Guys, I am so, so sorry for the long delay in updating, life has just been hectic the last few weeks so I have found myself with hardly any time to spend on writing. But finally, here is the update, so I hope it was worth the wait. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed/favourited/followed this fic, you guys are so encouraging. I replied to everyone who reviewed that I could but I'd just like to thank those of you I could not reply to and let you know how much I appreciate the reviews. And to the guest who gave me a very complimentary review a couple of days ago and then told me you'd find me if I didn't update soon, your threat obviously worked! Thanks for the final push to get this finished Anyway, I'll stop rambling on and let you get on with this chapter. I hope you all enjoy it and don't forget to let me know what you think in a review!

Fragile

Chapter 19- Another course of action

Sherlock blinked his eyes blearily as he tried to pull himself back into consciousness. His body obviously did not want to cooperate but eventually he managed to win the battle. Despite this small victory Sherlock felt absolutely dreadful and what made it worse was that he knew that the worst was yet to come. He still had a pretty intense course of chemotherapy to get through and then a few weeks' worth of recuperation before he could even think of trying to restore some semblance of normalcy. With each pound of his heart a wave of deep throbbing pain spread across his body and seemed to permeate every fibre of his being, finding its way into every joint, bone and nerve. It was absolute agony. The ever present nausea gnawed aggressively at the bottom of his stomach and his lungs desperately fought to keep drawing air into his lungs. Simply lying in bed and breathing was wearing him out. He felt so weak and helpless.

The box from the game the night before lay innocently on the table next to his bed. Although he would never admit it Sherlock had enjoyed himself last night while playing cluedo with his friends. He hadn't managed to keep going that long. After half an hour his brain was too clouded for him to think properly. It had resulted in Sherlock sweeping the board on the floor with his good arm in frustration which really shouldn't have surprised John as much as it did. In Sherlock's opinion Cluedo had the potential to be a good game if it weren't for the so called 'rules'. The murderers he dealt with on a daily basis were not constrained by rules so he didn't see why a game about a murder case was also constrained by them. As far as he was concerned suicide should be a possibility.

After the game everyone had gone home except John who had stayed by his side throughout the whole night. Sherlock had woken up a number of times and each time John was there, wide awake, asking if he needed anything. His medical training was obviously kicking in giving him the ability to stay awake through the long watches of the night. Sherlock honestly could not comprehend why John was doing all he was doing for him but he was starting not to question it and merely accepting it for what it was, friendship. He definitely did not deserve John Watson but it felt nice to have someone who actually cared about him.

Early in the morning John had left to have a shower and get some sleep and he promised that either himself or someone else would be there for when Sherlock's treatment started. Soon after the doctor had left Sherlock had fallen back to sleep.

Now the detective looked around the empty room and frowned as an unfamiliar feeling welled up within him. Normally he could find comfort in solitude but now there was none, he missed the feeling of having someone by his side. The loneliness gnawed at the pit of his stomach, like a hunger, calling out desperately for some kind of human interaction. Sherlock growled in frustration, the cancer was obviously taking its toll on his body. Perhaps it had worked its way into his brain. Sherlock shook his head vehemently, determined to get that thought out of his mind. It was bad enough that his transport had been weakened as much as it had, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to cope if it started damaging his mind.

He needed a cigarette, he could feel himself getting worked up and that was the best way to force himself to relax. One of the nurses had cigarettes and a lighter in her pocket; she came in every half hour to check on his catheter. It would be easy to sneak them out of her pocket the next time she came in. Until then he decided he could have a quick nap, he had nothing better to do.

As it turned out it was even easier to nick the cigarettes and lighter than he had anticipated. He swiped them out of her pocket while she diligently wrote down notes on the clipboard. She soon asked Sherlock if he needed anything and then left again.

Every fibre of Sherlock's being wanted to go and stand outside and have his cigarette but he knew that the likelihood of him making it that far by himself was slim to none let alone making the journey back to his room too. If he did that and John came back while he was out he was pretty sure there would be hell to pay. The doctor would probably insist on Lestrade handcuffing Sherlock to the bed and in his current state there was very little that Sherlock would be able to do to stop that happening. He could always ask a nurse to take him out but he was pretty sure that they wouldn't let him smoke given his current condition. The detective was slightly tempted to smoke there and then in the bed and deal with the legal ramifications of smoking in a hospital later but the oxygen canister sat ominously next to his bed and he wasn't foolish enough to light up next to that. There was one more option, the window opened pretty far; it would be relatively easy to lean out so as to not set off any alarms. So long as he remained undisturbed everything would be fine.

Slowly, so as not to make himself dizzy, Sherlock sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He unhooked the catheter bag from the side of the bed and hung it on the lowest hook on the IV stand. The wheels on the stand squeaked loudly as he gradually made his way over to the other side of the room, one had gripping tightly to the stand and the other hanging uselessly in the sling.

The doctor's had assured him that once the next round of treatment had started he should regain the use of his arm pretty quickly, it was possible that he would start noticing a difference after a matter of hours. Sherlock certainly hoped that was the case, he was sick of only having one arm. His useless one was broken but he didn't care, all he wanted was to regain movement in it. His biggest fear was that the damage was permanent and that he would not be able to play his violin. Just thinking about his violin made him long for the touch of the smooth wood under his fingertips and the way the bow seemed to flow seamlessly across the strings. The sensation was just as soothing to him as the notes the instrument emitted. He was sure that the hospital wouldn't want him playing the thing but perhaps he could hold it and pluck at the strings; even that seemed to calm him and help him focus. He should ask John to bring it over to the hospital for him.

There was no point in thinking about that, John was probably tucked up in bed, fast asleep in 221b. Just thinking about Baker Street sent a pang of yearning straight through the detective's heart. He shoved the feeling down; he wasn't getting home for another fortnight at least so there was no point in dwelling on it. All he had to be thinking about was the packet of cigarettes in his hand and the temporary relief they would provide.

Once he reached the window he shoved it open, which required more than a little brute force. He sat himself down uncomfortably on the narrow window sill and placed a cigarette between his narrow, pale lips. With trembling hands he lifted the lighter to the end and it quickly caught. Relief quickly flowed through Sherlock and his whole body relaxed and he sighed with relief. He could already feel that his lungs were not going to thank him for this treatment but he was well beyond caring. Almost reverently he took another deep breath and felt his body relax even more, he couldn't help but commend the nurse on her cigarette choice.

Suddenly a voice pierced through the silence of the room which caused Sherlock's whole body to tense up once again. "You do know it is illegal to smoke in hospitals," Mycroft commented nonchalantly as he closed the door carefully behind him.

"It's a good job you're not Lestrade then," Sherlock replied after taking another drag. "You'd have to arrest me." In response Mycroft rolled his eyes but wandered across the room to stand at his little brother's side. "Why are you here Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded.

"My little brother is ill, why do you think I am here?"

"Well if you just wanted to know how I am you would have sent one of the idiots who work for you to come and check on me so I have no idea."

The elder Holmes sighed long-sufferingly. "As a matter of fact I wanted to come and see you personally, partly to see how you are doing and partly to let you know that I am a match."

"What?" Sherlock asked, his face bearing an expression of complete bewilderment.

"My bone marrow is compatible with yours. This gives you a much greater chance of survival."

"Why are you giving me your bone marrow?" Sherlock demanded, raising bewildered eyes to meet his brother's gaze. In response Mycroft sighed long-sufferingly, Sherlock truly believed that Mycroft hated him which was far from the truth. Sure, Sherlock irritated him but significantly less than the rest of the world did. The elder Holmes did everything within his power to ensure his little brother's safety but Sherlock did not always like that, in fact Mycroft could not think of a single time that he had be grateful for it.

"This bone marrow could very well save your life Sherlock. I know you think I hate you but this is not the case. I want you to survive and if this transplant could save you then this transplant will happen."

"What if I don't give my consent?" Sherlock asked obstinately and Mycroft internally groaned at his stubbornness.

"You know I'll make sure it happens so there is no point in you fighting. The only reason you wouldn't give consent is out of pride. Don't be an idiot Sherlock." Sherlock looked his brother up and down, glaring, and took another drag from his cigarette. Irritated by his brother's behaviour Mycroft grabbed the cigarette from Sherlock's claw-like fingers, stubbed it out on the window sill and then chucked it out of the window.

"You've got enough trouble getting oxygen around your body, smoking is not a good idea right now," Mycroft stated in response to Sherlock's icy glare. "Anyway, I imagine John probably would not be impressed if he came back to find you smoking."

"John isn't going to be back here for at least another couple of hours," Sherlock responded with a growl.

"Just get into bed Sherlock, today is going to be hard going for you and you're already looking exhausted."

The younger Holmes narrowed his eyes in suspicion at his brother; if he didn't know better he'd say his brother actually cared. Of course he did know better, Mycroft must have some sort of angle. "What do you want out of this? Sherlock asked, hearing the weariness in his voice. His body was beginning to struggle already and he knew his brain would quickly follow in its path.

"What are you on about?" Mycroft asked, looking utterly bewildered. It was not a look Sherlock had ever seen on his brother's features and it threw him completely off balance, both literally and figuratively.

Mycroft had surprisingly quick reflexes and managed to catch his sick brother as he began to topple to the floor. "Come on little brother, I think it's time for you to go back to bed." The two of them slowly walked away from the window, Sherlock leaning heavily against Mycroft's body. The detective didn't so much as utter a single complaint which caused a small frown to crease Mycroft's brow, he'd expect Sherlock to be causing an awful fuss and fighting to get Mycroft off him. Instead he remained silent except for the wheezing which escaped his lungs. The man needed to be back on the oxygen; that much was clear. The floor stretched out ominously before them and they didn't seem to be getting any closer and for a moment Mycroft was worried they wouldn't make it all the way. Sherlock may be beyond skinny but he was tall and therefore was not a light burden. Eventually they both made it without incident and Sherlock dropped heavily onto the bed, gasping pitifully for breath. Silently Mycroft pressed the call button and a nurse appeared out of nowhere and quietly placed the oxygen mask over Sherlock's nose and mouth. The man didn't even notice because he was already fast asleep.

"Mr Holmes, I'm really sorry but I need you to wake up now," the voice resonated above him. Sherlock groaned as the sound tore through his head causing it to throb. He wanted to sleep, why weren't they letting him sleep? Next there was a hand on his shoulder shaking him gently. "Come on Mr Holmes, I won't keep you awake for long. Sleeping is the best thing for you."

"Was 'sleep," he mumbled almost incoherently as he pried his eyes open.

"I know, I'm sorry but we need you awake."

"We're about to start the new treatment." Sherlock turned his head to the side to see Mycroft sitting in the chair next to the bed; he was surprised to see his brother here. The detective had been convinced that Mycroft would have left as soon as he could. There was a pang of disappointment when he saw John was not there, he'd really wanted John to be there when he started the new treatment. He'd have to manage though, it was pathetic that he was relying on the doctor so much, he was an adult so he should be able to handle things like that without someone there holding his hand.

He rolled his head back so he was looking at Dr Janssen who was standing next to the bed, he bore a concerned expression. "Do you want to wait for Dr Watson to come back before we start this?" he asked, seemingly reading Sherlock's mind. The detective looked behind Dr Janssen to see Dr Harrison standing there holding a bag which contained the poison they were going to pump into his veins and hopefully cure him. She was looking angry at the suggestion of waiting and Sherlock was tempted to tell them to wait just to annoy her. However he did not want to annoy her because who knew what she would leak to the press if she did that and after seeing Moriarty he was now helpless to do anything about it, at least until he had regained some of his mental capacity.

"No, let's get this over with," he rasped and Dr Janssen nodded. Dr Harrison stepped forwards wordlessly and began hanging the bag and connecting various tubes.

"Ok," Dr Janssen started saying why Dr Harrison carried out her task. "As you've been told before these drugs are pretty strong and have some pretty nasty side effects. The likelihood is whatever happens we will keep you on them but some of the side effects are potentially life threatening. If you feel anything which doesn't feel quite right you need to let us know so we can fix it before it becomes too dangerous. Understand?" Sherlock nodded with his eyelids drooping. His brain was still half asleep and his body was quickly following suit.

His eyelids seemed reluctant to open, as if there were weights hanging off them forbidding him from opening his eyes. Waking up was hard for him these days, falling asleep always used to be such a battle for him but now it seemed as if that was all he was actually good at. He forced himself to pry open his weary eyes. Everything around him seemed hazy and slightly out of reach, as if he himself weren't actually in the room but everything was just a projection around him. It was unnerving to say the least.

There was someone sitting next to the bed and Sherlock blinked his eyes a few times to force them to focus. At first he'd thought that Mycroft was still sitting in the room with him but as soon as his eyes focussed he realised it was Moriarty. He too seemed far away, sitting there reading a book and dressed in a well-fitted and stylish suit. Sherlock wasn't even sure that if he spoke that the consulting criminal would hear him.

It was at that moment that Moriarty looked up from the book he was reading and made eye contact with Sherlock. He grinned a shark-like grin and Sherlock could have sworn that there was blood dripping from the man's pearly white teeth. Smoothly Moriarty closed the book and stood up, making his way to Sherlock's bed and gently caressed his cheek. Despite the physical contact the detective still felt completely detached from everything around him including Moriarty. A shudder ran up Sherlock's spine but he was helpless to pull away from the touch. There was no choice but to stay lying there and follow the madman with his eyes.

"I am so sorry Sherlock, but I had no choice," he gently cooed. That more than anything set Sherlock on edge. "You just kept on prying; trying to expose me and it was the only way to make sure you stopped."

"Didn't," Sherlock choked, finding that his vocal chords weren't working properly. He didn't know what Moriarty was on about but he knew he was not going to like it.

"I am sorry Sherlock, just stop prying and everyone else will be safe." Sherlock lay there, utterly confused for a few seconds when his eyes zeroed in on the open cupboard door in the side of his room. He felt bile rise up in his oesophagus and he sat up so quickly his head started spinning. He was doubled over as painful heaves took over his fragile body and Moriarty rubbed what were supposed to be reassuring circles into Sherlock's back. His touch was not reassuring but rather sickening, leaving a deep ache in the pit of the detective's stomach.

As Sherlock's body continued to abuse him he turned his head back towards the cupboard and gazed with tear filled eyes back at what had caused him such distress. John was laying there, stone cold. His body was the only clear thing in the room, the only thing which felt real. Moriarty had obviously murdered him then shoved him inside and the door had fallen open. John's cold, unseeing eyes stared blankly at Sherlock. His skin was a dusky grey and nothing of the man he had once been remained in that empty shell. Moriarty had taken it all away, destroyed the good man he had once been.

Sherlock was helpless to stop the loud sobs which escaped his lips and the tears which dropped from his eyes onto the bed mixing with the bile and forming a foul concoction. "It's alright Sherlock," he heard Moriarty whispering next to him. "You just need to calm down and open your eyes." The bitter sadness was momentarily replaced with an intense, burning anger and Sherlock turned and punched Moriarty with a strength he had not possessed in a long time. There was a satisfying crunch as Sherlock's fist crushed cartilage in the Irishman's nose. The man recoiled violently, holding his nose as blood spurted out between his fingers. Pain flooded through his hand causing the whole room to change around him, he fell back into the bed as the adrenaline began to wear off and reality started to catch up with him.

John arrived at the hospital soon after Sherlock's treatment was started, he was disappointed to have not been there when it did happen but by the sounds of things Sherlock had barely even been conscious. He was now fast asleep so John was sitting in the chair next to his bed, half reading the newspaper and half watching the toxic concoction dripping slowly into Sherlock's blood. Mycroft was sitting by the window rapidly typing on his phone. Apparently he'd taken a couple of days off work so he could spend time with Sherlock but John suspected that everything was just getting relayed via Anthea.

There was an audible grunt from the bed and John was instantly on alert, Mycroft had stopped texting and his eyes were fixed on his little brother. For a few moments there was silence and Sherlock exhibited no signs of distress. The doctor was about to go back to reading the paper when there was another grunt and then, with hardly any warning, Sherlock shot upright in the bed. His eyes were wide and bloodshot and his body started trying to violently purge the man of all the bile in his stomach. There was nothing else there to come up. Mycroft didn't move knowing Sherlock would not want him to see him like that. Instead John moved quickly to his side and began rubbing circles into Sherlock's back. He had no idea if it was the best thing to do but he hadn't got any other ideas.

There was another noise, something John had never heard come from Sherlock before and something he had never expected to hear. Sherlock sobbed, not just once but over and over again. It was a broken sound, the sound of a man who had been forced to endure far too much and had reached the end of his tether. By this point John was fairly sure Sherlock was awake, nobody could possibly sleep through the violent heaves of the vomiting and the heart-breaking sobbing that Sherlock was going through. "It's alright Sherlock," John said kindly. It looked as if the dry heaving had stopped leaving just the crying for Sherlock to contend with. "You just need to calm down and open your eyes."

Suddenly Sherlock stopped crying and John took his hand off the man's back, confused at the abrupt change in demeanour. One moment he was looking to see of Sherlock was ok and the next there was an explosion of pain in his face. There was blood pouring everywhere and John recoiled, holding his nose and tripping over the chair behind him. He landed on the floor with a bang but he hardly noticed as he tried to ignore the pain and stem the flow of blood at the same time. In the background he was vaguely aware of the usually composed Mycroft shouting for help and then a nurse pressing wads of tissue into his nose. All the while his eyes had been focussed on Sherlock. Mycroft was standing next to the detective, trying to talk to him, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice. The man looked sick, terrified and completely confused. He wanted to tell Sherlock he'd be ok but he couldn't. All he wanted to do was comfort his friend but he was quickly whisked out of the room so the staff could fix his nose.

This left Sherlock, sitting on his bed, feeling incredibly alone despite his brother being next to him and a couple of nurses fussing about him. He could not believe that he had done that to his friend. If John wasn't going to leave before he certainly was going to be now, who wanted to be around someone might attack them at any moment. There was no way John was going to be sticking around now. His hand was throbbing from where he had hit his hand but he hardly even noticed, he'd thought in passing that he hoped he had not broken one of his fingers but beyond that he didn't give it a thought. He flinched as one of the nurses encased his hand in an icepack.

He could feel Mycroft standing next to him and watching over his shoulder and Sherlock wished he would just leave. He knew his brother was trying to be supportive but the detective found Mycroft's company neither reassuring nor comforting. In fact all it served to do was stress him out even more since he hated Mycroft, who always seemed so strong and in control, seeing him so weak and dependent on others. He was just about getting used to John seeing him like that but that was irrelevant now, there was no way John was coming back. Sherlock had given him the perfect excuse to get away. John was a good man, he could help people who would appreciate it more than him and deserved it more than he did. Before, all Sherlock had was his mind, people may not have liked him but they had to listen to him because he was almost always right. He'd had a use and a purpose but as his transport began to degrade it took his mind with it and now he was useless and there was no reason John should have to sit there and witness it as it progressed. At least it would mean Moriarty wouldn't be able to use the army doctor as a way of coercing him into doing anything.

Despite being able to rationalise it in his mind the thought of losing John hurt Sherlock. The thought of living life without the faithful doctor there seemed bleak and more effort than it was worth. He could feel his heart beginning to pound in his chest and his head started to become light as his breathing became more laboured. He was aware of people talking to him but he neither desired nor was capable of listening to them. All he could think of was John leaving and that thought terrified him.

Dr Janssen was standing outside and instantly took over from the nurse and guided John over to a chair. The blood was still gushing out of his nose but thankfully a nurse appeared with arms full of gauze. "John, I need you to tip your head forwards slightly and keep this pressed onto it," he instructed as he quickly switched from the tissue to the gauze. John did as he was instructed. As much as the punch hurt he didn't really care about the fact that he was in pain. What had sent his mind reeling was the terrified look Sherlock wore after all hell had broken loose. He'd looked petrified and that is what worried him. His nose would recover; he wasn't so sure about Sherlock.

John winced as a bright light flashed in his eyes and he let out a deep growl of frustration. "I'm not concussed," he said more aggressively than he'd intended, thankfully Dr Janssen didn't seem to mind.

"I just wanted to check, he did seem to get you at just the wrong angle. I want to get you in for an x-ray to be safe. I don't think there are any dislodged bones or anything but it is worth having a look." John nodded, he didn't think he needed one either but if it had been Sherlock who had been punched he would make the man get it checked out. Dr Janssen sat back and observed John thoughtfully as he kept the gauze clamped firmly over his nose. "What the hell happened in there?" he asked eventually.

In response John shrugged. "I don't really know," he admitted, his voice coming out thick and nasally. "He was sleeping and he was having a nightmare. I think he woke up and started vomiting and he was crying; I had no idea what to do. I tried to comfort him but he punched me. I think he was hallucinating, or he might have still been dreaming. I don't know," John finally said with a mutter and Dr Janssen sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I get the impression that he never makes anything easy," Dr Janssen commented and John snorted and winced as that made his nose throb even more.

"Dr Janssen, he's having a panic attack and we can't get through to him," a flustered looking nurse said, appearing next to him from nowhere.

"How's his O2 saturation looking?" he asked.

"Acceptable for now but it's not going to stay that way for much longer."

"I need to go and talk to him," John mumbled, moving to stand up but Dr Janssen put his hand firmly on John's shoulder.

"No, we need to sort your nose first. Give him two milligrams of lorazepam, that should be enough to help him relax but shouldn't knock him straight out. If it doesn't work let me know, I'll be down in radiology."

Lestrade was staring at the mass of paper in front of him. His brain had long since stopped working and he had been looking blankly at the writing for the past half hour without taking in any of the information. It was a tricky case made even harder by the fact Sherlock was not available to call them all idiots and then reveal some critical piece of information. The DI sighed and rubbed his face vigorously with his hands to try and wake himself up. Just as he stood up to fetch himself a cup of coffee the phone started ringing with a shrill sound causing Lestrade to wince as it pierced the still air. He didn't recognise the number calling him; he wanted to ignore it and go to get his coffee but quickly decided who should at least see who it was.

"Hello, this is DI Lestrade," he answered cautiously, feeling slightly uneasy about the whole situation.

"Hello Mr Lestrade, I'm calling on behalf of Dr Watson about Mr Holmes." That statement had Lestrade flying across the room to grab his coat, there was definitely something wrong.

"What's wrong?" he demanded, trying to get the coat on without letting go of the phone.

"Mr Holmes hit Dr Watson after he woke from a nightmare; he was unaware of what was going on around him. Dr Watson needs to go down to get an x-ray but there is a long wait down there. He wanted someone other than his brother to be there when Mr Holmes woke up."

"Yes, of course," Lestrade answered as he slammed the door behind him. He'd taken the files from his office; he could do the work at the hospital while he was waiting for Sherlock to come around. "I'll be there as quick as I can."

Lestrade shoved his mobile into his pocket and practically sprinted down the corridors of New Scotland Yard in his haste to check if his friends were ok. His mad dash was abruptly stopped when a bewildered looking Sally Donovan stepped out in front of him. "Everything ok Sir?" she asked curiously.

"I'm not sure; I need to get to the hospital to check on Sherlock."

"I'll go with you," she stated, nodding her head as she did so. "I've not seen him for a while and I've finished up here."

"No, I don't think that is a good idea. I'm not sure he'll be able to cope with you being there at the moment. No offence," he added as an afterthought and she shrugged to indicate she knew what he meant. "I'll give you a ring when I see him to let you know how he is and if he'll be alright with seeing you." In response she nodded and stepped out of the DI's way so he could continue his sprint down the hall.

Lestrade opened the door into Sherlock's room slowly and quietly and smiled when he saw Sherlock fast asleep. Seeing him asleep was nice, when the man was awake his face was always slightly contorted with pain as the cancer assaulted his nerve endings. When he was asleep it seemed to ease the aches which plagued him while he was awake. Mycroft was sitting next to the window, phone in hand. When Lestrade walked in the elder Holmes glanced up briefly from whatever he was typing but he didn't look at all surprised that he was there so he suspected Mycroft's assistant had been watching him.

Lestrade strode as silently as he could to Sherlock's bed and sat down in his usual seat and took a few moments to properly look at the detective. The only way to describe the way the young man looked was sick which was unsurprising really considering what the man had been through. Without thinking about it Lestrade stretched out his hand and started running it through Sherlock's brittle hair. He wasn't sure if he was doing it more for his own or Sherlock's benefit, all he knew was that it felt right. For a few minutes he sat there simply doing that until he realised that something simply did not feel right. He looked at his hand and he felt his heart drop into his stomach and he could feel Mycroft's gaze burning into him. A massive clump of Sherlock's curls lay innocently on the pillow and between his fingers. For once Lestrade had no idea what to do, he found himself stuck there staring and unable to do anything more than that.