Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss.

Feels Like the End.

Silence so mighty you go deaf;
Bombs are going off inside your chest.
I know you wanted to be loved,
But you're bleeding left alone... so, so, so alone...

Singing, "Where does time go from here?"
It feels like the end
It feels like the end

- Mikky Ekko

It had snuck up on them, like a thief in the night. John hated himself for it; should have caught it earlier, but he just assumed Sherlock's wavering health was due to his reluctance to take care of himself. Always skipping meals, staying up at odd hours of the night, never getting enough sleep. Sometimes he even hid drugs from John and did them when he was sure he wouldn't get caught-after all, he hated having to listen to his flatmate's dull lectures on the harmful effects they would have on his body, etcetera, etcetera. Really, Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised at all if he was called to a crime scene where the doctor bored a man to death. Nevertheless, John hated himself for not catching it earlier.

But he knew it wouldn't have made a difference.

The detective and his assistant sat at the table, having a bit of tea while the fire roared off to the side. Sherlock was mentally going through the case they were working on while John read the papers. He kept making a repetitive moment that caught the doctor's eye. John pushed down the right corner of the paper he was reading to catch a glance at his partner who was sitting adjacent to him on the front side of the table. He furrowed his brows as he watched Sherlock continuously rub his right arm and flex his hand out. The detective was tired and was pretty sure he had blacked out that morning, but he couldn't remember anything.

"What's wrong with your arm?" John frowned as he asked. Sherlock ignored him, blocking him out of his thoughts as he poured over the evidence. The blond shrugged and continued on with his task as he bit into a piece of toast. The strawberry jam he had spread dribbled down his chin as he did so. "Damn it," he muttered as he cleaned it up with a napkin.

Suddenly, the detective froze in mid-thought with his hands flailing in the air. He squinted his eyes as if he were trying to recall something hidden in the recesses of his ever-expanding mind. After a few, long drawn-out moments he finally relented and asked for help. "John," he began, refusing to meet his friend's eye, "where did the victim work again?"

The veteran raised an eyebrow. Sherlock never forgot anything. Never. "He...worked at a corporate office. You know, where we found him," he answered curiously.

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. "Oh. Right." He blinked several times and slowly retreated back into his mind.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked. Not to his surprise, he didn't receive an answer.

A few days later, they were working on another case in which Sherlock and John tracked down the widow of the deceased to ask a few questions. Lestrade had tagged along because he wanted to ask her a few questions himself. Actually, he had driven them himself.

A frail, scared young woman, let them into her home. They all sat down as they sipped on tea. The woman finally seated herself and waited for their questions.

"Mrs. Williamson, did your husband have any extramarital affairs?" Sherlock asked, cutting to the chase. His teacup sat on the table untouched. John and Lestrade were busy sipping away and eating biscuits, John sitting next to Sherlock and the inspector situated on an armchair next to Sherlock's right.

The tiniest bit shocked, the woman blinked her eyes and answered with an adamant, "No!"

"Did you?"

She shifted her eyes to the left. "No."

"Don't lie to me, Mrs. Williamson. You will only succeed in helping your husband's murderer get farther away with each second."

"No! My husband was good to me!" She shed her feeble facade and straightened up.

He leaned closer. "I asked, did you, or did you not have an affair?"

She gave him an indignant look as she flipped her blonde hair over her shoulders. "I said I did not!"

Sherlock scoffed. "Mrs. Williamson, look around! The evidence is clear and achingly simple!" He stood up and walked around the room. "Here, the area in front of this small frame containing your wedding picture. It's clear of dust which indicates it had been put up and down multiple times. In the bin," he moved over to dig through her paper trash, "receipts for motels! Your use of the past tense when your husband died yesterday indicates a growing separation that had been stewing for a long period of time."

She started tearing up, most likely due to guilt.

"That's enough, Sherlock," Lestrade said.

Sure enough, the detective started laughing.

"Sherlock!" John reprimanded.

"Your wedding ring, the way you keep fidgeting and twisting it. You began doing that the moment I asked about your husband and your affair. Guilt is creeping up on you, no? Is it grabbing you by the throat and cutting off your supply of oxygen, just as it did your husband?" he said as he inched his fingers towards her throat. The woman recoiled at the sight of a murderous glint in the detective's eyes juxtaposed with the cold smile growing on his face, his fingers hovering inches above her exposed throat.

"Sherlock! I said enough!" Lestrade yelled as he slammed his cup down and stood up.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Williamson. We'll be going now. Thank you for the tea," John apologized as he grabbed Sherlock's arm and had to pull him away.

"You and your lover will not get away with this!" the unruly-haired detective yelled out as John and Lestrade pushed him out and into the cold air.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" John asked. He knew Sherlock could be cruel, but never had he enjoyed torturing witnesses psychologically. Sherlock just kept laughing as Lestrade and John exchanged uneasy glances.

Something was wrong with him.

Later that day, the detective paced the flat. He needed drugs and he needed them now. John entered the front door and walked upstairs from a short visit to the store to grab some food. Sherlock immediately accosted him the moment he set foot onto the second floor. "John, where's my stash? Where's the stash? Where did you put it?" he was visibly shaking as he gripped John's arms.

John furrowed his brows. "No, Sherlock. There's not any. I threw them all out."

In an uncharacteristic move, his flatmate went into a blinding rage. "NO!" He threw books and then grabbed a gun that was lying haphazardly on the table and shot at the wall. He kept shooting even though he ran out of bullets. He stopped and moved the gun towards his temple.

"Are you mad, you idiot?!" John yelled as he dropped the bags he was holding and lunged at his friend. They collapsed on the floor in a heap and John took the pistol away from the madman. "What the bloody hell, Sherlock?"

"Relax, there are no bullets in it," Sherlock stated calmly as he laid beneath John's small figure. Said doctor was kneeling on the floor with his knees on either side of his flatmate's slender body. He got up and stepped over the detective. Sherlock didn't move but instead, opted to lay there on the floor. He moved his arm across his eyes. His head was throbbing so painfully; he just wanted it to stop.

"You have problems," John muttered as he tucked the gun away and began cleaning up the groceries that rolled all over the floor.

Sherlock laid in bed at their flat. The windows were closed and the curtains were drawn shut to block the light from the sun from streaming into the room and making his migraine worse. His head was throbbing, but there really was nothing anyone could do to ease it. The painkillers didn't help and John wouldn't let him anywhere near his secret stashes; the doctor had went on a hunt like a madman a while ago and ripped apart the entire flat, confiscating what drugs he did find. The detective sighed and rubbed at his temples with his long, blithe fingers. These days his migraines were getting worse and more frequent. He sat up only to be hit with a wave of nausea. Sherlock ran to the toilet and heaved what little he had eaten that morning at his partner's insistence.

A bit concerned, John sauntered in from the kitchen and leaned against the frame of the doorway as Sherlock knelt on the ground, his left arm and his head resting on the lid of the porcelain toilet. The blond took a bite of the sandwich he was eating and chewed. "Nauseous again? What did you eat this time?" John asked as he continued to eat his turkey sandwich. He frowned. It could use a bit more mayonnaise.

Sherlock closed his eyes, but suddenly jerked up and dry-heaved. "N-nothing. Ate a tart in the fridge."

John tutted. "I told you not to put food next to that severed head," he answered as he took another bite.

"Shhhhhh. You're talking too loudly, John," he managed to get out as he feebly waved a hand towards the blond doctor. He was disoriented and wasn't in full control of his motor skills. The doctor sighed, put down his food, and moved to crouch next to his partner. He grabbed Sherlock's face and took his temperature by holding one hand up to his friend's forehead and one to his own. Then he reached into his pocket and grabbed a torch (flashlight) to check Sherlock's pupillary responses. They were fine so he took the detective's pulse and forced him to open his mouth so he could check his throat.

"Everything seems fine. Your forehead is a bit hot, but you don't have a fever. Hurry up and get dressed. Lestrade called and wants us to meet him down at the crime scene he's at in thirty minutes," John informed him as he stood up and walked out.

Miserably, Sherlock followed his example and pushed himself up and off the floor. He blinked several times to get the bright light from John's torch out of his eyesight. He quickly brushed his teeth and got dressed, walking out of his room as he pulled his scarf on.

The taxi ride was rather quiet and uneventful. The consulting detective had spent the majority of the time trying to stop the ringing in his ears by squeezing his eyes shut tightly. The cab arrived at last and the duo walked out to the grassy area where a yellow tape barred their entrance. Donovan walked up and caught sight of the two. Lights flashed from the police cars, causing Sherlock to grimace.

"You look like hell, freak. John," she nodded at him.

"Uh, good afternoon, Sally," John replied as they ducked under the tape she lifted. Sherlock merely ignored her and walked up to the silver-haired Detective Inspector who was busy talking to a forensic scientist when he turned around.

"Ah, Sherlock, John. No need to tell you, but this case is just absolutely bizarre. I don't even understand what I'm looking at," he told them as he gave the clipboard he was holding to someone else and led the pair down to the edge of the river. The three of them peered down a sharp cliff and spotted a deceased naked male whom the forensics were just beginning to cover up lying still at the bottom. There were bits of black stuff surrounding him.

"I don't see anything too weird," John said as Sherlock observed the scene below them, immediately aware that the man had drowned and washed ashore. As the men were heaving the body up and into an unzipped black bag, they caught a glimpse of his back. There was broken bits of bone jutting out, something...not quite right. John's eyes widened and Sherlock's interest peaked. "Oh," the doctor said lamely as blinked several times. "That dead man has...Bloody hell. What are those things jutting out his back? They look like..wings," John said incredulously. "What the hell?"

Lestrade gravely nodded. "Exactly."

xxx

Molly smoothed out the hair on her ponytail as Sherlock leaned over and walked slowly around the corpse, his eyes drinking in every detail. She cast a glance at him and flicked her eyes towards John who stood behind them with his arms crossed.

"Report?" Sherlock asked as he stopped and pulled out his magnifying glass. He slid the top portion open to reveal the glass and peered down into the sharp, jagged edges of blood-soaked bones that stuck out of the victim's back. A few remnants of feathers were stuck in the bloody mass.

"Oh, me?" Molly asked, flustered. "Oh, yes. Um, right. Well," she fumbled as she opened the folder containing the coroner's report. "The deceased's, um, extra..bones are made of completely organic material. Fused to the scapulas on his back. Further analysis will most likely prove this was an implant of some sort, from a raven or a crow, I'm thinking. They seemed to have been longer, but the rest of whatever was growing was hacked off with a serrated blade. Kind of funny, don't you think? Like a fallen angel, right?" Molly chuckled nervously. "Maybe he fell from Heaven and drowned and then someone stole his wings." She frowned at the thought.

"Nonsense," Sherlock responded as he grabbed the victim's fingernails and held them up against the small circular glass. His vision was getting a little blurry, but he assumed it was due to exhaustion. He hadn't been getting enough sleep. He blinked and tried to focus his eyes. "There's a perfectly logical explanation. I just have yet to find it," he pressed on.

"You don't believe in angels?" the brunette asked.

Sherlock paused. "No," he answered, resuming his work.

"Oh." She turned to John. "How about you, John?"

Said blond pursed his lips. "Well, yes. I suppose...bit of a difficult question, really..."

Molly and John's conversation began to drift in and out of Sherlock's ears. He shook his head trying to rid the blurry vision that began to phase in and out as well. He stood up and shook his body out. This sudden weakness was probably an aftereffect of something he had eaten. Suddenly, his migraine had returned, sneaking up and exploding in his head. The room began to spin as a ringing noise filled his ears. He stumbled backwards, dropping his magnifying glass which clattered much too loudly on the floor for his liking. The light that hung above the table glared in his eyes, too bright to register. He reached his arms out trying to steady himself and vaguely felt something trickle down from his nose.

"Joh-" he tried to call before his body began shaking uncontrollably. Through his disorientation and blurred vision he could see his colleague jump towards him, holding him steady, but through his eyes, the world was moving through slow motion.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John cried as he shifted his friend's body to the side so he wouldn't choke on any vomit. The detective was having a seizure. "Molly, call upstairs!"

Sherlock's head lolled as his vision went blank and John's voice faded into silence.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Sherlock slowly opened one eye and discovered he was somewhere unfamiliar. A pinching sensation attacked his arm and he looked down with both eyes to see that he was hooked into an IV. The lights were turned off but the door was slightly ajar, letting in light from the hallway outside. He was in a hospital, most likely still at St. Bart's. That much was evident, but why?

He struggled to sit up and tried to pry the IV out of his body, wincing as he slid the thick needle out of the back of his left hand. He applied pressure where the skin had been punctured and took a look around the room. There was only one bed, a private room. It was very odd as he had never actually been inside a patient room at St. Bart's before. He was always in the lab or the morgue. The detective strained his ears and heard whispering outside, hushed voices speaking at a quick rate. Someone was having an argument.

The detective stood up felt a breeze ruffle through his skin and noticed he was wearing a hospital gown. He grabbed the blanket on the uncomfortable bed and wrapped it around himself as he slowly shuffled towards the open door. His legs almost gave out, but he caught himself.

"John?" Sherlock called out as he grabbed the handle and pulled. His words echoed around his head, almost as he said it slower than he did. The detective immediately shut his eyes at the blinding light stumbled back. Sounds of telephones ringing, people talking and yelling, things being rolled around and thumping noises pounding into the ground as they ran, blasting their cacophonous melody into the unruly-haired man's ears. Someone grabbed his arm and led him back to the bed.

"Shut the door," he heard the figure order someone in the corridor who immediately shut the door, leaving the two occupants in solitude.

Sherlock couldn't see. "John? What happened?" he called out again. He put a hand up to his temple and rubbed it as it throbbed internally. It felt as if a hammer was pounding away at his brain.

"Yes, it's me, Sherlock. Shh, get some rest. We'll talk when you wake up, okay?" he said, trying to tuck the detective in.

"No, the case. I need to-

-you'll not be going anywhere." John countered and then sighed. "Did you pull your IV out?" He grabbed ahold of his friend's hand and smoothly slid it back in after sanitizing it. Sherlock squinted his eyes and could tell his blond friend was wearing a white doctor's coat.

"Why are you-

-Shhh. Go to sleep. We'll talk later," he commanded as he double checked all the machines around him were in order and left, closing the door as quietly as he could.

Right when he entered the busy corridor, John brought a hand up to rub his eyes and leaned against the door. He couldn't believe what was happening. He hated this, this waiting. The results of Sherlock's MRI scans were taking longer than expected. As he was a licensed doctor, he would've gone in and seen the scanning done himself, but the hospital refused to let him into the room to watch the scans take place in real time. He hadn't been authorized and signed in, so by protocol, he had to take the time to fill out some paperwork, get verified, and then receive a visiting badge, find some clean scrubs (because Sherlock had thrown up on his clothes) and finally, locate his friend.

John had an idea of what was wrong right when Sherlock collapsed at St. Bart's. Fear gripped his heart as his friend lost consciousness in his arms. He watched in horror as blood trickled out of Sherlock's nose and held him onto his side. Luckily, they were in a hospital, so all John had to do was drag Sherlock over to the elevators once he stopped seizing where a stretcher was waiting for him. Molly had called the staff in a panic the second John, ever the soldier, calmly kneeled against Sherlock's body and ordered her to do so to prevent her from going hysterical.

As soon as Sherlock's body was placed on a stretcher, they wheeled him away while two male nurses had to physically hold John back in order to prevent him from trailing after.

"No, no, let me go. He's my friend! I'm a doctor!" he shouted as the three struggled.

"I'm sorry, but you can't go in without verification," one of them answered.

"LET ME GO or I SWEAR, I will shoot you!" John threatened as they restrained him.

He watched as his colleague's body disappeared behind a corner and stopped struggling. He needed to get his head together. "Fine, fine," he said, "take me to sign in."

In the MRI room, the head oncologist walked in after the nurses had taken his patient's vital signs. Dr. Everson was paged, but he was busy in surgery so being the good friend that he was, Dr. Peters volunteered to fill in. He jumped at the opportunity seeing as he really needed a break from all his sick cancer patients. He felt depression creeping up on him and it was definitely too early in the day for that.

"Sherlock Holmes, male, late twenties to mid thirties. Sudden onset of a seizure and collapse. Slight hemorrhage in the nasal passage. BP stable.." a nurse droned on, smacking a piece of gum in her mouth, but the patient's name had caught the attention of the doctor and he had stopped listening.

"Wait, what?"

The bored redhead gave him a confused look. "'Scuse me?" she asked.

"What's his name?"

The nurse flipped the paper on the chart back to the front. "Sherlock Holmes."

The doctor nearly fainted. "THE Sherlock Holmes? As in, Detective Sherlock Holmes?"

The nurse shrugged and went to prep the patient for an MRI scan.

Dr. Peters slumped down into his chair and waited until she pressed the button which allowed the bed to recede into the tunnel of the machine. He began the scan and sat in a shocked silence as he listened to the thumping and whirring of the massive technology. The images began to load on the monitor screen in front of him. He shifted his eyes to the images and blinked several times. Was he seeing this correctly? He rubbed his eyes and pressed a button to speak into the microphone. "Everything is peachy, yeah? No stirring?"

"Yeah!" he heard Nurse Rose yell from the room.

The young, brunette man rubbed his slight beard and flipped through the pictures. He pressed the button to talk into the microphone once more. "Was there a short, blond man with him? Goes by the name Watson?" he asked her.

The nurse scratched her head and squinted her eyes in thought. "Umm..yeah. Yeah I think. Didn't see him myself but the interns that helped wheel the patient in was talking about how Tim and Mike had to restrain a crazed blond man, I think."

Dr. Peters, a die-hard fan of the detective, clenched the front of his shirt. He couldn't believe what was happening. "Alright then. The scan's done. Get a private room for Mr. Holmes and make sure the films get to the nurse station on his wing. Page me and I'll tell Dr. Watson where it is."

The nurse pressed a button to allow the bed to exit the machinery. "Who's Dr. Watson? Why a private room?"

The oncologist gave her an incredulous look. "Dr. Watson is the assistant to Detective Holmes, a celebrity, if you will."

"Oh. Never heard of them."

The doctor promptly left and went down to the lobby to call down John Watson on the speaker if he wasn't there already. To his relief, the blond man was filling out some forms and finalizing his guest clearance when the brunette doctor found him.

"John Watson?"

John looked up from the form he was filling out. "Yes?"

Dr. Peters held out his hand. "Hi, Dr. Watson. I'm Evan Peters. I'm assigned to Detective Holmes's case for now." John took his hand and gave him a firm shake. Suddenly, the bearded doctor's pager went off. He glanced at the and read the room number. "If you'll follow me, I'll take you to Mr. Holmes's room. We set him up in a private room due to his status. I hope you don't mind," he said as he led John away from the lobby.

"Dr. Peters, what's the diagnosis?" John finally asked after they were almost there. "Vital signs? Was it an aneurysm or..." John swallowed his words. He couldn't.

The bearded man looked surprised. "Please, call me Evan, Dr. Watson. And, well, it doesn't look good," he stated as they neared the door. Nurse Rose had left the door slightly open. They stopped in front of Sherlock's room.

"I'm...I'm afraid it's brain cancer. We'll be needing to do a PET scan to check if it spread from another part of the body."

John stood in shock. He knew it, but hearing it stated aloud was just...absolutely terrifying. He felt like a ton of bricks just showered down on his being and crushed his heart. "How..How long has it..?"

"The films will come in momentarily."

"No, you tell me right now. Get him set up on chemotherapy. Radiotherapy. Whatever it takes. Get the head oncologist here. I wish to speak with him."

"I am the head oncologist. Dr. Watson, I'm sorry but we must get the patient's consent before-"

"Just bloody do it!" John sighed and rubbed his face. He wasn't thinking straight. He was a doctor, a soldier. Surely this amount of pressure would demand he stayed calm, but he couldn't. This was Sherlock. This was his best friend. "Leave. And tell the head of neurology to get here," he commanded. Dr. Peters reluctantly left.

The blond thought about all the symptoms he had seen, but he just wrote it off as another one of Sherlock's drug-induced side effects. The day he kept rubbing and gripping his arms. Those times where he forgot elements to a case. He never did that; that was uncharacteristic. The changes in personality where he essentially turned into more of a lunatic. He feared that the tumor growing in his friends' brain was developing more rapidly than he would have liked it to.

"Dr. Watson?" an ebony-skinned nurse called out from behind the nurses' station bringing the doctor back to the present. John perked up and lifted off of the wall he was leaning on and walked down the corridor towards her.

"Yes. Are Sherlock's scans ready?" he asked as he neared her station.

She nodded and handed him a manila envelope which he immediately opened and held up to the light. What he saw made his heart drop to his stomach and a twisted feeling of gloom filled the pit of his soul. "No, these can't be right. They can't. Order him another MRI. Now," he ordered.

"Dr. Watson, we can't possi-

-NOW," he barked as he slammed the transparent film down on the counter. The nurse widened her eyes in fear and nodded as her curly hair bounced up and down. She scrambled out of her seat and paged the doctor who had overseen the detective's previous scan while she smoothed out the wrinkles in her pastel lavender scrubs out of nervousness.

A few moments later, a tall doctor arrived at the scene and pushed his black framed glasses up his nose. He gently raised a hand and rested it on John's arm. The army doctor was leaning against the counter with his hands as he hung his head, his eyes closed in a feeble attempt to shut out the thoughts that began to swim around in his head. At the man's touch, he looked up and straightened himself up. It was the man he was arguing with before Sherlock woke up and opened the door.

"Dr. Watson, I know this must be tough, but I can assure you these images are accurate," he consoled John. The man lifted the scans up to the ceiling light and couldn't help letting out a low whistle as he spent more time observing the tumor. "I'm so sorry," he muttered as he placed the films back on the counter. The blond's back was turned towards himself and he thought he saw the faintest shake of the man's shoulders. He didn't know how close the detective and his partner were, but the sight of him trying to keep a facade on was absolutely heart-breaking. "I'll..I'll come back later. You should get some rest," the oncologist suggested.

John felt Dr. Peters leave and didn't turn around until he was sure the man was gone. He felt strange. Out of place. The rest of the hospital went on as if nothing had happened. People hustled and bustled around as they attempted to get to their destination as quickly as possible without running anyone else over. He walked back down the hall but not before grabbing the scans. The blond entered Sherlock's room and laid down on the couch in the corner of the room. He'd watch over Sherlock for the night. John had forgotten to call Mycroft, but perhaps it would be better to call him after he broke the news to Sherlock. He laid on the couch for hours as sleep evaded him until he finally drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

Much later, the doctor roused from his sleep when he heard the door open. His senses became alert due to training from his military days. He heard the faint pattering of rain outside the window behind the curtain around the bed.

"Sherlock?" he heard the voice call out.

"Shh!" John reprimanded. "Mycroft, is that you?" he whispered.

Sure enough, the older man briskly walked into private chamber and stopped at the edge of the bed. He faced John and threw him a questioning gaze. "What happened?"

The blond relaxed, rubbed his eyes, and yawned. "I think the question is, how did you know where we were, Mycroft?"

The sharp-nosed gentleman frowned. "I'm immediately notified whenever my brother is checked in as a patient in any hospital."

"What if he used a fake name? Or had no ID?"

"...I have my ways," he answered cryptically. John heard shuffling and peered out the doorway. He saw two shadows stemming from two of Mycroft's men in black suits. He raised his eyebrows pointedly.

"Oh. That. Well, mustn't be too careful, now could we? Anything that happens to my brother is my responsibility," he stated. John scoffed.

"Yeah right. That's why you always throw him to the wolves," he muttered. Mycroft frowned.

"But that doesn't mean I can't be concerned for my brother," he replied.

The blond doctor sat up as the older Holmes sibling made his way towards Sherlock's bed. He stared down at his brother's slumbering face.

"So. What is it?" he asked reading between the lines. There were no visible injuries and he was not in the ICU, so something was amiss.

John turned his head towards the door and away from the window. The rain continued to beat against the glass. "Brain cancer. Tumor."

Mycroft closed his eyes. "How bad is it?" No, it wasn't true. It couldn't be true. Sherlock was his responsibility.

John refused to answer.

"John?" he heard a faint mutter. The doctor stood up and made his way towards his flatmate's bed. He began stirring from his sleep. Sherlock sat up and noticed his brother. "Mycroft?"

"Sherlock," the sibling stated in greeting.

"John, turn on the light," the detective requested. His migraine had passed and he could do with a bit of light. The blond dutifully walked over and turned it on. He came back and pushed the curtain around the bed back towards the wall. Sherlock took one look at the men's faces and asked, "How long?"

The army veteran was avoiding his gaze at all cost. At that moment, someone knocked on the door and Dr. Peters walked in. Another man followed him in. "Hello, Mr. Holmes. Glad to see you're awake. This is Dr. Reinhardt. He is the head neurologist, brought in by Dr. Watson's request. Dr. Watson, may we see the scans?" he asked, turning to the short veteran. John picked up the envelope that laid on the small table in the corner by the couch he slept on and handed it to the neurologist. He took it out and looked at it into the light before placing it back in.

"We'll need to get a brain biopsy to get a definitive diagnosis. If you would, please, sign this form," the doctor said as he handed over a clipboard to Sherlock. He signed it without looking at it.

"Sherlock! You should have read it!" Mycroft chastised.

His brother ignored him and looked ahead at the wall in front of him.

Dr. Reinhardt took the forms and handed it to a nurse he called. "We'll be preparing you for surgery shortly," he informed them.

"I'm going in with you," John said to the nodding doctor.

A couple days later, Lestrade had arrived after catching wind of the news. Mrs. Hudson had come as did Molly who had taken a break to come check up on the detective. John walked in carrying cups of coffee. He set it down on the table but no one moved to grab one.

"So? What is it? Did they tell you?" Lestrade stood up and asked with his hands squashed into his pockets. Mycroft was hovering by the window while Mrs. Hudson and Molly were sitting on the couch. They all turned to look at him.

"We have to wait for the lab results, but I think it's coming out today," he said. After what felt like an eternity, a doctor entered the door.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Wilhem," the surgeon introduced himself as he walked in. "This may be hard to hear, but It's a grade 4 glioblastoma multiforme. Inoperable, lodged in the temporal lobe," the neurosurgeon explained he said as he held out his hand. Lestrade shook it. "Sorry but I thought you would have liked to know immediately. The um, the state of the infiltration of the roots are too complicated to remove. We can relieve the pressure, but...at this time we can only hope that radiotherapy and chemotherapy discourages it from growing, but by the rate of growth from this malignant tumor, I'm sorry but I'd say you have about less than a year left. "

Molly started crying. Mrs. Hudson gasped, uttering an "Oh, dear," and began comforting the young woman. John froze and it seemed as if everyone in the room had done the same. It was dead silent as not even a whisper of a breath could be heard besides Molly's soft whimpering.

"I think the best course of action would be to start surgery to relieve the mass of growth and then begin palliative therapy in order to prolong your survival span. I'm recommending a rigorous course of both chemotherapy and radiotherapy. Dr. Peters will be in charge of that." The doctor's blue eyes looked at Sherlock sadly as if he knew there really was no point in attempting treatment in the first place. After explaining some things to Mycroft and Lestrade and then getting Sherlock to sign some papers, he left them alone.

John, still reeling from the shock, leaned over the bed to check everything was in order. He attempted to avoid Sherlock's gaze, but eventually locked eyes with the detective. It was difficult to tell what the man was thinking. He was just given a death sentence, but hadn't said a word at all.

"John," he finally said quietly as his friend hovered over him.

"Sherlock."

"I'm dying."

"I know, Sherlock."

"Let's go home."

John looked at him sadly. "Please, Sherlock. Just try, for me? Please?"

The detective looked away.

Mycroft left the room to make a phone call. He passed the two bodyguards who were still standing outside the door. Lestrade walked over and took one of his hands out of his pocket. He placed it on the consulting detective's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "You rest. Don't worry about the case," he said as he left, but not before grabbing a cup of coffee John had brought in earlier. Sherlock made a noise somewhere between a snort and a scoff.

"As if. I'm dying, not going mental."

At that, John couldn't help but to let out a light chuckle.

Molly left the room, unable to cease her tears. She couldn't face him at the moment. Mrs. Hudson came over and patted him on the head. "Don't you worry, dear. John and I will take good care of you," she reassured him as he left. It was just the two of them left. A few minutes passed by in silence. John brought over an armchair next to Sherlock's bed near the window and sat down on it. He thought about their lives. Their occupations. Their relationship. He thought about the war he was in and about his comrades who had died in Afghanistan. He thought about the pain he felt when news came to him that yet another one of his friends had perished. He thought about the suffering the soldiers' families felt when they found out their loved ones died. Some died on his hands; he was not God, but he sure as hell tried to fix them like he was.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, anger flaring up. "Damn it, Sherlock! Damn it! Why didn't you tell me about the headaches? The migraines?! Maybe we could have actually done something instead of finding out at the last minute!" he yelled louder with each accusation. He stopped and slouched, covering his eyes with his hand. His thumb was squeezing one side of his temples as fingers did the same to the other. "It's my own damn fault. I'm so stupid. I'm a bloody doctor for Christ's sake!" he spat at himself. He hated himself. His colleague said nothing but opted instead, to merely stare at his friend.

Sherlock tilted his head and wasn't quite sure what to say. In these kinds of cases, John would be the one to ask. Never had he dreamed of having someone to call a friend. He was always alone until the blond mess of a man came thundering into his life with his cane and his loyalty, like a crippled dog. No matter what Sherlock did, John would never leave him and that was an odd sensation to experience. Sure, he'd cool off sometimes by going to one of his women-friends' houses for days at a time, but he never actually threatened to move out or leave him. He had grown on the detective and that scared him. He never had to open himself to another human before. How had this blond man made his way into his life? Was it fate? Was it coincidence? He mentally shook his mind. His thoughts were veering away from logic.

Dying, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter. Sherlock was surrounded by death so it didn't really phase him but some thoughts he had pushed back to the dark, far corners of his mind were threatening to make their way out of their locked trunks. He would never admit it, but dying did strike a small chord of fear. If anything, he was more curious than scared. He always skirted around the idea of religion, around the wonder if God or a higher power existed. He secretly hoped that one did because if there wasn't a higher power, than he would be considered a god amongst men and that wasn't a responsibility he wanted to bear. He lived for himself and himself only. His hyper rationality and observational skills made him superior to the human race; the evolution of humanity progressed into intellectual evolution and he was at the utmost forefront, thus he was alone. Alone as alone can be. But when he clearly hurt John's feelings at times, he felt emotion stirring in his blackened heart. What was the sensation? Companionship? Loyalty? Attachment? Love? Whatever it was, it was foreign and felt disconcerting. He only knew what he put in his brain, or rather, he only knew what his brain knew. It was like a separate entity, controlling him and drowning out everything else but logic. It consumed him and ruled him. His only escape was through puzzles and drugs, but now that John had taken the drugs away and his own brain betrayed him by taking away the puzzles, his wings, what was left? Who was Sherlock Holmes? It was an ironic twist of fate, really. Hesitantly, the detective reached out his hand and lingered over John's other arm which was placed on the armrest. His hand was hanging in the air.

John cleared his throat and removed the hand that was covering his eyes. Sherlock retracted his hand back onto the bed. "Well, then. Surgery and radio/chemo therapy it is, Sherlock. Don't you worry. As long as you keep to the schedule, you'll be fine," the blond said in his no-nonsense voice.

"John, I don't want to-"

Mycroft chose that moment to step into the door. "-Sherlock?" He made his way towards his brother. "I know you hate me, but right now isn't the time for petty sibling rivalry. You must focus on getting well. I've informed mother and she'll be coming to London pretty soon. Keep your phone on, will you? I'm going to check in on you, but I must be going for now."

"No need for that, Mycroft. And figures, it takes mother a dying son to visit. Tell them to let me go home. They'll listen to you because you're the government. I don't need this. Dying is an inevitable phenomenon so what's the point? I'm wasting time here."

Mycroft frowned. "Sherlock, don't say that. Anyway, I must get going. John, keep an eye on him, will you? Knowing him he'll try to sneak off." He gave his brother a small glare and left. He stopped by the guards and gave orders, a threatening glint coldly glistening through his serious face. He pointed at Sherlock and commanded something before walking away.

"I think Mycroft can be really scary at times," John told Sherlock as he watched the older Holmes brother's retreating back. Boredly, the detective turned to his hand and tried to take out the IV. The blond doctor smacked his hands. "Stop it. You're such a child, Sherlock," he complained as he adjusted the tube.

"I need to get down to the morgue. I wasn't done looking over the body and the results probably came in."

John crossed his arms and tutted. "No. You're not going anywhere."

"John, someone is dead. We must find the murderer."

The shorter man rolled his eyes. "You just think his wings are cool. You're staying here and getting rest."

Failing to convince him, the detective started using logic. "The doctors are busy right now. We're just waiting for the first date of surgery. The morgue is just a few floors down. I'll still be here. I'll take the IV, if I must."

Hesitating, John finally caved. "Fine, but you're going in a wheelchair. I don't want you collapsing again." It was a small price to pay for manipulating John into letting him leave, but he didn't care as long as he got to go down to the morgue. The blond stole a wheelchair and helped the detective on. He grabbed the IV bag and gave it to Sherlock to hold on to and wheeled him towards the door. They peered out into the corridor to make sure no one was paying attention and slowly left the room.

"We're just, um, going to get some fresh air," the doctor told the two hulking men.

"We will come with you."

"No, that's quite alright."

"I must insist," the other man said.

Seeing as how it would be almost impossible to go without them, John took a moment to make up his mind before he made a break for it and ran them towards the elevator.

"Wait, stop!" the men yelled after it took a second to register what the doctor had done. The duo, safe from their clutches, made their way into elevator to go down to the morgue where Molly was busy filling out some paperwork. The doors opened and the two men were laughing as John, short of breath, rolled the chair down the hall.

Molly heard the squeaky wheels turning and looked up. "Sher-Sherlock! John! What are you two doing here?" she squeaked, not unlike the unoiled wheels in the chair Sherlock sat in. John pushed him towards the tables. He stood up and handed his fluid bag to John.

"Molly can you wheel out the victim with the organic material sticking out his back?" he requested. Molly frowned.

"Sherlock, you should be resting. I'm sorry I didn't stay but I couldn't bear the fact that..." she turned around. "I'll get that body for you," she said. Sherlock stretched his lithe body and cracked his bones. "John, if I have to lay in that bed again I think I'll just jump off of St. Bart's myself." The doctor lightly smacked the back of his head.

"Shut it, Holmes."

Molly returned as she wheeled in a table with a black body bag from somewhere else. "It's set to be sent to Scotland Yard today." Sherlock walked forward and watched her unzip it. He immediately proceeded his attempt at finding clues that had been disrupted a few days earlier. The brunette walked around to his side of the table to finish the paperwork she had been filling out when she squeaked again. John raised his eyebrow and saw the blush growing on her cheeks. He followed her gaze and smirked. Sherlock was dressed in nothing but his gown and boxers which was clearly visible in the gap the flimsy hospital gown had. His rippling muscles were showing through the slit and Molly, still blushing, stared for a moment before realizing what she was doing. She immediately turned her head down and continued to work on her papers while John chuckled to himself.

"Molly, where are the lab results?" Sherlock asked.

She looked up, her face as red as a ripened tomato. "I-I'm sorry, w-what?" She was glad he hadn't turned around to look at her.

"The results from the organic material."

"Oh, right." She slid the folder containing the papers she was working on at the moment aside and gave him the one beneath it. The detective flipped it open and began turning around to a mortified Ms. Hooper until John intervened.

"Sherlock, aren't you cold? Here, take my coat." John placed the IV bag on the table and wiggled out of the coat. He helped his tall friend into the coat which covered his back after carefully guiding the bag through the sleeve. Sherlock let the blond nearly man-handle him as his thoughts were absorbed elsewhere. The doctor stood back and crossed his arms over his sea-green scrubs as the brunette shot him a look of gratitude.

Whatever the detective was going to ask was abandoned as he stared intently at the file. "Says here the feathers are from a corvus corax. A common raven. Wing span estimated to be a little over 1 metre. Infection present indicating a rejection of the implant. Hm.." he muttered on as he read the autopsy notes.

Confused, John asked, "Why would anyone in the world want to attempt this? What doctor would want to do that?"

Sherlock looked up. "Ah, that is the correct question. The doctor. We begin there. Call Lestrade and tell him to research any extreme cosmetic surgeons." He read the notes. "Preferably in a range from about fifty miles ranging from London based on the victim's genetic markers and particulates found on the body."

The blond came over and stood next to the detective. "Hold on a bit. There's something odd here." In the bloodied mass was a stab mark which split the skin, something faint, like a tattoo that had been recently removed. It was so faded that it was almost impossible to see. Sherlock gave John an impressed look and leaned forwards. "Molly, did you happen to pick up my magnifying glass?" he asked.

The brunette's interest piqued up and reached into her pocket, pulling out the small, black, rectangular device and handed it to him. "Thank you," he said.

The two men leaned forward. "What is that?" John asked. Sherlock took a picture of it and sent it to Lestrade. "Might want to draw that too. Molly, would you come draw this and give it to Lestrade?" She nodded and heeded his words.

At that moment, Sherlock's phone went off in the pocket of the coat. John hadn't even notice him grab it before leaving the room, nonetheless feel Sherlock slip it into his pocket. The detective looked at the screen and ignored it. Then, John's own phone began to ring after a moment. He fished it out of his trouser pocket and looked at the caller ID. It was Mycroft. The doctor rolled his eyes at Sherlock's immaturity and answered it.

"Hello, Mycroft."

"Where's Sherlock?" his voice demanded through the speaker.

"He's here, in the morgue. Don't worry."

"Where are those idiots?" Idiots? John assumed he meant the bodyguards.

"I dunno. Back at the room? Anyway, I'm watching him. I am a licensed doctor if you haven't forgotten," the blond added. He heard Mycroft sigh.

"Fine, fine. Just make sure he's back in his room. Stop running off like that!"

"Alright, alright. Goodbye Mycroft," John rushed as he hung up the phone. He turned to the lithe detective who was watching the brunette draw the faded tattoo. It looked like a pentagram with a snake eating its tail encircling the symbol. "I really wish you two would stop using me as a middleman." His words, unfortunately, fell upon deaf ears.

As the days progressed, Sherlock had reluctantly agreed to participate in a couple surgeries to debulk the mass growth and begin the mixture of radio/chemo therapy that Dr. Peters had come up with. A media storm slowly fell upon the hospital as they caught wind that their favorite detective had been checked in as a patient. Gifts from fans (all inspected by Mycroft's men for safety first, of course) flooded the room they had been moved to for more privacy. The doctor went through the flowers, candy, cards, and material possessions, musing over each one. He picked something up. "Look, Sherlock. A fan sent you an apple," he laughed. "An apple a day keeps the doctor away. Well, not me," he added and set it down on the nightstand next to Sherlock's bed. He continued to rummage through the gifts, munching on chocolate in the process, as his colleague laid on his side, still as a statue. To John, the days where Sherlock had to sit through chemotherapy were the worst. He always looked so weak and tired. If Sherlock had his way, he would've refused all treatment and just gone home to die, but Mycroft and John wouldn't have it. They forced him to go through torture just to get better. What was the point of living anyway? Sherlock didn't know, but he shut his mouth and went through it for John. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and even Donovan and Anderson occasionally made their way into the hospital for a few minutes at a time, just to see how he was doing. They never stayed long.

It was on one particular evening a few months later when John was sitting quietly reading a paper when Mrs. Holmes knocked on the door. She poked her head in and John set down the paper. "Can I help you?" he asked.

A woman with white hair nodded as she stepped inside. "Hello, dear. You must be John. I'm Mrs. Holmes. Sherlock, it's your mother," she said as she walked towards the bed. Mycroft followed her in with a sad expression. "Sherlock, dear," she said, attempting to rouse him from his thoughts. The chemicals flooding his body was taking its toll and he didn't have the strength to move. John moved the curtain to close it and helped Sherlock sit up who uncharacteristically kept quiet without saying a word. John sighed; he didn't want to humiliate his friend by letting his family witness his pain and vulnerability. As soon as he got Sherlock upright, the detective swayed a little. John repositioned the pillow behind him for support and made sure he wouldn't fall before he opened the curtain.

Mrs. Holmes sat down on the edge of the bed and brushed her son's curls. Some of it fell out and Sherlock's eyes darted downwards, but he did nothing. "Dear, it's mummy. Be a good boy and say something."

Sherlock looked at John who leaned against the window and silently asked him to make her leave with his eyes. John nodded. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Holmes, but as a doctor, I don't recommend my patient have visitors at the moment. In due time, he will be strong enough, but for now, I'm afraid I must ask you to leave."

The woman sighed and stood up. She brushed past Mycroft who walked towards his brother as she went out into the hallway. John followed her and closed the door behind him to give the siblings some room. Mrs. Holmes turned to the short veteran. "It's my fault really. I've never been around to take care of him. I really didn't know how. Sherlock was always such a special boy, but when their father died, I had to work more." She sat down on a chair and John followed suit. A team of doctors rushed by with a sick patient. Mrs. Holmes watched the people run down the hallway. "John, dear, I know we've never met, but please. Just know I love him very much. I saw him in the papers and it made me so proud, just as Mycroft makes me proud. Granted, I have no idea what Mycroft does, but nonetheless, he makes me so proud. My two boys, my two, lovely boys." She sighed. "I keep clippings, you know. Of the two of you. I feel like you are my son, too."

John didn't know what to say. How can he console a woman whose son was dying, a son who disliked her because he thought she had abandoned him? John was no fool. He knew Mycroft was his mother and his father when they grew up. How could he tell Sherlock's mother that everything would be okay when he himself clearly knew Sherlock was running out of time? Their strained relationship, years of resentment and avoidance, it couldn't be fixed before he died. The doctor pushed those thoughts out of the way.

"Mrs. Holmes, I'm sorry. Sherlock is my best friend as well as your son, so I'm sorry but I need to consider his wants before your own," he said bluntly. It was true. By loyalty to Sherlock, he had built up a little bit of resentment towards the woman who seemed as she had never cared for him a single day of her life. Sometimes, he thought, showing that you care is by staying with the other person, not providing money. What angered him though, was the fact that it took her a couple months or so to muster up the courage to face her son. What kind of mother was she?

The older woman sighed and shook her head. "I thought so. Well, I must be going. John, dear, please take care of him, will you?" She gave him one last attempt at a smile before leaving him alone in the corridor. Mycroft exited and nodded at the two new bodyguards that were in charge of watching their door.

"How is he?" John asked.

Mycroft shook his head and silently left. The blond made his way into the room. Sherlock was sitting in the same position, unmoving. "I spoke to the doctors while you were sleeping yesterday, John," he said suddenly.

The doctor gave him his full attention. "Yeah?"

"I'm going home."

John sighed again, resigned. He didn't try to fight it. As a doctor and a friend, he knew the best decision was to let Sherlock live out the remainder of his days quietly. The surgeries he went through didn't do much, but it did relieve some of the pressure off of his frontal lobe. The chemo/radio therapy wasn't working quite as well as the doctors would all have liked. Sherlock's brain had decided to die, so die it would whether Sherlock himself wanted to or not.

A few days later, they had arranged for Sherlock to be moved back to the flat. They were lucky John was a doctor as that meant the detective could be cared for 24/7. As soon as they reached their home, John helped his friend struggle up the stairs. When they got to the living room, Sherlock walked to the bookshelves and grabbed a couple of books after passing mountains of gifts given to him by his admirers and fans. He began pouring through them. "The tattoo, it was symbol of the occult. The snake on it represents a type of local cult, I'm assuming, as they turned the symbol into their own. The removal of the tattoo suggests rejection of the victim. Let's go," he said after a long period of time as he clamped the book close with a loud thud.

"Go where? Sherlock, you're sick. And we worked on that case ages ago."

"I'm fine. Lestrade's men are useless so we're going to visit some black magic shops." He stood up and began to walk down the steps as if he weren't feebly climbing them earlier. "Well, come on then. Are you staying?"

John scrambled after the detective. "Wait!" he called out.

Ding. The little bell atop the door rang as Sherlock and John entered it. The interior of the shop was almost pitch black. Weird ingredients sat in little glass jars all around the room. Books were in shelves on the sides and a multitude of candles were set on candle stands on every available surface. "Can I help you?" a dark-skinned woman asked from behind the counter with a thick accent the doctor couldn't pinpoint. Her sharp eyes landed on John and she narrowed her eyes.

John looked around as Sherlock interrogated her, holding up a picture of the symbol. She gave him an address to some place when a book caught the doctor's eye. He gently tugged it off the shelf and opened it, immersed in its reading. He flipped through the pages. Necromancy. Black magic. Ways to bring the dead back to life. Making deals with the devil in trade for your soul...

"Someone close to you is dying."

The doctor jumped at the statement and he quickly shut the book. He turned around and was face to face with the woman who was talking with Sherlock at the counter. John peered around her and found that his colleague had already exited the shop and was outside on the phone. The blond hastily put the book back. "For a price, I can teach you a spell to save his life," she said quietly. He couldn't tell if he was hinting at selling his soul or just something else, but chills ran up his spine regardless. Internally, he berated himself because for a split second, he contemplated saying yes.

"I don't believe in magic," John said firmly.

The woman gave a hearty laugh. "Oh, you say that, Mr. Watson, but you do. Deep down inside you do. Your heart, 'tis calling out. Why do you t'ink you picked that particular spell book?" She moved back towards her counter as the doctor went the opposite direction towards the exit. "Doctor," she called out, "there are such t'ings as magic. Angels, and demons, ooh, they exist; they do. Your friend there is running out of time." And with that, John opened the door and joined his partner.

"John, what took you so long? I talked to Lestrade and he already tracked down the surgeon, but the killer is still on the loose," Sherlock explained as they walked briskly down the street. The weather was getting colder as winter approached. The detective's body swayed a little as a bout of nausea rolled over his being.

"That's it for today. As your doctor, I'm ordering bedrest," the veteran commanded. He ushered Sherlock, who made no objection, into a taxi and found themselves back in the flat. "Don't you dare think about going out again," John said as he watched Sherlock wash up and climb in his bed. He got his laptop out and began tapping away.

The doctor dragged in his armchair from the living room and sat down on it.

"Go to your room," Sherlock said.

"No."

"Well, at least wash up."

"When you sleep."

Irritated, Sherlock closed his laptop with a huff, laid down. Awkwardly, he attempted to rest as John nodded off to sleep behind him. Hours went by when he glanced at his friend and laid back down. For the past few months, John hadn't rested at all. He was always at the hospital and had virtually started living there with Sherlock. In his spare time while the others were visiting, he stepped down to the clinic and helped out, even consulting on some cases in trauma. The detective sighed and let out the tension in his body.

It was hard work keeping up appearances; he was just so tired.

So tired.

His migraines came and went causing him to sweat and shake. His sleep was interrupted constantly. A bin was already within arms reach so if he had to vomit, he could do so. He was just so tired of it all. He knew he didn't have much time left.

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling and uncharacteristically gave a silent prayer in hopes that maybe somewhere out there, a higher power was listening. He prayed that he'd die soon so that they wouldn't have to suffer. That John wouldn't have to suffer. He wanted to go on one last interrogation today just like old times because he felt that soon, he wouldn't be able to move at all. He thought about the case. In his opinion, the man had joined a cult and when his body rejected the wings, the cult symbolically rejected him, forced a tattoo removal, cut the wings off and dumped him in the river after stabbing him. But that was all speculation. Death was really having its way with his thinking lately. The man had lost his wings, just like Sherlock had, and now, all he had to look forward to was a certain death. What laid beyond, he didn't know and that scared him.

He never really thought about what happened when one died. There was the obvious; his body would decompose and become nutrient for the earth unless Mycroft had him cremated. But death was slowly suffocating him with each passing day and pretty soon, he wouldn't have the strength to pretend he was ok for John. He thought back to the times when he was a child, feeling desperate and alone. His IQ hadn't allowed him to be like a 'normal' child and Mycroft was the only one who would talk to him. He thought about the day his father died and how Sherlock didn't shed a single tear, not really understanding why everyone was so sad. His father was there, and then he was not. He was never there for Sherlock, so it didn't quite matter to him as cold as that may have seemed to others.

He thought about when he and Mycroft would fight, about the day he got his first microscope. He thought about the day he became fascinated with forensic science and the first time anyone had ever called him a freak. He thought about the desperation he felt that led to his entire existence repurposing towards becoming a consulting detective. He thought about the day Mycroft left for university, leaving him alone to fend for himself. He thought about the day Lestrade had asked for his help, the day that became one of many.

And then he thought about the day he met John.

Sherlock coughed and used all his strength to roll over. He wanted water but he was too exhausted. He decided to forgo it. He was getting cold. He didn't want to suffer anymore.

Weeks later, a heavy snow began setting in. Lestrade had caught the killers (it was the cult) on Sherlock's instructions and assistance through the webcam. Christmas was nearing. He hadn't been anywhere in a long time and he longed to take a look outside. Whenever he felt like he needed fresh air, he liked to gaze up at the stars, drinking in the magnificence of nature.

"John," he called him to his room.

"What do you need, Sherlock?" he asked as he immediately appeared. He was clad in a festive jumper.

"Take me outside."

The doctor hesitated. "It's too cold."

"Just five minutes. Please."
John's heart dropped. Sherlock was never polite. "...Just five minutes. Here." He went over and helped his friend slip on his dressing gown. Sherlock stood up, shaking as John helped him lean on his shoulder and they made their way downstairs and out the door.

A cold, biting wind swept the detective and his curls rustled in the wind. He had lost quite a lot of hair, but since he refused any further treatment, it was beginning to grow back. He knew he lost this battle and thus his time was spent just waiting for Death to come take him away. He always imagined he'd greet Death like an old friend.

Sherlock sat on the steps in front of the door and stared up at the sky. His legs were stretched out in front of him and he was still wearing his slippers. Billions of twinkling stars greeted the detective who felt himself relaxing. He was content. If he died right now, that would be fine with him. He felt John sit down next to him with his hands stuck in the pockets of a jacket he had thrown on. The blond's legs were bent as his feet rested on a couple steps below where they sat.

"Brilliant, isn't it?" Sherlock said as he marvelled at the sky. The moment he opened his mouth, his breath condensed into a fog.

"Yeah," John replied as he remembered the first time he found out Sherlock loved to look at the night sky. A few moments went by, the two of them sitting in a comfortable silence as a cloud of sadness loomed over them. Snow began to drift down all around.

"John."

"Yeah?"

A long moment of silence went by.

"I'm dying."

"I know, Sherlock."

Later that night, the detective had regained some energy as he rigorously began scribbling down notes on a lined staff. He was composing a song. John sat at the table by himself out in the living room quietly eating as he listened to the bittersweet melody Sherlock was playing. Beautiful notes drifted and permeated the air with its sadness. He had refused to eat, so John left him alone. The doctor sighed as he continued his small dinner. The melody his partner played reminded him of a lullaby that one would sing to a dying child to soothe their fears. Tears threatened to escape the soldier's eyes, but he chastised himself and kept them at bay. He shouldn't be sad; he couldn't. It was Sherlock who was dying and it was John's responsibility to be strong. Sherlock wasn't sad, so why should John be? Regardless, he was glad he was eating by himself and not in Sherlock's room. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to keep his feelings in check.

Sherlock was his best friend. He was the one who gripped him and raised him out of depression and the post-traumatic stress disorder he was drowning in when he came back from Afghanistan. His family didn't understand. Harry, especially didn't understand. The people of England didn't understand. He was alone as alone could have been, but when he met Sherlock who dragged him on a journey that led him to a new world, well, he was ecstatic. He had felt life filling up his being again as adrenaline rushed through his body; a sensation he had missed since his return.

Sherlock was his guardian angel.

John stopped eating leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. It was only a matter of time before Sherlock's body gave in to the cancer. Every day was a battle they both fought. A battle of fear and trepidation.

A battle of life or death.

Weeks later, Mycroft and John were busy sipping tea as Sherlock slept. He slept longer and woke up later, his naps more frequent these days and John knew what that meant. His body was travelling closer to Death's door. It was all he could do to make sure his best friend was comfortable in the final passages of his life.

"Any idea of what we should do when...he passes?" Mycroft asked quietly as he added more sugar to his tea.

John shook his head. He hadn't even attempted to think about it.

"I'll..make the preparations," the older Holmes volunteered. John had done enough. The moment he entered Sherlock's life, he had done more than enough. Time was winding down for his brother and he was glad that his annoying baby sibling, as irritable as he was, had finally found his soulmate in the form of the veteran blond doctor. Being soulmates didn't mean a romantic love; in fact, Mycroft thought that their relationship crossed the boundary of human language. There was no way he could even begin to describe them. But he was happy for his brother and that was all that mattered. He was forever in debt to John. Mycroft sat in silence as he remembered their childhood.

"Mycroft, you're going to be a big brother," his father had said. "When the baby is born, it will be your responsibility to protect him and make sure he doesn't get hurt, do you understand me?" Mycroft, at seven years old, nodded his small head and anticipated the arrival of his new sibling.

He would never forget the day Sherlock was born.

"Mycroft, come," his mother had said as she laid on the hospital bed, exhausted from the delivery. "Sherlock, meet your older brother," the woman whispered softly as she handed the young boy a bundle of blankets. The little baby began squirming in his arms the moment his weight settled in his older brother's embrace.

"Hello, Sherlock," he said quietly as he lightly ruffled his brother's fuzzy black hair.

The day Sherlock uttered his first word was the happiest day of Mycroft's childhood. His parents were busy so it fell upon the older Holmes boy to babysit. He didn't mind, although he didn't understand why his parents thought it was a good idea to leave a young boy in charge of an infant. Regardless, Mycroft was fairly mature for his age so it wasn't a concern.

They were laying on the floor in front of the telly on a blanket. Sherlock was sitting up with a dazed look on his face. He flailed his arms at his brother who wasn't really paying attention until he heard Sherlock utter, "Mymy."

Mycroft shot up. "What did you say, Sherlock?"

The baby laughed. "Mymy!" he repeated.

It was raining the day their father died.

They were fairly young, Mycroft being only twelve. Sherlock, at five years old, had already begun to show signs of genius when he was younger.

"Why are you crying?" he asked his brother. The older Holmes sibling shook his head and wiped his tears as he tried to be strong in front of his baby brother as the rain poured down on them. They were lucky to be alive, but the accident they were just in did not leave them all survivors. Paramedics were everywhere and police cars surrounded the mangled, twisted metal that used to be their father's vehicle.

"They said...they said Father passed away. He's gone, Sherlock."

The curly-haired boy stayed silent as they stood in the harsh, cold rain out on the empty street. Mycroft was holding his hand, tightly. His head was in a bandage. Sherlock didn't say anything and just watched as his mother collapse to the dirty concrete sobbing uncontrollably as rain washed the trickling blood down her face. He didn't quite understand, but he supposed that meant his father wouldn't be there anymore. He was gone but he wasn't sure why. They had seen his father's mangled body, his cold, lifeless eyes staring at the sky before it was carried off by the men with the stretcher. Fascinated, Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away; the images of what he had seen lingered in his mind, but the concept of death was still fairly new to him. Logic dictated that if his father wasn't here, then he was somewhere else.

"Where did he go?"

Mycroft picked Sherlock up and turned away.
He didn't answer.

The older gentleman was shaken out of his thoughts when shuffling noises got louder from Sherlock's room. The two men got up to investigate. The detective was attempting to get out of bed.

"Whoa, hold on, Sherlock. What are you doing?" John asked as he quickly walked over to steady the man who had swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His face was pale and it looked as if all the energy was drained from his body. He blinked slowly. The man looked around as if he didn't recognize where he was. "Are you alright, Sherlock? Do you know where you are?" John took out a small torch (flashlight) from his pocket and checked the responses in Sherlock's eyes. Mycroft watched the scene unfold and wondered if John always kept a small torch in his pocket for his brother. The doctor placed two fingers on the man's skinny wrist to take his pulse and stared at his watch as he timed his friend's heartbeats. He nodded. "Vital signs are good."

Recognition flickered in the detective's eyes. "Sun's too bright," he said hoarsely. John looked at the curtain and realized a sliver of sunlight was pouring through. "Mycroft, could you get that?" he asked Sherlock's brother who immediately went and moved the curtain. The room was swathed in darkness. The detective sighed.

"It won't be long."

John tensed up. "Until what, Sherlock?" he asked even though he clearly knew what the man was referring to.

His question was met with silence.

"Sherlock, don't force yourself. Goodness, you've always done that ever since we were young," Mycroft told him.

Suddenly, the detective's body started convulsing and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. "Sherlock! John, what's happening?" Mycroft asked in a panic.

John immediately laid him down and hoisted him onto his side. "He's having a seizure."

"Well, what do we do? Should I phone an ambulance?"

The doctor shook his head as he hovered on the bed above his friend to make sure no harm came to him. It was just like Afghanistan. "There's nothing we can do. We just have to wait it out. At this stage, there's really no point in taking him to the hospital." The detective's body kept shaking for a few more seconds until it stopped completely. He had passed out. Cautiously, John got off the bed. Mycroft was sitting on the armchair John usually occupied. He was hunched over with his hands over his face. It was odd to see a man of such power crumbling to pieces before his eyes.

"I can't do this, John," he said as he stood up and left the flat.

Hours later Sherlock awoke. "Wha 'appen? I 'member 'fore you and Mymy..." he tried to ask before his words slurred together.

John shook his head. "You had a seizure."

Sherlock blinked and shook his head.

"Johhn."

"Yeah?"

"I'mdyin."

"I know, Sherlock."

Snow fell the hardest the day Sherlock knew it was nearing his time to go. Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft were all in the flat awkwardly waiting their chance to say good bye. John had gotten a fire going. The women were huddled around; Molly cried as Mrs. Hudson tried to comfort her, but ended up crying as well. Lestrade sat at the table with an untouched mug of tea in his hands while Anderson and Mycroft stood around, not quite looking at anything. Donovan sat still as a single silent tear made its way down. She wiped it away with the back of her finger and stood up to go to the detective's room. Anderson followed suit.

"Hey, freak," she said with a smile as her head popped around the doorframe. Said 'freak' was sitting up and leaning against the headboard. John was sitting at the foot of the bed.

"Donovan," he greeted as he watched her move towards him, sitting on the armchair John usually occupied. Anderson moved to stand next to the chair.

The sergeant tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I know we've had our differences, but get better today, okay? Christmas is around the corner," she said as she touched his ice-cold hand. Anderson gave him a nod. "Sherlock."

Sherlock tried to nod back. His speech was impaired due to the tumor.

"If you get better I'll let you gain access to crime scenes hassle-free."

Alright, his eyes read.

And with that, they left the room. Donovan buried her head in Anderson's chest and he held her as they walked away. Mrs. Hudson and Molly came in next. The landlady fussed over him. "Here, put this wet cloth on your head, dear. You're burning up."

"Sh-Sherlock. Please, get better," Molly pleaded as tears glistened in her eyes. She gave him a tearful smile. "I'm so glad I know you, Sherlock. I know I don't matter to you, but I liked you. Quite a bit, actually," she laughed.

"...Youdo."

"Do what?" she asked.

"M-matter," the detective struggled to get out, effectively causing her face to scrunch in pain. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and almost ran out of the room, sobbing.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said with a forced smile to the older woman.

"Oh, Sherlock!" She hugged him and held him for a while. "You were the best damn tennant I ever had."

The detective laughed before it turned into a cough.

"Thankkk.." he said. She left the room to fetch another blanket, or so she said, passing Lestrade who leaned against the doorframe.

"I dunno where I'll find another consulting detective," he joked.

"Joohhn."

Greg smiled. "Yes, I do, but no offense to John there," he said as he glanced at the doctor, "but I think he'd have pretty big shoes to fill. I don't think anyone ever would. I can't believe you didn't let me get you a medal or an honorary detective inspector status or something for your services."

The sick man scoffed. "Like I...need...Idiot," he got out in raspy breaths.

DI Lestrade walked over and placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He firmly squeezed it. "Thank you, Sherlock. You don't know how many lives you saved and how many identities you brought back from the grave."

The two men watched the inspector leave and then proceeded to wait for Mycroft, but it took him awhile. When he stepped through the door, John stood up and exited. "I'll leave you to your privacy," he said.

The older Holmes sat down on the armchair next to the bed. They sat in silence, not saying a word. "Sherlock," Mycroft began after a while, "do you remember the time I bought you your first microscope?"

His brother tried to smile at the memory.

"You became obsessed, putting everything under the microscope. I remember when you tried to take a sample of mum's nose hair when she was taking a nap."

They both laughed until Sherlock got into a coughing fit.

"I couldn't ask for a better baby brother. You know that."

Those words communicated all there was needed to be said. He grabbed his brother's cold hand and squeezed it. Sherlock tried to squeeze back, but energy was draining out of his body at a rapid rate. He couldn't say much anymore. Mycroft thought he saw tears welling up in his brother's eyes but didn't mention it. He turned away and let his sibling's hand go as he exited the room into the empty living room to let John give Sherlock one last once-over. He also didn't wish for his brother to see his tears.

John came in and helped Sherlock lay back down instead of sitting up. Sherlock sighed and tried to speak when the blond situated himself on the chair.

"John," he wheezed out. His breath was extremely labored at this point.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John said patiently as he checked the detective's pupillary responses and then his pulse.

"Let's...go..there.."

John felt his heart stop. Sherlock wanted to go see the stars.
"Okay." John got Mycroft to let him borrow a car.

"No, he need to rest here," the older Holmes argued.

The veteran shook his head. "We're going whether you're going to help us or not."

To that, he conceded and ordered a driver to come pick them up. "Fine, but I'm coming too." John helped the curly-haired lithe man dress and then he and Mycroft let him lean his weight on them, an arm on each shoulder. The tumor had grown to the point where he couldn't even move much by himself anymore. On second thought, John also grabbed a blanket and wrapped him tightly. The car arrived and John opened the door and laid his friend's head down onto his lap. Mycroft sat in the front seat. They rode in silence for hours with only the detective's labored breathing to accompany them until they reached the countryside.

They went to the spot where Sherlock liked to go, a clear field with nothing obscuring the view of the nighttime sky. They had found the area when they were chasing a murder suspect who had fled their interrogation. The detective was so enamoured with the magnificence of the view, he began to go there habitually as a place to help him think. Mycroft waited in the car off to the side. John laid out his coat and sat on it. Sherlock laid down on the soft grass. It was freezing, but the detective didn't feel anything.

"Joh-" he tried to get out as they looked up at the multitude of twinkling stars shining down upon them. It felt as if they were falling into the depths of the universe, something that was awe-inspiring and frightening at the same time.

"Yeah?" the doctor answered.

"I'm-I'm dyi..." he trailed off.

"Yes. Yes, I know."

Sherlock breathed heavily for a moment before trying to shove his wrist out of the blanket he was wrapped in. John furrowed his brows and grabbed whatever Sherlock was trying to give him. He pulled out the composition Sherlock had written when he had enough strength to play his violin. His friend had named it Melodiam Sequi Pulchra Mors. Underneath the title read: To John H. Watson in his beautiful script.

Sherlock used the last of his strength to raise his hand. He could almost touch the stars. John grasped it with both of his.

"Thanks..." the detective painfully whispered as a tear escaped his eye. He never cried out of emotion. He blamed it on his body's changing chemistry. The doctor was trying his best to hold in his own tears, but seeing Sherlock beginning to cry, he began sobbing. He grabbed his best friend's hand harder and held it up to his forehead as he sat on the cold ground.

"Please, don't go. Don't leave me. Don't you dare do this to me. Damn it, Sherlock," he sobbed out as he shifted to his knees, kneeling in front of his friend's body.

The detective turned his head and faced the stars.

"I'm ready," he said to no one in particular.

At that moment Mycroft left the car and walked up to them. "Sherlock, I-

-goodbye," Sherlock breathed out as the life left his body. His eyes slowly closed and his breathing slowed to a stop as did the beating of his heart.

Thump...

Thump...

Thump...

Thump.

John began to sob uncontrollably and wouldn't let go of his hand. "Sherlock?" he asked, but received no response. He stood up, panicking as he took his friend's pulse. No response. "Sherlock? SHERLOCK!" He shook the detective's body. "No! No! No! Don't do this to me! No!" he shouted uselessly and collapsed on his friend's chest. He didn't bother with resuscitation; it was his time. At least he didn't have to suffer anymore.

Mycroft turned his head away and faced the ground. The sounds of mourning drifted up towards the sky and dissipated into the snow.

"Please don't leave me alone again."

It was Christmas. While the city of London sat in their snug little homes gathered around a fire with their loved ones, John Watson swayed drunkenly in a cemetery. Before him stood a black gravestone with 'SHERLOCK HOLMES' imprinted clearly in gold across the center. They held the funeral a few days ago. In the middle of the process though, the doctor had gotten angry at the media's presence and started shouting at everyone to leave. Lestrade and Anderson had to hold him back as he struggled to break free. He wanted to smash all the cameras and punch the lights out of everyone. He hated all of them. He hated Mrs. Holmes and he hated the policemen who had come out of 'respect'.

Sherlock probably doesn't even know them, he thought.

No, didn't.

Sherlock probably didn't know who they were.

Miserable, he had gotten himself ahold of some alcohol and had somehow managed to make his way into the cemetery where his best friend had been laid to rest. He stood above the untouched snow in front of the grave marker and let out a deep sigh. His head cleared as he prepared to say his final words in privacy.

"You...you told me once...that you weren't a hero. Umm...there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human...human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so...there," he paused, letting the words linger in the air before he continued. "I was so alone... and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me."

John clutched at the cane he was leaning on in his hand. "Don't be...dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this..." John paused for a long drawn-out moment. He stood in front of the marker before he finally turned and gave him a soldier's salute. Sherlock had dismissed him and now he had to acknowledge it.

He walked around to the other side of the gravestone and sank down to the earth until his back was flush against the cold stone. His leg was throbbing so he absentmindedly rubbed it. "My best friend...is dead," he uttered to himself.

Somehow saying it aloud broke the spell he was under and he blinked several times. The stars were exceptionally bright tonight, he thought. Just for Sherlock. The doctor reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a flask that was in the same pocket as the music Sherlock had written for him. He sat in the cold and unscrewed the top. Raising to the heavens, he gave a toast. "To Sherlock Holmes...the best man I was lucky enough to ever have had the honor of knowing." He took a swig and watched a shooting star fly across the black expanse of the sky. He fancied the idea that it was his best friend's soul being set free; his guardian angel.

It...feels like the end.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," he whispered into the night air.