"blessed be the boys time cant capture"

"Hey."

"Mm."

"Good morning to you, too."

"Not particularly."

"Hmm?"

"A good morning."

"Why not?"

One of Sherlock's long fingers tap a file folder on the table once, sliding it forward a few inches on the table. It's a standard folder, blank, save for the three letters in bold stickers reading HOL on the tab. Likely medical, John recognises.

"It is mine," Sherlock clarifies.

John looks at him and looks at the file again.

His blood turns to ice before can even move.

It's the little things at first.

Sherlock tires easily. Maybe it's more poignant to say that he tires at all; usually so careless about rest that he ends up sprawled on his arse on a crime scene. He starts sleeping every night. Or every day. Sometimes, he's asleep for the better part of both.

The cases come as usual, but there's a certain amount of lacking fervour. Sherlock stumbles through a scene - sometimes literally - and John tries to ignore the looks they both get when he has to reach over to steady his flatmate's shoulder.

He doesn't play the violin much. When he does, the notes are low and vibrating, and they fill the flat with indiscernible emotion.

The violin falls silent, though, and Baker Street lays engulfed in the silence that comes in between cases.

The first time the Yard solves something before Sherlock does, John's nearly sure that the reason Sherlock simply snaps isn't because of actual anger towards the officers, but because whatever he keeps a lid on inside just boils forth. He isn't mad at them; he's emotional at himself. Which emotions? John can guess, but he knows he'll never know for sure.

They sit locked tight in jaol for assaulting an officer and disrupting the peace, awaiting Mycroft and Lestrade to process the paperwork. John watches Sherlock. Sherlock watches the wall.

They don't speak.

John watches as Sherlock barely dares to breathe.

Treatments last for approximately two go's.

Sherlock ends up in a rage, spitting words that are meant to be like acid but come out like molassas instead: thick and heavy. "I'm done putting that poison in my body, no more!" he says, pale and shaky as he dry heaves into a basin later.

John knows there's no brooking an argument. It's Sherlock, after all.

It's Sherlock's decision, after all.

There's a point where John starts to realise that it isn't a question of whether or not Sherlock can't or won't eat. He had lost his appetite first, and then rapidly the weight to follow, but it takes John too long to realise that it's not a choice.

Sherlock can't stomach much.

In essence, he is simply starving to death.

John can't stomach seeing his friend like this.

Not any more.

He makes a decision later that night. He knows that he'll regret it, but he knows that he'll regret it if he doesn't follow through.

Sherlock isn't sleeping when John walks into his room. He knows that, but he says nothing to break the silence. The clatter of small and white mercy clanks loudly against hard plastic as John sets the bottle down on the nightstand softly and Sherlock opens his eyes.

His gaze is dull, lacking intuition and the piercing sharpness John has come to expect of his friend. There's a flicker of curiosity, and confusion, and Sherlock's crystalline eyes flicker up to meet John's.

For a second, an eternity, their gazes lock.

Something akin to smugness blooms in Sherlock's eyes and hopelessness grows in John's. There is no going back. Not now. And they both know that.

"I went to Mycroft," he says quietly. "I knew you wouldn't."

Sherlock nods, only the slightest inclination of his head. His eyes slide out of focus and he shivers, pulling himself more tightly into the blankets.

"... Don't do it without us." John edges the words out of a too-tight throat, but turns away before he can swipe the pill bottle back. He doesn't know why he says us. He doesn't know why he leaves the pill with Sherlock.

He just does.

At the final stretch, Sherlock won't betray him like that. In the back of his mind, he knows that he leaves it with Sherlock because he trusts him - implicitly. He knows that Sherlock will hold out for him, if no one else. He doesn't acknowledge that part of his mind, because it hurts too much to think about.

"Of course not." Sherlock's voice is low and rough, pain laced through the words like the lines etched onto his face. But there's a vow in the words. Of course not.

The promise of relief goes untouched for five days.

John had only gone to Mycroft when he had recognised that it was nearly over. He sometimes thought that he knew Sherlock's tolerance better than Sherlock himself. So, he had gone to Mycroft when it had all become too much.

And Sherlock struggles on for five. more. days.

Sheer bloody minded will power.

John wakes up on the morning of the fifth day with a start. There is nothing to signal that the day is going to be different. There is nothing to signal that something has changed. But he knows, without rhyme or reason. He knows that, while he will wake up to Sherlock, he will not be going to sleep with him again.

The blow comes as a sudden shock to an already traumatised system.

When he thinks that he will never stop crying, his tears dry up. And when he thinks that he will never get out of bed again, he finds his way to his feet.

The floor is cold against his bare feet and the air bites at his damp cheeks. He makes two cups of tea and lets himself into Sherlock's room.

Sherlock is waiting for him, leaning back against the headboard. He looks more pale and sick than John has ever seen him, but there's a fire in his eyes.

"Mental telepathy," Sherlock says shortly.

John glances at him.

"It can't be real." Sherlock sips at his tea.

John would beg to differ, but he knows he's transparent. Even if he wasn't, the crippling exhaustion he's suddenly feeling surely gives him away. Sherlock may not read everything anymore, but he had always been exceptional at reading John from the start.

"I don't believe," Sherlock continues.

John wonders if they're talking about mental telepathy still. He decides that it doesn't matter, either way, and musters up a smile. "I do."

Sherlock's gaze is tired, but inspecting. It never reaches the same level of soul-searching, but it's introspective in a way that John still doesn't care for. "... I know you do," Sherlock says, and sips at his tea again.

John settles himself on the end of Sherlock's bed, nursing his cold fingers and throbbing body. It isn't his heart, per se, that aches and stings with every pulse, but it's everything: his heart, his mind, his soul. The circumstances hurt worse than John could ever think possible, and John begs the silence to let it end peacefully, because both his own pain and the pain poring from every inch of Sherlock's skin threatens to break him again.

He just sits silently as they sip at their tea, and even after, when their tea is gone and John's back aches from the way he's sitting and Sherlock's eyes slip closed even though his breathing isn't deep enough for sleep.

Sherlock doesn't say a word when his long fingers reach over to pick up the pill bottle. The way his fingers shake give too much away, though John suspects that it's moot, either sentiment or pain and he would bet on the latter.

John doesn't say anything either. He just watches numbly as Sherlock fights the lid off the pills and dumps two in his hand to chase them down with the dregs of tea that have long since gone cold. There's no sarcastic flourish and Sherlock doesn't give him a witty comment. He doesn't wait for John to say anything. The pills vanish into his mouth and are gone with a gulp.

John doesn't have words. But then, he never really has to begin with.

"I'm not scared," Sherlock says shortly, startling John in the deafening silence.

He looks at him oddly, trying to contemplate or come up with a response, or a phrase, or anything that he can say. He finds nothing. Instead, he smiles sadly and says, "I am".

Sherlock watches him for a long moment. He sinks back into the pillows slightly. "... I'm sorry."

John swallows back a noise that still manages to work its way out. His eyes sting and he closes them firmly, steeling his body from the onslaught of emotion. It still aches in a way that he isn't accustomed to feeling. "Me, too." He isn't accustomed to feeling so deeply. "Me, too." He thumbs away the couple of slight tears that had managed to escape. He can't help but laugh. "Get me started and I won't stop soon."

"That's because you're overly sentimental," Sherlock says. The spell is broken, the atmosphere relaxes - slightly. Sherlock turns away from John and settles himself back down into his pillows and blankets. His face is contemplative, but his eyes are dry. Of course he wouldn't be upset, at the end. It wasn't Sherlock.

"One of us has to be," John jokes halfheartedly.

Sherlock's lips twitch towards a smile, although he doesn't quite make it there. He tucks his arm under the pillow and sighs slightly.

John is left with the silence again. He still doesn't know what to say. He had thought about this moment, over and over, until it haunted his dreams: watching Sherlock take the pill, listening to Sherlock's last breaths, watching Sherlock leave the world - and him - behind. But even so, he can't find any to say. Goodbyes were cliché. Sherlock would tell him as much. And John can't even fathom being able to say that one tiny word to his best friend, even at the end.

"... Stay good," Sherlock says eventually.

His voice startles John out of his reverie. He looks down at the broken detective, raising his eyebrows. "Huh?"

"Stay yourself," Sherlock continues. His eyes don't open. "It's... good."

He sounds exactly like John remembers him. He doesn't sound weak or tired or sick, he doesn't sound like he's been ill for ages, and he doesn't sound like he's dying. He sounds genuine and honest, and awkward, as he always was when he tried to pay someone a compliment.

John wants to smile. He can't.

"You're good, too, Sherlock."

"Brilliant?"

"Always."

Sherlock smiles at that.

Until he doesn't. The expression smooths out from his face. So does the worry and the pain lines, until there's nothing left on his face except pure childish innocence and, soon after that, he isn't awake, or asleep; he's gone.

John doesn't burst into tears like he thought he might have. He's just left sitting there, feeling all of the hurt leaving his own body until he's just numb. Numb, and surrounded by silence, and the pieces of a life that he has to pick up.

He will. Because Sherlock would want him to. For the time being, however, John has no immediate plans to move away from his friend's side. He might not need his presence now, but John can't leave yet.

He still doesn't know what to say. There's so much that he could. But they sound petty, and flawed, and wrong for their relationship. So, he lets the silence say it for him. It was all encompassing and not uncomfortable.

Sherlock was the most important thing in his life. No... he still was. He always would be. Because he would never truly be gone, someone like Sherlock Holmes wouldn't fade away like yesterday's ghosts. And John could take hope from that.

Sherlock would be with him wherever he went. He would be by his side until the day he himself died and, whenever that day might be, Sherlock would be right there waiting for him.

John smiles weakly.

It may take awhile, but he was going to be alright.

Long title is a quote from FOB's song The Kids aren't Alright.

Well, uh, I don't know what got me started on a terminal!fic, but I started writing this a few months ago and suddenly got the inspiration to finish it last night. Their relationship is too good. I continue to be fascinated by it and, whether you're here like me, being platonic or here and being a shipper, death - in the most non-sadistic way possible - is brilliant fodder for testing the bond. I love this show, and I love these characters.

I do not own Sherlock or FOB's amazingly awesome music. Thanks for reading!