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It was like the world had collapsed and the end had started.
It felt like John was burning. Not like a bee sting, nor a burn from a baking pan. It was like molten lava from the depths of the earth’s crust was poured on his feet. It slowly and agonizingly spread from his toes to the top of his head.
The surgeon, he had to be wrong. The detective was perfectly healthy. Just a week ago they were out solving cases like any normal day. Running through the back streets of London trying to catch a criminal with Sherlock's coat flapping in the wind behind him, and John gasping to catch his breath because the tall bastard always ran too fast. Getting back to 221B after the long nights of relentless searching, and getting into bed together afterwards and falling asleep with John sleeping peacefully in the arms of his detective. They were in love- this just could not happen. Not here, not now, not ever.
A simple chest pain could not turn into a diagnosis of a malignant tumor. It just could not. There were usually more signs. Difficulty swallowing, balance issues, tinnitus of the ears, something. Maybe Sherlock was lying so John did not have to worry.
Watson was and still is a doctor. He just could not wrap his mind around the fact that his love, his Sherlock, was now handed a possible death sentence. Malignant tumors in the chest usually had more warning, more of a notice. There was always some amount of time.
There was a ticking time bomb nestled into the crevices of that beautiful body, and the only way to get the bomb out was a surgery that no doctor in England had performed in the history of medical science.
John tried to not cry. He was an ugly crier, and he simply could not show his emotions in the face of this battle. He was a soldier. He was trained to be tough, to be strong, to show bravery in the face of adversity. He had to be strong- there was no other choice.
Sherlock was always indomitable. He could not be defeated, until now.. This was his time to cry, to let all of his frustrations and hatred and tough outer shell all come out.
They were at a Speedy’s, trying to get food.
Normalcy was what the doctor had suggested that they maintain until the surgery date.
Ten days.
Sherlock had ordered some noodles and John a salad. They placed their orders and sat there patiently, without speaking. The air was too heavy with questions and regret to speak.
Eventually the food was placed in front of them.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to eat. It was a boring activity that was only done when John’s nagging voice reminded him to. What was the point of even eating at all now if he was just going to die anyways?
Sherlock stood up from the table and angrily shoved his chair into the pathetic piece of wood. He just needed space. He needed to sort through these emotions so he wouldn’t do anything beyond his normal level of stupidity.
John just looked on without speaking a word.
Ten days.
They stayed home today, simply enjoying each other’s company.
The day has started as it usually does, with the two curled up next to each other in bed.
Sherlock hadn’t spoken since the scene at Speedy’s last night. He felt terrible for causing it, but given the circumstances, it was understandable.
He rolled over in the bed and laid his head on John’s bare chest. He wanted to hear his heartbeat, to know that John was alive and that he was his .
He fell asleep again without giving it a second thought. He could stay like this forever.
Just the two of them against the rest of the world.
Nine days.
John walked in from running errands to find Sherlock nervously pacing around the sitting room, harpoon in his hand. He couldn’t help but smile a little bit. It was upsetting but also quite a funny sight to see. All smiled were welcome at this point in time.
Sherlock was craving something, but he didn’t know what. It wasn’t drugs.
Seclusion was all that was looming above his head and invading his mind the past few days. It was lonely. It a painful, tormenting, distressing pain. It physically hurt .
Without saying a single word, Sherlock put his harpoon down and went over to John, taking the bags of groceries from his hands. He set the bags aside and placed his hands on John’s surprisingly muscular shoulders.
“I need you, John,” the detective conveyed in a gentle tone.
John furrowed his eyebrows and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a single word, Sherlock’s lips were on his. It wasn’t their usual gentle kisses, but something that hinted that he wanted more. More.
He pulled away and stared up at the pale and worry-filled face. They had sex before, but it was always casual. It never had this kind of passion in it. The doctor’s curious eyes wandered downward to the article of clothing that was covering the slowly growing bulge in the detective’s pants.
“Sherlock, if you want me, just tell me.”
In that moment, it was like the cancer diagnosis hadn’t even happened.
“Please John, take me. Show me how much you love me. There's no point in waiting. I want you to take me rough.”
John let out a small gasp at the suddenness of Sherlock’s words, but he happily obliged and sank to his knees, taking the soft pajama pants that the other was wearing down with him. He gently parted his thighs and didn’t hesitate for one moment before he took Sherlock into his mouth. He showed no mercy in giving the detective exactly what he wanted.
[...]
Needless to say, they both ended up in the bedroom, sweating and breathing heavily due to what they had just done.
John’s back was covered in scratch marks. Small purple hickeys lined Sherlock’s torso as his reminder.
Even though the cloud of darkness was above their heads, they were there, together.
They finally felt like they truly belonged together.
Eight days.
Sherlock sat adjacent to Mycroft. It was afternoon tea, and Sherlock had kindly invited Mycroft over to discuss the impending surgery. The elder Holmes brother already knew in detail about what was going on. He wanted to cry, but there was no point in it now.
Sherlock pulled a letter out of his pocket and handed it to Mycroft. The letter was clearly addressed to John.
“Brother dear, may I ask why you are giving this to me?”
“Yes, of course. In case anything unfortunate were to happen to me when I go under the knife in a few days, I want you to give this letter to John. Don’t ask questions or look at it, just give it to him.”
Mycroft was puzzled but stuffed the letter in his suit pocket, ignoring his curiosity. He cleared his throat and finally spoke up. “You and John.. You’ve become increasingly close in the past few months, yes?”
“Yes, you are correct. It surprises me that it took you that long. He and I, we make a good team together. A good couple if you will.”
Mycroft nodded, a small smile on his face. He was happy for his brother, he truly was. Mycroft raised the cup to his lips and took a sip of the tea before he made one more brotherly comment.
“Do not say that anything will happen, because you will be fine Sherlock. Understand?”
Seven days.
John awoke to the smell of fresh biscuits through the flat.
There was cheerful chatter filling his ears, which was most unusual. He threw some proper clothes onto himself before he walked into the sitting area and found.. Anderson? Sherlock, Lestrade, and Anderson in the same room without ripping out each other’s throats?
John walked over to Sherlock and stared at him with a puzzled look on his face for a solid 30 seconds. Sherlock smiled and placed a gentle kiss on John’s forehead when noone was looking.
“My fate,” he said, “Is most uncertain at this point. I want to tie loose ends and make things right before it happens.”
Six days.
Sherlock was already awake by the time John woke up on this day.
The detective was just finishing a fresh cuppa when John walked into the sitting room, the sleep still apparent in his eyes.
“Good morning John,” the detective said quietly as to not startle him in his still half-asleep state.
“Yes, good.. morning to you too love. What made you get up so early?”
“Just enjoying the sunrise. I want to appreciate the little things.”
John smiled softly and joined Sherlock on the couch, curling up to his side, and listening to the simple sound of him breathing.
Five days.
They didn’t do too much on this day. There was a simple case that was solved, but not much more. John was beginning to get worried about the impending surgery date.
Four days
“John, I love you.”
The words were spoken so softly that they were barely heard, yet their meaning stopped John right in his tracks.
“Come again?”
“I love you, John Watson. Never forget that.”
John knew that Sherlock loved him, but he had never spoken the words aloud before. It was both a shock and a surprise.
“Christ Sherlock,” the other muttered, giving the other a hug with all the strength he could muster. “I love you too. You’re going to be fine, alright? I promise.”
Three days .
The television was turned on to some terrible romantic comedy that night. Sherlock and John lay on the couch, side by side. The scene was innocently beautiful. Two lovers wanting to be as close as possible. The thought that the ‘dark day’ as they now called it was only 2 away wasn’t even in their minds.
They were just there, innocently enjoying each other’s company, laughing at the terrible jokes that were always on nighttime television.
[...]
Sherlock was obviously growing restless at having to stay still for so long.
He was slowly starting to become turned on again, due to the fact that John was absent-mindedly rubbing his hand on Sherlock’s upper thigh. The simple motion started off innocently. It felt good- but he wanted more.
He slowly moved the hand underneath the waistline of his underwear and smirked as John began to gently stroke him until the growing pleasure spilled over.
Once he regained his composure, he snuck under the blanket that was covering John. He took off his trousers and returned the favor greatly.
‘Happy ending’ wasn’t just the name of the flavor of ice cream they had for dessert that night.
Two days .
That night, Sherlock cried in the arms of his lover.
He was so scared that it sent chills down his spine and through his soul. John was there to comfort him with gentle kisses and words of encouragement.
He had remained so strong for so long. The tough composure that was given off through his personality and deductions was only a cover to throw off guesses as to how he felt inside.
[...]
John saved his cry until Sherlock was fast asleep and he could sneak to the bathroom. It was the most gut-wrenching cry that only someone who was grieving before a loss could give.
Tomorrow.
They were at St Bart’s bright and early that fateful morning. Mycroft had taken the day off so he could be there to support Sherlock and John. The fear was obvious. They were smiling, talking, and laughing, but they all knew. John refused to leave Sherlock’s side until it was time for him to be taken away.
Tears were slipping down his cheeks despite the fake smile that was on his face. “I love you, you bloke. I’ll see you when you wake up, yeah? You’ll be fine, I promise. You are going to be just fine.”
Sherlock smiled softly and leaned far up enough so that he could kiss John on his dry, chapped lips. “I love you too, John Watson. Never forget that.”
[...]
The final send off to surgery was one filled with emotions and tears.
Before the nurses wheeled Sherlock off, he signaled Mycroft to come close, within earshot.
Sherlock was clearly drugged from medicines placed through an IV in his slender hand, but he could still speak.
“Don’t forget to give John the letter, please Mycroft. Take care of John for me.”
“Of course, brother dear,” he whispered. “I will watch over him for you.”
Mycroft and John were then ushered over to the waiting room
[...]
After a painstaking 7 hours, the surgeon finally came to the waiting room to deliver the results.
The surgeon gave a sympathetic smile. He couldn’t even get through a full sentence before John just collapsed onto the carpeted floor. All he heard was bits and pieces from that point on.
“We tried everything.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr Watson.”
“He bled out and there was no saving him.”
“Someone will be here to help you make arrangements when you feel ready.”
“The body is being cleaned right now.”
“You can say your goodbyes then.”
EPILOGUE:
Dear John,
If you are reading this, I have passed on. I predicted that this would happen from the second I was diagnosed. I hope you had services in my name that weren’t too horribly embarrassing or extravagant. For the love of god, I pray there weren’t any balloons.
I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry for all the bad times and the times that we never got to have.
I wanted to spend forever with you, and I am so lucky because I got to spend the rest of my life with you. I may have left you physically, but I will always be in that heart of yours. I left you that day with my heart full, and with you and Mycroft by my side. He might seem like he is doing well, but keep an eye out for him, please.
I leave you with my favorite saying by a woman of the name Kate O'Neill.
“Love doesn’t die with death. Love is like liquid; when it pours out, it seeps into others’ lives. Love changes form and shape. Love gets into everything. Death doesn’t conquer all; love does. Love wins every single time. Love wins by lasting through death. Love wins by loving more, loving again, loving without fear.”
I will always love you, John Watson.
Yours Truly,
SH.