Work Text:
Sherlock walked home alone, his hands shoved in his pockets and his neck buried in a scarf and the upturned collar of his coat. The cold of London bit at his exposed skin, and the pain was a welcome contrast to the numbness he was feeling now.
Six months. The doctor's words rang inside of Sherlock's head. Six months until there was no Sherlock Holmes anymore. Six months until the cancer that had laid dormant in Sherlock's body for almost two years finally consumed him. Six months until his body was no longer his own, but consumed by an army of mutated cells.
The doctor had suggested treatment. Chemo and pills and an array of experimental trials that Sherlock calculated each had less than 30% probability of actually working. The doctor had told him that it would be better to try than to just give up. But even if the treatment worked, Sherlock only had a couple years left at best. And what did he have to live for anyway? Sherlock was a jumbled heap of emotional trauma and baggage, with some anger issues and communication problems, all topped off with some isolation and self-destructive tendencies. He had no friends to speak of, only colleagues like Molly and Lestrade. As for family, his only living relatives were his kind yet insufferable parents and Sherlock's pompous older brother Mycroft whom Sherlock saw less and less of every year. And his love life, well, he considered himself "isolated" for a reason.
So in his state of dying lonesome, Sherlock did the only thing that made sense: he went to the library. To fill his mind with wonderful fact- proven things, concrete things-it blocked out everything else. After sitting in the comfort of the library for several hours, Sherlock gathered up a stack of books and began the trek home. He was walking mechanically, functioning on autopilot, when he ran into someone, his books tumbling to the sidewalk.
"Jesus, sorry," the other man said, bending down to gather up Sherlock's books. Sherlock was stunned into a moment of paralysis before kneeling down to help the blond haired man.
"No, it's fine, it's-I wasn't watching where I was going," Sherlock mumbled.
"No, really, i was in too much of a r-" The blond haired man looked up and froze when his eyes connected with Sherlock's. "I-uh um-too much of a rush. Sorry." He handed the books he had gathered to Sherlock.
"Thanks."
The other man nodded and the pair slowly stood up together.
"I'm-uh-John Watson, doctor," he blonde man said, thrusting his arm out to shake Sherlock's hand.
"Sherlock Holmes," the taller of the two responded.
"Sherlock. Would you like to go out for coffee or uh tea, sometime?"
Sherlock was taken aback at John's abrupt and forward invitation. And why in bloody hell would this man want to do anything with some random person he just met, much less Sherlock.
"Um-uh-sure."
"Great, well I'll give you my number and then you could call me when you're not so busy?" John rushed through the sentence, getting it all out in one breath.
"Oh, um well sure. But I wasn't really going anywhere, I mean I'm not busy, right now."
John looked at Sherlock inquisitively. "Where are you going with all of those books then?"
"Back to my flat. I just-I stopped at the library and-I just needed to get my mind off of some...things. And I'm actually not quite sure why I'm telling you all of this, as I'm sure you're not a bit interested." Sherlock spit all of this out in one breath, too...something to take another mid-sentence.
John stared at him blankly for a moment, and then regained his composure. "Oh, well, then would you like to just go grab a bite right now? I mean, if you're not too busy with your books."
Now Sherlock was the one who needed to find his composure. "I-uh-"
"I mean, I completely understand if you're busy right now. I just thought-"
"No, I'm not busy right now. Where would you like to go?"
John smiled. "I, uh, I don't know. You have anywhere in particular?"
Sherlock thought for a moment. "Yes, I know a place."
~~~~~~~~
A few minutes later, Sherlock and John were walking through "Angelo's Italian," a favorite of Sherlock's.
Sherlock had explained on the way over that it wasn't just a little shop, but more of a full-out restaurant. John had just smiled to himself, saying that he could go for a nice meal.
The city had darkened quite a bit from John and Sherlock's first meeting on the sidewalk when the two finally sat down at a table. Immediately, an older man with graying hair rushed up to the table.
"Sherlock! Anything on the menu, whatever you want free, for you and your date."
"Oh, um," John smiled shyly. Sherlock looked extremely unconcerned with the man's words.
"This man got me off a murder charge."
"At the time of the murder, Angelo was in another part of town breaking into a flat," Sherlock said in a monotone voice.
Angelo clapped Sherlock hard on the back before walking away from the table.
"Got him off a murder charge?" John inquired. "So, what, are you a lawyer?"
"Not exactly."
Just then, Angelo returned with a lit candle in one hand. "More romantic," he said, and then walked off once again.
John laughed. "Well then. What do you mean, 'not exactly?'"
"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock replied. "Only one in the world, I invented the profession."
"So like a private detective?"
"No. When the police need help-which is quite often-they come to me."
"The police don't consult amateurs."
Sherlock paused for a moment. "You're an army doctor who returned from either Afghanistan or Iraq about a year ago, you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him-possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. You've mostly gotten over a limp that you're therapist believes to be psychosomatic-quite correctly I'm afraid."
"How did you-"
Sherlock then went to a lengthy, over complicated analysis of John's life, pulling information seemingly out of thin air.
"There you go, you see-you were right."
"About what?"
"The police don't consult amateurs."
"That...was amazing."
Sherlock stared at John in shock. "You think so?"
"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary.
"That's not what people normally say."
"Then what do people usually say?"
"Piss off." The two men smiled at each other.
"So," Sherlock continued, "did I get anything wrong?"
"Well, Harry is short for Harriet." John smirked.
"Harry is your sister. Your sister!"
John laughed. "Still, very impressive though."
"So what do you do then?" Sherlock inquired. "Army doctor home from war and all."
"Not much. I'm a doctor in a small clinic, that's all. Definitely not as exciting as consulting detective."
Sherlock chuckled. This was going to be a good evening. John Watson was a nice man, and he seemed to have an interest in Sherlock-however hard that was to believe. And Sherlock hadn't thought about his cancer since running into this amazing doctor.
~~~~~~~~~
Sherlock walked through the door of the flat, creeping quietly through the kitchen in an attempt to reach his room before-
"Sherlock."
The detective stopped dead in his tracks. After living with John for five months, Sherlock had realized how hard it was to sneak around. His health had been slowly but steadily deteriorating as time went on, and though Sherlock had done.well hiding his condition, between his failing body and the periodical doctors visits, Sherlock knew that John would find out eventually. And it seemed that "eventually" had finally caught up to them.
"Sherlock," John walked to where Sherlock stood and paced a hand on the taller man's shoulder. "What's going on?"
"John...we should sit down."
So they sat down, and Sherlock explained everything. Stage four lung cancer from too many years as a smoker. No treatment would do any good at this point. Doctors' visits behind John's back. And worst of all...
"One month?" John asked helplessly.
Sherlock nodded solemnly.
"Why-how could you keep something like this from me?" John cried. "Sherlock I-you can't just-you can't just die on me, I-I need you, I-"
Sherlock pressed his lips to John's, cradling the doctor's face in the detective's hands. When they separated, Sherlock kept his forehead pressed against John's.
"It'll be alright," he whispered. "You'll be alright."
John nodded frantically, desperately trying to hold back tears and choked sobbs.
Sherlock took John's hand, pulling him gently from the couch and to the bedroom. There they lay silently on the bed, wrapped in each other's embrace, not being able to imagine a life where they weren't together.
~~~~~~~
The sun shined bright, the blue sky dotted with only a few stray clouds.
John hated the sky today. The sky and the birds and the people bustling about with their normal lives.
How could.all of those people be so happy? Why did this day have to be so bright and cheerful?
This was the second worst day of John's life, and it felt as though the world was mocking him. It wasn't supposed to be like this on a day like today.
Of course, the weather had behaved appropriately on the number one worst day of John's life; the sky had been dark and overcast, the promise of rain waiting in the background as Sherlock had finally succumbed to his cancer. John had been there, holding Sherlock's limp hand to his own lips as Sherlock Holmes breathed his last breath, a sigh that seemed to hang in the air for an eternity as the machine connected flat lined.
And now the day of the funeral, and the weather was pissing John off.
~~~~~
The service was lovely, the people kind and considerate. And of course there had been people to lighten the mood, laugh at what a completely horrid dickhead Sherlock had been, and how he was absolutely amazing all the same.
Eventually, the people flowed away from the grave, leaving John alone with the cold, black tombstone.
"I wish you would have told me sooner," John said to the rock. "We could have done something-bought you more time-" He choked back a sob, and then laughed dryly. "Probably didn't want to have me worrying about you. Heh. Well...god, I still can't believe that we've already...run out of time. Agh, god, you Sherlock. Just had to drag me in with that irresistible charm of yours."
John took a few steps away from the tombstone, pacing a bit before walking back to it, leaning his hand on the cool stone.
"I don't regret it, any of it," he said. "If i had it to do over again...You were the best and the bravest and the wisest man I've ever known. And I love you. God, Sherlock Holmes, I love you so much and I hate you for leaving me here alone!" Tears streamed down John's face, his body wracked with sobbs. "But I forgive you. I forgive you, you arrogant prick. And I miss you. I'll miss you forever you wonderful, wonderful man. And wherever you are, you better save a spot for me, because I might not be in a hurry to get wherever it is, but when I do, you better be waiting for me, Sherlock Holmes. I know you'll be waiting for me."