A Chance To Stay Alive - Johnlock

Prologue

Sherlock was six-years-old when he had first encountered death. It had been his Grandfather, and the little boy had watched on as he had taken his last rattling breath. There had been an argument at the time, between his mother and father that now seemed so tiny and insignificant. His older brother by seven years, Mycroft, had locked himself away in his bedroom upstairs which meant that it was only Sherlock and his grandfather left alone in the living room. The two weren't close, the old man only ever visited at Christmas or if it was someone's birthday. He had been ill for some time now, lung cancer, which meant that the visits became more and more infrequent. Sherlock thought nothing of it, he was sure that his Grandfather would get better soon and that was it. However that day the boy had noticed that the man was a lot quieter than usual, a lot frailer and distant. His grandfather had sat propped up in a large armchair by the fireplace, his normal position, and had his eyes closed. Sherlock sat on the floor opposite him, a book in his hands and reading away intrigued. But suddenly there came an eerie stillness in the air and the little boy's head darted up to see his grandfather's breathing begin to change. He sprang to his feet, terrified of what was yet to happen and instinctively ran into the kitchen where his parents stood.

"Mama," he mumbled quietly, pulling on his mother's silk yellow dress.
The woman casually ignored him, focusing instead on the argument.
"Mama," Sherlock persisted, raising his voice.
"There's something wrong with Grandpa."
But there was no use. The boy never received the attention of his parents and acted almost invisible most of the time. He huffed loudly and ran back into the living room and peered over at the old man in his seat. He was limp, only uttering a few strangled breaths every now and again. Then came the last. It was as if the little boy was being dragged in as well. As if his grandfather wanted his grandson to join him. They together we're both outcasts, and more similar than they knew. Sherlock let out a terrible cry and stumbled towards the door, simply longing for his parents, or even Mycroft. But what he longed for the most was someone that cared.

••••••••

It was only a few months later, when Sherlock was seven, when they had found the lump in his left leg. It hadn't been that much of a deal at the time however it wasn't long before a hospital appointment was arranged and alarm bells started ringing. It was the first time the little boy had ever seen his mother cry in fact. In his eyes she wasn't a woman of much emotion, she dealt with things with a firm fist. He had waited patiently that morning on one of the chairs in the doctor's office, admiring all of the equipment and computers. Then out of the blue he heard a series of muffled sobs from outside, with his doctor appearing a few minutes later.
"Little boy do you know what cancer is," he had said sternly, facing the small body, a face of thunder.
Sherlock nodded solemnly.
"It's a disease," he had said limply.
"My grandpa had it."
The doctor gave a heavy sigh and put a hand on his hip.
"We're not saying it's certain," he continued.
"But cancer...yes cancer is the most likely reason."

Sherlock didn't truly understand those words, being as young as he was, the words just brushed past him. But soon reality hit him hard as treatment sessions became the norm. He suddenly became used to being crouched down next to the toilet covered in sick, or hiding away under his bedsheets with tear-stained eyes. Hospital stays grew longer and the boy's whole word had collapsed in front of him helplessly. Though a year afterwards he managed to recover, that didn't mean that he wasn't still affected. The illness had ruined his life, destroyed every part of his identity. And school rumours went flying. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes anymore he was "the boy with cancer." There were whispers and trailing eyes whenever he stepped onto the playground and he began to suffer torment from a few of his fellow classmates.

All of those events led up to the boy being pulled out of school for the year. Instead he studied from the comfort of his home, tutored by his older brother. Sherlock was a smart child anyway and breezed easily past all of the work that was set for him. Mycroft watched on with a careful eye, he cared so much for his brother even if he didn't usually show it. The years passed and by the age of twelve, Sherlock Holmes had a growing reputation of a smart arse. The fear of going back to school still haunted him and he came up with any excuse he could to stay at home in his safe place. Sherlock read many books, picked up his first violin, played around in the garden, and even taught himself ballet. But all of this was done alone, always. Because for the boy, he thrived at independence, showing no tolerance for other people.

And he was prepared to continue alone for as long as he lived, he was going to make sure of it.