A Chance To Stay Alive - Johnlock

16) The Diagnosis

John sat silently in the hospital waiting room; his face grey and tear-stained. He sat slumped back against his seat whilst the nurses occasionally rushed past in a mad flurry. The blonde boy held a tissue to his nose to wipe away the dry blood before letting out an exhausted sigh. It was easily past midnight now and John longed for peaceful sleep. He had been crying when the ambulance had taken his best friend away and right now he was on the verge of doing so again. It had all happened so quickly. Sherlock had collapsed to the ground without notice and John's immediate reaction was that the curly-haired boy had been shot. In a mad panic he had phoned an ambulance and waited with Sherlock until they arrived, fat tears rolling miserably down his cheeks. The paramedics had directed John into the waiting room where he sat unwillingly whereas Sherlock had been rushed into surgery. There was nobody else in the room, and it had a rather eerie feel about it. Reluctantly, John picked up a magazine from the side and began to flick through it, trying to find anything to take his mind off of current events.

The blonde boy only looked up when he heard the sound of footsteps coming towards him. He turned his gaze upwards to see a young nurse in front of him, her dark lips pursed and her wispy hair tied back in a tight bun.
"Mr Watson?" She asked calmly, watching as John gave a limp nod.
"Mr Holmes will need to stay the night while we run some tests. He's recovering at the moment but you're welcome to pop in quickly."
The short man anxiously followed the woman down the pristine corridor, struggling to keep up with her.
"But how is he?" John persisted.
"Is he okay? Is he hurt?"
The nurse didn't reply immediately, she kept her eyes fixed on the front.
"We don't know anything yet," she explained sharply, leading John into a side room and pushing open the door. John at once made his way past the nurse and over to Sherlock's bedside, his heart racing.

"S-Sherlock!" John cried, crouching down next to his best friend's bed. The curly-haired boy lay limply under the covers, his eyes barely open and the sound of his slow breathing filled the room, accompanied by the beeping of the machines. He watched the boy for a moment, his eyes filling with silent tears.
"I-I though you'd been shot!" John continued shakily.
"I was terrified!"
Sherlock carefully propped himself up and for a moment their eyes met.
"Apologies John," he mumbled quietly, his voice hoarse and almost inaudible. John watched Sherlock his face pained with tears rolling down his cheeks.
"Are you okay?" The curly-haired boy continued, nodding towards his roommate's face.
"It looked like Sebastian hurt you quite a bit."
The blonde boy merely shook his head.
"I'm fine," he sighed, taking a seat besides Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock gave a small nod and slumped back down in his bed, wincing a little. Just at that moment, the same nurse from before bustled inside, eyeing John for a moment.
"Sorry Mr Watson but your friend here needs some rest now, it's getting late."
Reluctantly, the blonde boy got to his feet and hovered over Sherlock's bed, giving him a quick hug before stepping back.
"I'll be back tomorrow," he promised the curly-haired boy.
He managed a weak smile before following the nurse out of the room towards the entrance; leaving the boy left all alone.

•••••••••••••

The ward was completely silent as a young Sherlock bolted upright in his bed, trembling violently. He let out a small cry before collapsing against the bedpost, clutching to the duvet for support. Another nightmare; the same one all over again. The curly-haired boy had been playing pirates with Redbeard until all of a sudden Redbeard had disappeared and instead an ominous figure was making it's way towards him. That figure being Death. He would hold out a skeletal hand to produce a sand timer, watching as the seconds began to ebb away until soon nothing remained. Death was inevitable. His brother Mycroft had always told him that; something unusual to say to a seven-year-old indeed.
"We all die in the end Sherlock," the teenager would persist to his younger brother.

And after each nightmare the same scenario would always play out. He would wake up screaming, thrashing around in his bed an crying: because little Sherlock Holmes had always been afraid of death. At once, Nurse Evergreen fled into the room, rushing over to the boy's bedside and pulling him into a warm hug.
"Same dream?" She asked in a soothing tone, clutching to Sherlock.
The curly-haired boy sniffled slightly and gave a small nod, his head resting against her chest. The nurse got to her feet and nodded sympathetically, deciding to get a hot water bottle and a cuddly toy - the hospital always kept toys for the younger patients, something to help calm them. She decided eventually on a stuffed otter, agreeing that it was the cutest, before passing it over to Sherlock. The young boy cradled it in his arms for a moment before gazing up at the nurse with big, watery, blue eyes.
"Thank you."

•••••••••••••

The next morning Sherlock sat silently in his bed, prodding at the bowl of porridge before him distastefully with a spoon. A couple of drips had been attached to his arm overnight and he had changed into a suitable hospital gown. The curly-haired boy pushed his bowl over to one side before leaning back against his pillow, listening to the gentle whir of the machines beside him. There was a small tap on the door before a nurse strode into the room, making her way over to Sherlock's bed and collecting his un-eaten breakfast. The curly-haired boy watched her for a moment and she stopped at the foot of his bed.
"Doctor Holland would like a word with you I'm afraid," the woman explained gravely.
"I'll send him in in a moment."

Sherlock watched her leave before giving a small sigh. All along he had expected the news, and it wouldn't come as a great shock to him. He ran his bony fingers through his hair before the door opened once again; revealing a tall, young man with mousy hair and stubble across his chin. He held a clipboard in his hand and his expression was solemn.
"Doctor Holland," the man announced, holding out a hand.
Sherlock politely took it before slumping back in his bed, watching the man closely.
"Do I know you?" The curly-haired boy asked curtly, a small frown creased on his face.
"Only I recognise your features."
Doctor Holland took a seat swiftly on the chair next to Sherlock's bed and nodded.
"You probably do," he explained calmly. The man only looked around twenty five so it was very unlikely that they had met before.
"My whole family's life has revolved around the hospital, ever since my grandmother Nora-"
"Evergreen."
Sherlock finished the doctor's sentence, his eyes lighting up at the sound of his own voice. Of course. Nora Evergreen; his childhood nurse. The face looked familiar.

Doctor Holland managed a small chuckle before leaning back in his chair.
"That's right," he explained softly, clicking the end of his pen against his notepad. Sherlock pursed his lips slightly, now intrigued.
"Is she still alive?"
A small smile tugged at the other man's lips as he nodded defiantly.
"Still going strong," he agreed simply, putting down his notepad and clapping his hands.
"She's nearly ninety bless her. She's been in a wheelchair for a few years now but my god she's still full of energy."
This caused the curly-haired boy to give a foolish grin. He had always had fond memories of the nurse; she was the one who had made his hospital stay much better.
"But Sherlock I'm afraid I've got a more serious matter," Evergreen's grandson continued, his face becoming solemn and almost distressed.
"We've looked at the tests. I'm sorry."

Sherlock sat up quickly in his place, sighing heavily on display as he tried not to make eye contact with the man.
"But we've found a bone tumour."