Warning: character death, established relationship.

Two years, three months later.

~

"Dammit Sherlock!" John panted, clutching his side and glaring at his flatmate. "You can't try to outrun me like that!"

Despite the yelling, there was a broad grin on his face, even between coughs and grumbles of swear words.

"I can, and I did, obviously." Came Sherlock's answer, smirk clear as day in his tone. John just shook his head and flashed his middle finger in the vague direction of the detective. Hearing the cacophony of disgruntled voices from their right, the two looked up to see the small crowd of Scotland Yard's police force watching the two. A few had gleeful expressions, smirking and already asking for their money, while the majority of them complained about John not using his cane to his advantage and tripping up Sherlock. He had claimed his distaste for cheating, but still hit the old cane against Sherlock's legs after he got his breath back.

"Not fair, of course he can win against a cripple." John grunted, casting a teasing eyebrow in Lestrade's direction. The doctor was the only one who ever called himself any form of handicapped- the rest were too scared to pass any sort of judgment on him after the way Sherlock threatened the last DI. Greg was one of the few who knew it wasn't a self-deprecating comment, which made it easier to join in the laughter.

The losers handed over their bets, still commenting that they had been tricked into believing that John could beat Sherlock in a race. The new officers were the only ones to fall for it.

"Where's my cut?" John asked, elbowing the detective inspector gently.

"At the bottom of a pint," Lestrade grinned, waving the handful of bills in direction of the nearest pub. "Sherlock, you coming?" The consulting detective simply nodded, straightening his jacket and reapplying his scarf.

John was limping and out of breath before they even began the short walk to O'Malley's, but no worse than usual. The pain in his side was drowned in the heavy weight of his chest. He was used to it, really, after so long, but it never felt good. There was no telling why he still did the ridiculous little races, but hey, he got a free beer or two.

"Are you alright, John?" His flatmate questioned, a hand on John's shoulder and the look of concern only in the pinch above his brow. John nodded, flashing a small smile and rubbing unintentionally at his side.

"Stitches are old enough, they didn't rip this time." The doctor nodded.

John had been through another three surgeries since the original; the cancer insisted on returning shortly after each one.

"Probably my last race, though." He added solemnly, turning his head away every time he coughed. No one commented on the persistent coughs anymore, knowing there was nothing they could do to help them stop.

The three of them got a booth in the back, away from prying eyes or loud crowds. They stayed silent, waiting for their drinks to arrive, letting John catch his long-lost breath, letting Sherlock and Lestrade bask in the strong friendship the group had formed. It wasn't long before their pints hit the table, and the silent fog had lifted.

"To scamming fresh meat." Lestrade lifted his beer.

"To John not beating me with his cane." Sherlock quirked a smirk, lifting his own ale.

"To final runs." John joined in, tapping his mug against the other two before taking a gulp of the cold liquor.

The routine never wavered; John had six 'final runs' since he first brought it up. Sherlock praised him every time, for doing it even through the pain. Greg always strayed from the subject (at least while sober).

This was the final, though. Long since the race had ran, and yet John was still wheezy and digging his fingers into his thigh to keep from lingering his mind on the pain swelling in his chest. The looks in the other twos eyes said they knew it, too.

John usually had no more than two beers, not wanting to fall flat on his face when he limped up the stairs of Baker Street, but it was a futile mission at this point, seeing as he was likely to fall no matter how much he drank. Ah, the curses of dying. Stability wasn't high on his body's list of functions, anymore.

Four beers later, the men were definitely a little more than tipsy. Even Sherlock had continued to drink with them, quickly falling out of his usual composed grace. Their talks hesitated and flirted around the edges of the elephant in the room, no one wanting to bring it up first, but all knowing it needed to be done.

Goodbyes.

When Sherlock excused himself to the loo, flush on his cheeks making it clear that the alcohol had an effect on him, John cleared his throat and looked up at Lestrade. Fingering the handle on his pint, he was at a loss as to where to start. Greg, seeing this clear as day, sighed and clinked his pint against John's lightly.

"It's been a good run, yeah?" He asked softly, eyeing the doctor carefully.

"Yeah," John's lips turned up at the corners, a small chuckle breaking through the din. "It really has, Greg. And you're the one to thank."

"Naw, I didn't do much." Lestrade denied, shaking his head, barely managing to keep a frown off his features.

"Lestrade, if it weren't for you, Sherlock would be either still on drugs, or dead. He told me the story of how you first met. You gave him a job, and that job gave his life purpose. If it weren't for that job, we'd probably never be flatmates. Out of everyone, you made one of the biggest impacts. Hell, you technically gave me a job and you had no idea who I was," John chuckled again, sighing and nursing his beer slowly. "I owe you a lot, mate, and I don't have enough time to tell you thanks."

"I have to thank you, too. You made Sherlock bearable. Even when you were away, he'd still be a lot less insulting that before you came along." Finishing off his own beer, Lestrade clapped a hand on John's shoulder and held it, smiling warming at his friend.

"It's been good knowing you, Greg."

They didn't say much after that, even when Sherlock rejoined their table.

Silence wrapped around their space, leaving them in the comfort of each other.

Before a fifth beer was started, the small group parted. Knocking his cane against Lestrade's leg, John flashed a smile, a real smile that wrinkled the corners of his old eyes. Hugging the DI tight to his chest, they held on longer than normal. It was needed. Lasts needed to carry all the things left unsaid. Lestrade left on foot while Sherlock hailed a cab back to Baker Street.

Sherlock and John didn't speak the whole ride, simply exchanging glances and touching each other. A hand on the knee, a rub on the shoulder, a stroke on the neck, a hand through curly hair. The consulting detective paid the driver, hardly making comment about the man's manners before helping John out of the cab. He watched the man limp to 221B, huffing as he struggled with the handle. Sherlock left him to it, knowing John wouldn't appreciate help with the little things, even at this point.

John didn't go straight up the stairs; instead he shuffled his way to Mrs. Hudson's door, lightly knocking. Sherlock didn't stay to listen in.

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson, sorry it's late." The doctor greeted with a sad smile, slowly stepping into her small flat when he welcomed him.

"Tea?" She asked, already set on making it before he could answer. He sat at her small eating table, setting aside his cane and waiting for her to join him. "It's time?" Her voice was small, afraid and worrying. John just nodded gently.

"Yeah," He sighed, settling into the mug she handed over and letting the pleasant silence linger over them for a moment. "I love you, Martha."

"Oh, John, you know I love you, too." Mrs. Hudson whispered, her shaky hand reaching out to fold around his.

"I've really enjoyed living here. It's so wonderfully... Home. I never thought I'd consider this place home," John chuckled softly, squeezing her hand. "I never thought I'd consider you my mum, but you are. And I'm going to miss you so much."

"And I'll miss you, love." They both ignored the wetness in her eyes and the cracks in his voice. Sitting at her small table, sharing goodbyes, John was startled to realise just how hard it was going to be for him. Everyone else would be left to grieve, to mourn his loss and eventually move on. All that was left for him was the sadness. There was no moving on from this, only the silence of death. It wouldn't be peaceful knowing he'd never see these people again.

"Take care of him for me, yeah? He neglects his eating and sleep enough as it is, we don't need him wallowing in those pesky little emotions he refuses to admit he has," John and Mrs. Hudson exchanged a smile and a small laugh, both of their eyes swiveling to the roof, where they knew Sherlock would be. Martha nodded, keeping his hand tight in hers as they sat and finished their tea, moving on from that topic to others, tiptoeing around the heavy subjects and sticking to the lighter ones.

Wordlessly, John stood and wrapped his arms around his landlady, holding her close to his chest and burying his head into the crook of her neck. Sighing and breathing in her warm, sugary smell, he didn't want to let her go. Her fists were balled into the back of his jacket, her frail arms holding his slender body close, both of them murmuring comforting words to each other, neither wanting to end the peace.

"Goodbye, Martha." Grabbing his cane and planting a gentle kiss to her temple, John turned and left the small flat, keeping himself from looking back by sheer force of will. To see the tears he knew were there would just be too hard.

He was already winded and coughing, halfway up the stairs, but didn't stop until he was at the door. Sherlock was on the couch, lying back with his eyes closed. John would have thought him asleep if it wasn't for the small wave of fingers beckoning him closer. Shuffling forward, John dropped his coat over the armrest before setting aside his old cane and sitting on the edge of the cushion, near Sherlock's feet. Holding out his hand, the detective kept his eyes closed until he had felt John's fingers weave through his.

"How did she handle it?" He questioned softly, daring to glance up at his flatmate's face. John looked far too old, far too tired and weak. There was no happy turn to his mouth, no sparkle left twinkling in his eyes. All he had was that persistent cough that rattled what was left of his lungs.

"Remarkably well, considering she used to burst into tears just at the sight of me." John's chuckle turned into a weak cough, spots of red lingering on the sleeve of his oatmeal jumper. Sherlock sat up, sliding to one end of the couch to make room for John to lie.

"You've worked yourself too hard," Sherlock muttered disapprovingly, running his long fingers through the short hair that covered John's skull. Reaching into his pocket, the detective handed over two small pills. "It'll be in your sleep, so you might as well sleep sound." He answered the silent question calmly sighing only a little.

"Will it be fast?" John asked, taking the pills into his palm, watching them roll around. Sherlock simply nodded and continued his slow moving fingers. The doctor's body shuddered, a silent sob wracking his fragile being. "Be nice to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock. And be nice to Lestrade and them, but not too nice or they'll think you've gone crazy." Laughter mixed with the quiet crying, John's body curling up against Sherlock's.

"I'll do my best to ever so slightly reign in my distaste." Sherlock answered, the remains of a smile traced across his lips as he pressed them to John's temple carefully.

"Remember to eat, and sleep, sometimes," John's voice was suppressed behind a cough, and he slowly took the pills, dry. "Don't get lost in experiments, come up for breath every once in a while, yeah? Don't let Anderson or anyone get on your nerves too deep. And for the love of God, don't get yourself killed just because there's no one to nag you about safety."

They cracked matching smiles at that, each sighing in turn. John shifted, his head on Sherlock's thigh, looking up at him with sad, weary eyes. The detective leaned down, carefully pressing their lips together.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock whispered, his thumb tracing the line of John's cheek gently, not needing to elaborate on the gratitude.

"I'll miss you most of all," John nodded, covering Sherlock's hand with his eyes, his eyes already drooping with exhaustion. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John. Sleep well."

~

The end.

A/N - Nearly 30,000 words, tons of readers, 11 chapters. Thank you to everyone who has read this, seriously. This fic has gotten a lot more favorites/alerts than I ever expected. And an even bigger than you to everyone who has (or will) review this. I'm so pleased with how well this story turned out. Keep an eye out; hopefully more of my writing will make its way onto the site soon.