"I have already discussed the problem of brain metastases with you, Mr. Watson. The swelling has already gone down. Are you tolerating the corticosteroid I prescribed?"

"Mostly, yes."

Satisfied nod.

"To treat the metastases in the brain and kidney, I suggest radiation therapy and this should be started as soon as possible. For now I suggest three appointments per week for the next month."

Heavy swallowing. "Okay."

"For treatment of the carcinoma in the lungs, we'll try chemotherapy. This will be the best course of action for you. Do you have any questions?"

"Um ... no."

"Here are the dates for the radiation therapy and here is another flyer, take a look at it at your leisure. If you have any questions, I'm happy to help."

"Alright ... thank you."


"What are you reading?"

"A flyer."

Snort. "I can see that. What's it about?"

"About palliative care.

"Palliative ...?"

Sigh. "Yes. In other words, what options there are for dying relatively pain- and discomfort-free at home, rather than being admitted to a hospital."

Dismayed silence. "Oh. ... that's- ... I mean, that is ... um ... is-"

"It's okay, Sherlock."


"Who was that on the phone?"

"Lestrade."

"A new case?"

"Yes, in Brixton."

"Okay, let's go then."

Hesitation.

"What's wrong?"

"Are you sure you want to go? The treatment-"

"Sherlock. I ... I'm fine, I know what I'm doing, okay?"


"A double homicide," DI Lestrade just explained as he led Sherlock and John into the room where the bodies lay. "A sixteen-year-old girl and an eighteen-year-old boy, the girl's mother discovered the bodies and alerted the police."

Deliberately, Sherlock stepped into the room and stopped, scanning every inch of the scenario before him. The girl lay prone on the bed, her limbs bizarrely twisted and the blanket ominously rumpled, testifying to the struggle that must have taken place immediately before the girl's death.

The boy lay on the floor in front of the bed, a pool of blood had formed around his neck on the white carpet.

Sherlock splipped on a pair of rubber gloves before he cautiously walked up to the two dead bodies, beginning his examination. John, meanwhile, stood in the background watching Sherlock taking in every last detail, touching, combining, observing and deducing. He on the other hand struggled not to let emotions well up that were inappropriate, but seeing children violently put to death was quite different from seeing adults murdered.

Eventually, Sherlock rose from his crouched pose and approached John and Lestrade, who looked at him expectantly. "A double homicide, indeed. Both were killed by the same person with the same weapon, the presumed murder weapon speaks to that. John."

The doctor focused his gaze from the bodies to his friend. "Yes?"

"Tell me about the murder weapon and the manner in which the teens were killed."

John knew Sherlock already knew the answers, but he played along and stepped toward the bodies. He found the same type of wounds on both. The girl exhibited several, while the boy had only one on his neck.

"Well?" Sherlock's voice sounded as patient as John had rarely heard it.

"They were stabbed, the girl with several stabs as she fought back, the fatal blow was probably the one in her chest, um … left side." John cleared his throat as something suddenly rasped in his throat. "The boy was dead first, a well-aimed blow to the back of the neck that severed vital artery." John took in a few deep breaths as he suddenly felt as if his throat was constricting. The scratching sensation became unbearable and he cleared his throat a few more times. "The killer ... hrm ... must have medical knowledge or been trained for this kind of killing judging by the ... hrrm ... precise stabbing of the boy."

Sherlock's eyes literally lit up with delight at John's words. "Excellent."

John wasn't sure if Sherlock meant his expertise or the killer's killing skills, but he decided to just let it slide. "Thank you," he gasped, and he suddenly felt his heartbeat in his throat as he now coughed loudly.

Lestrade and Sherlock looked at John in concern as they heard the whistling rattle of his doctor, who now fell into a violent coughing fit. John forced himself to remain calm and fight down the upwelling panic as a huge fist seemed to wrap around his neck and grip mercilessly. In addition, there was the unbearable stabbing and burning pain in his chest. Suddenly someone held a glass of water in his field of vision and he gratefully accepted it, emptying it in one go. A relief. He was still panting a bit and every breath hurt like hell, but he could breathe again.

A hand touched his shoulder. "That doesn't sound healthy at all, you should see a doctor about that," Lestrade joked, laughing.

"Shut up!" snapped Sherlock at the DI, jostling past him and walking with John toward the exit. Lestrade looked after them, perplexed. "Sorry, I didn't mean t-... Sherlock, wait, what about the case?"

"Gang crime, for God's sake! Do I have to spoon-feed you everything?!" shouted Sherlock over his shoulder.

"Yes, but- ..."

Sherlock and John left.


"Here."

Sherlock stood in front of the armchair where John was sitting and held out a steaming cup of tea to him. Slowly, John raised his hands and accepted the cup before fixing his eyes back on the spot on the carpet that he had been staring at for the past half hour. For a moment, Sherlock stood in the room with his hands buried in his trouser pockets, listening into the silence as he looked out the window at the fiery red of the evening sun pouring down on London's rooftops. Then he strolled toward the window, picked up his violin, almost solemnly placed the bow on the strings, and began to play. It was a classical piece with alternating fast and slow passages. While he played, John just sat there and listened, appreciatively emptying his cup sip by sip.

After a while, Sherlock drew the bow across the string with one final stroke, letting the note fade until he lowered the instrument as he continued to look out the window.

"That was very nice," John said, looking up at his friend.

He turned slowly and muttered, "Thank you," before giving John a fleeting glance. A glance that John returned with a petrified expression.

"I'm not gonna stay home, Sherlock."

The latter turned back to his friend and just looked at him.

"That's what's you wanna say, isn't it?" continued John. "You don't want me to go on cases anymore."

"That would be best and you know it."

"Don't you tell me what's good for me, I know that very well myself!"

"Oh, so you know that yourself? You've lost weight, a lot of weight, and you've been puking your guts out for the last three days!" Sherlock didn't regret his choice of words; John probably wouldn't realize what he was telling him otherwise.

"That- ... We haven't figured out the right dosage for the medication, yet. I saw Dr. Rogers this morning, I'm better."

Sherlock ignored that interjection. "Today, you get a coughing fit, shortness of breath, at a crime scene! Is this your way of letting the whole world know you're terminally ill?"

John clenched his hands into fists. "I don't think I need to justify myself to you!"

Sherlock just stood there, piercing John with his gaze. He didn't feel good at all if he kept coming along. Of course he would miss him as an extremely capable assistant, but what good was an assistant who was seriously ill and all he had to worry about? God knows he couldn't have that. Apart from the fact that he was his friend. He had to make sure he was okay.

"I won't stay home," John repeated firmly, easily withstanding Sherlock's gaze. "As long as I can, I'll come with you."

Sherlock looked at John for another moment, as if he could make him change his mind with that alone. Then he slowly started moving toward the hallway, but paused briefly beside John. "You don't need to justify yourself to me. You only have to to yourself." With that, he walked into the hallway and disappeared.