For the first time in John's treatment, Sherlock wasn't there to help him back and forth to appointments. It was only recently that he had asked the detective to leave for the appointment with him instead of meeting up later, John was far too weak to do it alone at this point, but it was a disappointment nonetheless. There's a case, a difficult one with an unfortunate amount of leg work that John couldn't attend to, so Sherlock was off using his skills to the best of his abilities without being held back by his friend's deteriorating body. At first, those thoughts made him immensely sedate, but then he realised that it was for the best. There was no way he could let Sherlock give up the cases and puzzles just because he needed help getting to the loo.
On the upside, Sherlock had appointed Lestrade to that duty. Considering the DI actually knew full well the circumstances, he was willing to help with anything needed. He was a fair right cook, too, which greatly pleased John, and his chemo-riddled corpse. Foods that were too heavily flavored in any direction not only caused him pain, but forced him to relive the dining experience in reverse. The first time it happened, Lestrade was frightened that his cooking was as bad as his son claimed it to be, but with an explanation that it was the harsh drugs in his body, Greg settled and handed him mouthwash.
"Where'd you get that hat?" The DI asked mid-morning on a Wednesday, watching John as he pulled the dark blue beanie over his almost completely bald head.
"Oh, this? Uh, Mrs. Hudson knitted it for me," John wasn't sure Sherlock would appreciate Lestrade knowing about his late night knitting habit (a handful more hats had appeared over the week after the first few show up). "Thought it'd be a nice way to hide the lack of hair."
John flashed his friend a grim smile. This was nothing someone should get used to, but it seemed like all John and Greg did was try to joke about the disease. It made it easier for the two of them to relax, otherwise the detective was constantly itching to fluff the doctor's pillows or refill the tea that hadn't been half emptied yet. This way they could watch Doctor Who reruns on the telly and pretend that John's bone rattling coughs was just him trying to hide his love for David Tennant.
"Ready to go?" Greg wondered aloud, holding out the cane for his friend to take. John just nodded, stifling a cough behind his hand as he limped towards the stairs. The last round of therapy had been brutal on him. His skin had gone from albino white to ghastly gray, his cheeks and eyes were sunken, his muscles weak and aching. He had lost almost all of his hair, the remaining looked as if it belonged to an eighty year old man. John almost felt like he was eighty. The cane didn't help.
"As ready as I'll ever be." The doctor muttered, taking his time down the stairs to the cab that was already waiting.
Despite the ache in his muscles, John was tense to his core. The feeling of dread was overwhelming him, and he could hardly hide the fact that he was nervous.
After four weeks of intense chemotherapy, it was finally time for John to have surgery.
Not a little surgery to remove a bullet or scraps from a bomb, but a major surgery that involved slicing up the side of him, taking out a piece of rib bone, and possibly removing some lung, depending on what the surgeon saw.
John was terrified, and the only person he had beside him was Greg. As much as he appreciated him and respected him and absolutely enjoyed getting a brew with him, John didn't consider Lestrade to be his first choice of people that he wanted to see when he woke up from surgery.
If he woke up, that is.
(His brain liked reminding him that he usually got the worst end of the stick and he'd probably overdose on general anesthesia or something).
He bid goodbye to Mrs. Hudson at the door, smiling at the way she managed to keep herself together as long as he was in front of her, now. It made him feel better, even though he knew she went back to tearfully praying for him to a God she didn't quite believe once he turned away.
Lestrade helped him into the car, frowning at the way John winced and gripped the seat. Even though the walk was short and there was less than twenty stairs, he was still running low on breath and had to close his eyes from getting dizzy. The worst parts of the chemotherapy were the side effects. The nausea and weakness made him so utterly exhausted, and it made it difficult for him to even help Sherlock with the case files he brought home.
It was a relief knowing it was through, but he wasn't any more psyched for the next part.
The hospital was busier than he had seen it before, but through all of his visits, he hadn't been to this wing yet. With the emptiness of the oncology department, John supposed that this would be the same. It was like hospitals he'd seen on telly more than any that he'd been to in person. Staff bustled around everywhere while people sat in bland chairs, coughing or bleeding or twisting the wrong way.
Lestrade nudged him, holding out a paper mask that he knew he was supposed to be wearing. His doctor had warned him about catching a bug while weakened from the chemo, and as much as he hated wearing the mask, he wasn't going to risk his health even more. Sighing and strapping on the mask, John sighed in without having to speak. The staff already knew him and were prepared for him, even though he was half an hour early for his appointment.
"Thanks for the ride, Greg." John said, gripping his friend's arm with as much strength as he could before a nurse approached them with a wheelchair.
"Call me if you need a ride, yeah?" Lestrade asked, clapping his friend on the shoulder before turning and leaving. The sick doctor waved him off, sighing and slouching in the wheelchair when the nurse rolled him off towards the private room Mycroft had secured for him. It was nice having a room all to himself, knowing there wouldn't be anyone around to see him broken and in pain.
Alone for no more than ten minutes, John dressed in the ridiculous backless dressing gown, frowning as he tried to cover up his bare skin.
"Knock knock," Said a voice from the doorway at the same time a fist hit the frame. John flushed and turned to hide his exposed back and smiled weakly at Doctor Pace. "Ready for prep?"
Preparing for surgery was hardly anything to be excited about, and not really anything one could say they were ready for. Although, the drugs John received addled him up enough so he didn't have a single complaint when Doctor Pace cut a large hole into his gown and began rubbing an odd colored cleaning agent on his skin. He shivered at the cold of the goo, but just smiled and watched the doctor do his work. Doctor Pace and Doctor Linus were the two that were going to be performing the surgery, with the other three watching over and performing all of the other tasks needed.
By the time John was feeling groggy from the medicines, he was lying on the hospital bed and humming to himself. Every few minutes, he'd stop and cough, a mix of the humming and the drugs bothering his chest. They were going to knock him out with drugs before using general anesthesia, telling John that it would be easier to get him stable with it if he was already asleep.
It wasn't long before he was transferred to the operation room. John was completely out by the time he got there, but it felt as if he actually knew what was going on.
John had heard of out of body experience before, but actually feeling something close to that was strange. The impossibility of actually floating above the surgery flew out of the door the moment John felt like he was watching Doctor Linus pressing the scalpel into his side. There was no pain to be felt, especially under all the drugs that were flowing through him, but he could feel the pressure of it. The bizarre force against his right side was barely there, a ghost touch in his mind but a deep push in reality.
No way, there was no way he could actually hear what they were saying. It was all a jumbled mess of words, not making any real sense, but he knew those voices and could place each one to a face. (Thankfully, the discussions he heard or made up were all about his cancer and the surgery).
Hours went by with John under the knife. After the weightless feeling of watching himself get worked on, everything disappeared. He couldn't see anything or feel anything or hear anything, and he supposed that was for the best. The mindless dreams of talking breakfast pasties and pants that could walk all on there own were somehow more comforting that seeing his own lung get sliced apart.
And then there was pain.
Blinding pain (that didn't blind him from the bright light shining through his eyelids).
Groaning, John's throat was scratchy with disuse and his entire chest seemed to ache.
His eyes eventually opened to his unfortunately white-walled hospital room, empty save the steady beeping of his monitors. Sighing and wincing at the pain even the simple exhale cause; John muttered curses to himself and tried to move. Exhaustion welled up in every muscle, leaving his limbs far too heavy to lift. That was all right though, seeing as how any sorts of movement sent searing pain up his right side. Every twist of his body drove spikes through him, enough to cast spots in his vision. It was nice and cool in the room, though, which counterbalanced the heat from the new wound in his side.
But more than all that, he realised he was alone.
John didn't hesitate falling back asleep once he figured that bit out.
Perhaps, when he woke the second time, there would be someone there. A doctor, a nurse. Maybe even Sherlock. (Hell, he'd take a sobbing Mrs. Hudson or a stony Mycroft over an empty room).
Hours later, when his room was pleasantly dimly lit, his hopes were dashed. The two large chairs on the left of his bed were empty, and to his right, the door that led to the hallway showed no one around. Sure, John considered, it was nice being able to adjust to his lack of mobility on his own, and it was good knowing that none of his friends would be around if he suddenly vomited from pain, but that small list of good didn't change the fact that he wanted someone there.
It didn't take long for someone to notice he was awake, and the nurse that had spotted his open eyes fluttered off to alert one of his specialists. Mycroft had made sure that no other group of people would see to his care.
John frowned at the sounds from outside his room, glancing nervously at the flurry of movement. Unless there was something wrong, the doctors shouldn't have been rushing around in any sort of huff.
And that's when he noticed that it wasn't the doctors alone making all the noise. Through the wall of windows, John saw many familiar faces. Three of his five doctors were there, along with two nurses, all poorly attempting to keep Sherlock from John's room. If he could swell with happiness at the site of his flatmate pushing his way through the small crowd, he would have. Other than the fact that it would have ripped his stitches and caused him a huge amount of pain, he was seriously tempted.
"John," He greeted, almost breathless as he shut the door behind him, blocking the staff from interrupting them. "You're awake."
Coughing and wincing, John small minutely, he flickered his fingers towards one of the spare chairs beside his bed. Sherlock seemed to hesitate, but quickly obliged him and scurried to the seat, a small flash of a smile gracing his alien features. He wanted to return the smile, but turning towards his friends was uncomfortable.
"Need painkillers." John groaned, closing his eyes for a moment when nausea rolled through him.
The detective hurtled through the door, demanding for one of John's doctors, and before he could even blink, Doctor Burke was administering something strong. It sent pleasant shivers through him, and he couldn't help but enjoy the warm relief of the drug.
"Are you better now?" Sherlock questioned, retaking his seat and settling now that he could see John relax into the hospital grade mattress. John smiled small and nodded, clenching his fingers so tight into a fist that his nails left prints in his palm. Grunting and shuffling in the bed now that he wasn't able to feel the pain in his side, John struggled into a sitting position. The moment the detective knew what he was doing, he rolled his eyes and got up to help John situate the pillows in the most comfortable position he could get without tearing open his stitches.
"I didn't think you'd be here." John mumbled, flexing the hand with the IV in it. He didn't want to see Sherlock's face curl with sarcastic displeasure.
"I've been here for hours, John," Came his friend's reply, just as quiet and careful. That confession threw him through a loop though, considering when he was awake hours ago, he was just as lonely as he was ten minutes before. Seeing the confusion on John's face, Sherlock clarified. "Your doctor's did not wish for you to be disturbed, and apparently forgot that my brother is the one paying them. The moment I heard you had woken, I knew that they could no longer hold me back."
A warm feeling spread through him, and this time it wasn't morphine. Knowing that Sherlock had been there, had probably skipped out early on his new case just to be there for when he woke up, was utterly comforting.
The two of them sat there for hours, exchanging hospital horror stories and laughing at each others misfortune. Sherlock told him about his new case, getting passionate about the mysterious residue waiting at Baker Street for him to process. John told him about his cancer in detail, answering every little question that Sherlock didn't already have an answer to. He claimed it would help him with a future case, maybe, but John suspected it was his way of asking his friend how he was doing.
A/N - A) If my plans are right, there are only a few chapters left. And maybe an epilogue. We'll see. B) I don't know if I ever mentioned this but this isn't really a Johnlock fic. I definitely have considered writing blatantly obvious parts, but it can be read as friendship or relationship. And C) Thank you to everyone who favorited/reviewed/alerted the last chapter, please keep sending me your love, it means everything to me.