He can't be dying

Sherlock can't be sick!

6 months later
221b
1:45pm

  Holmes has gotten worse. More coughing, more blood. But he's still going. Powering through and working on cases and his experiments. He's a very strong person, I always knew that but I think he's trying harder not to give in for me. I appreciate that but I don't want him pushing himself and doing things he would normally do just to make me feel better.

  "*Cough!Cough!* Why do you think he would murder his wife, Watson?" Holmes asks me as I organise my medical bag for my next client. "Well -" I turn to face him. "It's not for money, he's already rich and she didn't cheat on him, that we know of . . . . I say black male. She did know a lot about his company, many she threatened to expose some of it to get what she wants." I suggest. "But what did she want?" "I don't know. Don't worry. I know you'll figure it out." I grin at him then turn around.

  Once I finish gathering my medical equipment I get ready to leave. I hate leaving. Absolutely hate it, but I have to. I have to tend to my duties as a doctor and help my patients. But once he's near the end I . . . . I won't work. I will stay by his side till the VERY end. I still can't wrap my head around losing my dearest friend. He's like a brother to me. I can't lose him. I cant?!

  "Holmes." I say softly, with a frown. "I'm sorry, but I have to go tend to a patient. Shes not too far, just two blocks down. I should be back around 3:30pm." He nods his head. "Alright. Good luck Watson. *Cough!*." He grin up at me. I smile back. "Thank you. I'll see you later. Mrs. Hudson is here if you need anything." I remind him. "Yes, Watson, I know. Don't worry." He assures me, with a hint of annoyance, but he emediately looks guilty afterwards.

"Please don't worry." He says quieter this time. I nod my head. "Okay." I give him a small smile, then exit the room. He hates it when I worry about him, but I can't help it. This is hard on both of us.

1:55pm
Mrs. Hudson (P.O.V)

  I still can't believe Sherlock is so I'll. Tuberculosis. What a horrible way to die. He can't die! Yes, he can be a real pain in my butt, but love him. He's like a son to me. I know he always gets injured and near death, do to his profession, but I could never have imagined something like this. It's so final. So cruel and unfair. He does nothing but catch spychos and murderers, helping the community, and this is how life repays him. He's only 37! He should have a good 45 years left!

After the Doctor leaves, I go and prepaid some more tea, before heading up to Sherlock.

  I walk through the open door and find Sherlock coughing, painfully into the back of his hand. I quickly go and set the tray down on a nearby table, then go to Sherlock's side. I kneel down by him, on the floor where he is working on a cases notes

  "Sherlock." I place a hand on his shoulder, to comfort him. Crimson begins to coat his hand. I frown at the sight as the coughs ebb. I then grab out my handkerchief and reach over, gently wiping the blood away from his mouth.

  He first, looks away, embarrassed. But I reach out with my other hand and gently grab his chin and slowly face him towards me. When out eyes meet, I almost cry. Pain is very evident in his chocolate brown eyes as they're red from exhaustion and his illness. I smile at him as I gently wipe the rest of the blood away.

  After I'm done, I put my hands down and look at him with a sad face. "I'm sorry I have desacrate your lovely handkerchief." He rasps. I chuckle and look at him, fondly. "YOU, dear, did not desacrate anything." We hear a whine and turn out head to find Gladstone waddling over to us. He then lays down with a grunt and rests his head on Sherlock leg. Sherlock smiles and lays a this, pale hand on his fat, wrinkly head, petting his floppy ears.

  "I think he knows." Sherlock whispers as he stares down at Gladstone. I look at Gladstone then back to Sherlock, trying not to cry. "You think he's that smart, do you?" I deadpan, smiling. He looks to me and smiles back, then looks back to Gladstone. Gladstone sneezes and licks his big nose with his tongue. "No. I suppose not." He jokes, with a small chuckle. I chuckle as well.