Dying Isn't An Option, My Dear [Sheriarty]

"Shit, shit, shit, bugger, fuck" were the words that John Watson had currently been reduced to as his flatmate lay on the floor, writhing in pain.

Sherlock coughs, spit running down the side of his mouth as his eyes roll back. John kicks the bottle of pills away from Sherlock's hand as he dials an ambulance. He may be a doctor but there was no way he was leaving Sherlock's health purely down to what he could do here in the flat.

John explains things in a rush down the phone before he pulls Sherlock into a sitting position, allowing the phone to fall to the floor. Without much second thought John tilts Sherlock forward and shoves his fingers down the man's throat.

In no time, Sherlock is retching up the contents of his stomach.

"J-Jim..." Sherlock coughs the word between emptying his stomach onto the living room floor.

John frowns, wondering why on Earth that was the name on Sherlock's lips, as he rubs the man's back and lets him get it all out. He doesn't even make a face as the detective continues to vomit everywhere. It's hardly pleasant but it needs to be done. John couldn't simply wait and hope pumping his stomach was enough.

There's footsteps hurrying up the stairs just as Sherlock stops being sick and scoots away from the mess in disgust.

He rolls over so he's spread over the floor in much the same way as John found him. His eyes are screwed shut and his chest is moving rapidly. John throws a near destroyed old blanket over the vomit, not wanting to see or smell it and in no position to clean it just yet.

John was expecting to see paramedics rushing through the door but much to his surprise when he looks up he sees James Moriarty stood in the doorway, eyes focused on Sherlock.

John can't bring himself to move until Moriarty has stepped in the room and is making his way to Sherlock. John automatically throws himself between the two, glaring at the criminal as he does.

"You just stay away.." He warns.

Jim glares at John, as if he were an annoying fly that he really did not have time for right now.

Then Sherlock is lifting a shaking hand. "Jim..." He whispers, voice hoarse.

Jim's expression softens immediately as he sinks down to Sherlock's side, taking the outstretched hand in his. John was too shocked to do anything other than stare.

Slowly, Jim raised the hand to his own cheeks, quickly turning his head to place a kiss on his palm.

"Oh, Sherlock..." He whispered the words, voice heavy with emotion.

"Jim.. I.. I'm dying.." Sherlock opens his eyes, meeting Jim's for a second before they fall closed again.

Jim shakes his head, a pained laugh escaping him. "Dying isn't an option, my dear"

Sherlock manages a faint smile but he's obviously still weak. "Sadly, it is"

John was very confused by this point, naturally, but didn't question it. Sherlock would be okay, his mind reasoned against Sherlock's own words, the ambulance was on the way and they'd have his stomach pumped within the hour. He may not even need his stomach pumping, seeing as he'd emptied in onto their floor already but better safe than sorry.

"No, Sherlock" Jim spoke sternly. "John saved you, again. You're going to be fine. Help's on it's way"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Not that, Jim.. It's.. It's.. Cancer. Lung Cancer"

It's almost violent how quickly a sob takes over Jim's body. He leans down, shaking his head repeatedly until his forehead is against Sherlock's.

"Why didn't you say anything? You silly man, you never tell me anything..." Jim whimpers again, feeling his heart crumble as he held onto the man he loved.