Hi! I'm new here and I hope to make a good impression and a great story.

This is Pre-Reichenbach, and Reichenbach never happened in this story. Let's say Mr. Jim Moriarty got ran over or something to get rid of him.

Hope you like!

John, you need to come home - SH

Sherlock, I'm on a date - JW

This is urgent - SH

You could need a pen and say it's
urgent - JW

John, just come home - SH

You have to tell me why before I
do anything - JW

I'm dying, now will you come home? - SH

John? - SH

What? You were fine this morning - JW

I'm in a cab - JW

I'll tell you when you get here, it's
hard to explain - SH

John sighed as he read the last text, Sherlock was never going to make anything easy. He looked at the text again, what could Sherlock be dying from? Boredom? John tried to put the thoughts out of head as he continued his ride to 221B Baker Street.

When John entered the flat, he knew something was off immediately. There was no sounds, good or bad, no excited or nervous energy, just nothing. John threw off his jacket and ran up the stairs to the living room. He opened the door and stepped inside.

Sherlock was standing at the mantelpiece with a glass of whiskey in his hand. That was how John knew something serious was wrong, Sherlock never drank. The only time he had never seen the man drink was in Baskerville, and he had completely fell apart that night. "Sherlock?" he asked timidly.

Sherlock turned at the sound of John's voice, "John."

John walked towards him, stopping at his armchair, "So, what is this," he motioned to his phone and the glass of whiskey in Sherlock's hand, "about?"

"I'm dying, that's what it's about," he said simply.

John nodded his head, "Yeah, and? What are you dying from?"

The younger man took a file from the mantelpiece and handed it to John, "I went to the doctor because I was having memory problems, and this is conclusion."

John took the file and opened it, looking at the contents. "You have cancer?" he asked, hoping it wasn't true.

Sherlock nodded his head, confirming John's worst fear, "Yes. And there's nothing they can do about it, I checked, they've checked, hell, Mycroft checked. There's nothing we can do except wait until my brain forgets to how to run a body."

John swallowed. "How- how long do you have?", he asked, trying to keep his composure.

The man in question hurled his glass at the wall and sank to the floor.

"A month."