A/N I swear this is the last time I kill Sherlock. It's just strangely addictive.

Thanks to MarMoo12, starrysummernights, Orchfan, 666BloodyHell666, Natalie Nallareet, linguisticRenegade, ThisDayWillPass, Hummingbird1759, johnsarmylady, Florence the Impaler, Motaku1235

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XCIII. Give Up

The hospital is quiet, much quieter than John's used to it being. Then again, he's adjusted to being in the very thick of all the hustle and bustle, working as a doctor himself, not sitting here—a guest, a relation of the patient. He supposes that they try to cover up the more stressful atmosphere that he knows to fill the building, for the benefit of those visiting. Like it will offer some sort of reassurance, make them feel better.

Feeling better, though, seems utterly impossible. What is there to feel better about? His life, his whole life, is in tatters. The only thing fragilely holding him together is the shape in the bed that he sits beside, the slight rise of white sheets and the steady beeping of an oxygen machine parked nearby.

There's a mask pulled over Sherlock's face, foggily transparent, covering him all the way up to his cheekbones. His chest rises and falls slowly, and the tubes snaking away from the device respond, beads of air pumping up and down, steadily working to keep him alive.

Keep him alive. Since when is that a thing that he can't manage on his own? Sherlock's supposed to be stronger than this. He always has been stronger than this. And sickness, sickness, was never supposed to take him. Nothing was ever supposed to take him, supposed to leave John behind.

The silence of the ward suddenly seems to vanish all at once, immediately dispelling these thoughts. The previously steady beeping of the many machines hooked up to Sherlock's prone form is suddenly harsh, angry, accelerating as green lights that John never even noticed suddenly blaze red. His grip on Sherlock's limp wrist goes tight, insanely tight, holding on as fiercely as he can and refusing to let go.

Then there are doctors, and nurses, swarming into the room in a flock of white coats and harried expressions, something's pulling John away, forcing him out of the room. His numb lips move in protest, his voice falling weakly out of his mouth—"No, please, I'm a doctor, I'm a doctor, you can't…"

But then he's outside, pressing his hands against the glass window separating him from Sherlock—who he can't even see, there are too many of them, of those damned doctors, and he's shaking, shaking as he hears the quick words and sharp curses even through the divisor—"We're losing him," "He's dropping rapidly," "This might be it."

John shakes, staring with wide eyes, unwilling to believe that this could be it. He can't see any of what they're doing, but he's waiting for the words, the damning words, I'll call it, time of death, time of death time of death time of death…

He can't hear those words, he won't hear those words, he refuses. You're stronger than this, he reminds the unhearing Sherlock, you can make it, I know you have it in you, just don't give up, don't you dare give up.