His Last Vow (Johnlock)

Chapter 1: The Diagnosis

A new story up! I really like this one. It has a lot of angst in it and it makes it hard for me to write sometimes lol

I honestly don't know why I write so much sadness and destruction, but I do and I probably always will at some point in all my stories.

This is an ongoing story and I hope you enjoy it.

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DISCLAIMER: I do not own BBC Sherlock, the original story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the fanart/picture. I give all credit to the original creators. I just own this story. You may not take my fanfic and use it as your own work. Thank you.

Xoxo,

Molly

Sherlock

I lean heavily against the cold chair, my legs not willing to support me any longer. They feel like jam. My stomach tosses and turns horribly, threatening me to retch. A thin layer of sweat coats my entire body. I feel cold down to my core. I'm in complete and utter shock by the news I just had the misfortune to hear.

I can't wrap my brilliant mind around it. Sherlock Holmes, master of his mind and all it contains, but I couldn't break past the wall that formed around the words I just heard.

One year. That was all they were giving my blogger. One year left of John's life and he would be gone. Snuffed from this earth and buried in the ground, never to return.

John sits there completely still. If someone were to peer in from the outside, they would think that I was the one that was dying and John was the strong wall that held me up. I wish that were the case.

I am fascinated by John's ability to keep his composure. However much John looks composed by the grave news, I can catch just a glimpse of what was really behind his mask. I can see through everyone's mask, but John has always been particularly difficult. He never ceases to amaze me on what he would do. He always surprises me. I would never let John know that of course; he'd probably laugh at me.

But right now, I stare at my blogger as he sits completely still like a statue. His arms are tightly glued to his side, hands clenched in an unmoving fist. He's in his army stance. It's how John disconnects himself from unpleasant situations. He brings up his army front and won't let anything in, but I can see a little bit of what was going on behind his tough mask. He's scared; terrified that he only had one year left on this earth, but he'd be dammed if he let anyone else see that he was like a frightened child on the inside.

The doctor was still going on about the details, but I wasn't listening anymore. I just looked at John. My blogger, observing every bit of his detail, already committing it to memory. Every now and then I'd pick up words, such as inoperable, make him comfortable, arrangements... Much to my regret as whenever these words are spoken I feel a small part of me rip open and die.

My throat tightens to a hair pin width as my body tries to betray how much the news is affecting me. I won't let it however. I will remain strong. No one will see how much this was affecting me, not even John.

You see, John has a rare and fatal brain tumour forming in cerebrum. As time progresses his mind will deteriorate. The tumour is located in a part of the brain that will affect every aspect of his cerebrum. His ability to move, vision, hearing, communication, and memory will all decline slowly over time. His emotions and personality will begin to alter as the tumour grows. He will have massive, debilitating headaches. The doctor has given him medication to help ease him through all of this, but it won't keep John alive.

As I think about the painful times that lie ahead of John and I, I hardly noticed the doctor's departure. Thus leaving the dying blogger and distraught detective alone.