
He wondered how long it would take until his hair began to fall out, or how long it would take for him to be so bothered by the side effects that he'd have to not only stop running around with Sherlock, but he'd have to quit the surgery. Through the mass of thoughts, he managed to fall into a light sleep. Oddly enough, his dreams were full of odd mutterings that sounded a whole lot like Sherlock's voice. Just over an hour into his rest, he startled awake by an impatient grunt. At first, he thought it was just another part of his dream, but he was greatly mistaken.
Beside him, in a duplicate chair but without an IV, sat Sherlock Holmes himself, flipping through a trash magazine. John blinked twice, rubbing his eyes with the fist that wasn't weighed down with a needle.
"Ah, John! Finally you're awake," His flatmate began, tossing away the rag mag before pulling a small stack of photos from the pocket of his coat. "Take a look at these photographs and tell me what you see. I need your keen second opinion to make sure of my findings."
"Um," John frowned, coughing a little and hesitantly taking the photos from the detective. He blinked twice, clearing his vision of sleep so he could properly look at the pictures. "Well, the victim was obviously shot and stabbed, but by two different people. He's... Middle aged, unmarried, well off?" Glancing at Sherlock, he continued nervously. "Looks like a home robbery, but here... This picture here, of the man's home, this is an original piece of art. And that's an expensive Ming vase."
"Yes!" Sherlock clapped, leaning towards John and smirking just a little. "Then why is the man missing his wallet and mobile phone?"
John took a minute, evaluating each photo slowly and casting anxious looks at his friend. If he didn't succeed helping the detective like this, then perhaps his worries of being tossed out on his arse were right on target.
"I'd say identity theft. The drawers here, the only things that were taken look to be like personal statement documents, things that would have all the information needed for someone to take over his life." His flatmate nodded eagerly, storing the pictures back into his pocket and smiling at John proudly. John watched as Sherlock shot off a text, probably to Lestrade about the case.
It was nice, having Sherlock there. There wasn't any need for words of support or comfort. Just having the man there was not only reassuring, but was a huge surprise. John didn't expect to receive any recognition of his disease, let alone to have Sherlock actually sitting there, back to turning the pages of a gossip column.
After his days worth, five bloody hours of sitting in the same spot without eating or drinking anything but water, John was more than relieved to get the IV removed from his elbow. Pushing himself up from the plush seat, he groaned and stumbled a bit, clutching onto the arms of the chair with a frown. So much movement was forcing the nausea on him at a much higher force than before.
"Oh, bloody hell." He moaned, clutching his head and closing his eyes to will away the swimming feeling. Suddenly, a hand grabbed him under his shoulder and helped him straighten up. John peeked through his eyelids to see a straight-faced Sherlock holding onto him and waiting for him to gather himself enough to walk on his own. John muttered thanks, eventually getting to his feet by himself and taking a few short steps to confirm that he could do it. The detective simply nodded, re-wrapping his scarf around his neck as the two of them bid goodbye to the doctors and headed towards the street for a cab.
When they finally made it to Baker Street, John had to go straight to the bathroom before he even hung up his coat. The cab driver hadn't been the best out there, and the quick turns made his stomach churn. Flushing away all the evidence of his sickness, the doctor groaned and splashed water on his face, wishing the heat away. That's when he noticed the change. He had wondered how long it would be before he started looking ill, and his reflection held the answer. Already, his skin was more pale than normal; his eyes were sunken and dull.
"John! Lestrade wants us to go down to the station to explain the identity theft case to him and his stooges. Are you coming?" Sherlock called from the living space, obviously impatient and waiting for his answer. John shouted out his yes, hurrying to pop a couple breath mints before following Sherlock down and out of 221B. Jogging to catch up before the cab took off, John sighed and leaned back in the seat, wiping his sleeve across his forehead. He felt exhausted, but he knew that if he let Sherlock go alone, there was a very good chance of getting banned. Again. All he wanted it a steaming mug of tea and crap telly and his warmest jumper, but he had to remind himself that Sherlock was still top priority while he could physically handle him.
Handing over the right amount of money, John trailed Sherlock into the building and straight to Lestrade's office. A few of the officers looked at them, no more than the normal amount. But it was different; the officers seemed to be looking at him moreso than the consulting detective. Lestrade didn't notice at first, but when John sat down across the desk from him and added to Sherlock's rant about the lack of actual stolen goods, the DI blinked at him worriedly. John waved him off, not wanting to discuss it when he saw Donovan lingering outside the doors. This was his personal business, and there was absolutely no need for someone like her to know it and spread it around. Hell, knowing her and Anderson, they would go about and tell everyone that it was somehow Sherlock's doing.
After Sherlock had given over all of his reasoning and evidence, Lestrade pulled John aside and frowned at him.
"You look a bloody mess, Watson." He said, raising an eyebrow and glancing over at Sherlock, who was rummaging through the DI's desk drawers.
"Thanks," John huffed a laugh, grimacing when it turned into a cough. "It's not him, if you're wondering. I've just started chemo." Lestrade's lips parting as he nodded understandingly, patting the doctor on his shoulder and giving him a good once-over to make sure he wasn't really as fragile as he looked.
"Donovan's going to be asking questions." Greg noted, motioning his head towards the pesky woman still hovering around the office.
"Tell her to bugger off, unless she wants me to explain the details of healing herpes at the next crime scene I'm at." He mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest self-consciously. He knew he looked pale and sickly, but certainly it could pass off as a cold, right? No one could make him tell such intimate details of his life with people he hardly liked.
With a nod in Lestrade's direction, John was off in Sherlock's wake, following him to the cab that was already pulling up. Traffic was at a bit of a build up, and Sherlock was too busy talking to himself to talk to John. Tugging his coat closer around him, he blinked hard and watched the scenery pass by outside the window. The muddy gray sky and the fatigue from the chemotherapy were both starting to creep their ways into his body. His mind was feeling groggy, and he suspected that if he didn't get some tea in him soon, he'd fall asleep before even getting his shoes off.
Sherlock could see it happening as it went. The ache to John's system was penetratingly deep, and though it hadn't shown too much ware on him yet, it wouldn't be soon before long that he'd be out of the game. Involving him in miniscule ways like this would help rid him of the idiotic notion that Sherlock would leave him on the side of the road purely because the man couldn't take long jogs around London on cases.
Turning to the doctor to question him about Mycroft's latest kidnapping, Sherlock realised that John wouldn't hear a word that he said. The small man was asleep in the seat of the cab. He pondered with the idea of shaking the man awake, but recalling the way he looked during his chemical treatment earlier stopped him from such a rough arousal. Sherlock may not have been a caring person, but watching his (only) friend deteriorate in a mere few hours was a good way of temporarily changing his attitude. Watson had helped him many a time on cases and with annoying social situations, the least he could do for the man in return was not rudely awaken him before they made it back to the flat. That would guarantee him no tea for the rest of the evening, and that didn't seem like a promising prospect.
When they finally made it to Baker Street, Sherlock was still on the fence about waking up his friend. Instead of shouting into his ear to get out of the cab, Sherlock grabbed a note from his own pocket, paid the driver, and lifted John from the seat. He set him to his feet as soon as they were free from the car, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for him to wake fully from his surprisingly deep slumber.
John stared up at him for a moment, confused by the sudden appearance at Baker Street, but he quickly recovered, nodding his approval of the kind gesture and started up to the kitchen, mumbling about how tea was needed for the both of them. As sick as he was going to get, it seemed like things would be all right between the two of them.
A/N - Now that I'm done flailing over the finale of House, here's a chapter that took far too long to write. We're getting to the real stuff now, though, which I'm hoping is more interesting than the past couple chapters. Reviews/alerts/favorites pretty please.
Bonus points for everyone who knows where I got the entire team of doctor's names.