Sherlock Fic: Time To Say Goodbye
NAME: Time to Say Goodbye
PAIRING: John/Sherlock
RATING: R
SPOILERS: None
WORD COUNT: 4000
WARNINGS: Descriptions of medical conditions that may be confronting.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Sherlock belongs to the wonderful Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss.
SUMMARY: Some things are never forgotten. One of John's patients triggers a memory from his childhood. Some H/C, sex and angst.
NOTES: Beta'd by the wonderful brewsternorth, whose 'ruthless Britpicking' has been of much help. Any mistakes are my own.
The little boy who shuffled gingerly into his consulting room at half-past eleven was John Watson’s sixth patient of the morning. He had been in the clinic since eight-thirty was desperate for a lunch break. A quick nap wouldn’t go astray either, he mused longingly as the door swung open. Sherlock had been tireless last night.
A short cough reminded John of his current responsibilities and, suppressing a yawn, he looked up from his notes. The boy was about five or six, had dark brown hair and a pale complexion. He was followed by his mother, a nervous looking young woman with a perpetual line of worry etched across her forehead. With her dark hair tied up in a bun, she looked almost matronly. Almost. John got up from his chair and knelt down so he was eye to eye with the boy.
“Hello there, young fellow. How are you today?”
The boy looked over him curiously and his lips drooped downwards. “Bad.”
“Oh that’s no good,” John smiled reassuringly. “Why don’t you sit down over here and we can work out what’s the matter?”
“Mum?”
“Your mother can sit with you.” John straightened and addressed the mother. “Mrs Carlson?”
“Yes, how do you do doctor?” Mrs Carlson held out a thin hand and John shook it.
“Not too bad Mrs Carlson. Please, sit down. Now…” he turned his head back to the boy and held out his hand. The boy shook it solemnly. “My name’s John, what’s yours?”
“Benny.”
“How old are you Benny?”
“Five years and ten months,” said Benny proudly.
“Well aren’t you a big boy,” smiled John. He dragged his chair out from behind his desk and sat himself in front of the boy. “Now Benny, would you like to tell me about why you’re not feeling so well today?”
“I have a bump.”
“You have a bump. Can you show me where it is?”
The boy hesitated and looked nervously across at his mother.
“It’s all right Benny,” murmured Mrs Carlson. “Do as the doctor says.”
Benny extended his arm and awkwardly reached behind to touch the nape of his neck - dorsal cervical region, John noted.
“It’s lumpy.”
“Thank you Benny, you can put your arm down now. No need to make it sore.”
John stood up and walked behind the boy’s chair. He placed his fingers where Benny had indicated, between the second and third cervical vertebrae, and slowly felt around, massaging and prodding the structures underneath. There was definitely a swelling there, a firm, prominent extrusion from what seemed like the second spinal segment.
“Does it hurt when I press down like this, Benny?”
Benny shook his head vigorously. “No, just feels funny.”
A tumour, thought John immediately. Benny, you poor child, what have you done to deserve this? He had seen and treated quite a few childhood cancers before, and never does it get any easier. He sighed inwardly and felt a bit further down the spinal column, his fingers slowly tracing and pressing each section as he passed. He reached the seventh cervical vertebra and paused, frowning slightly. There was another swelling there that was just beginning to form, and, unlike the other one, still too small to be visible. He pressed it, gently, but Benny, fidgeting and shifting his weight from side to side on the seat, seemed not to notice. Evidently this one didn’t hurt either.
“When did you first notice the lump, Benny?”
The little boy’s face screwed up in indignation. “Matthew called me a weirdo and he stole my book. I went to get it back and he pushed me and I fell on the ground and my neck started to feel funny.”
“It was last Monday afternoon, Doctor Watson,” interjected Mrs Carlson with an embarrassed smile. “I saw it then and thought it was just an ordinary bruise and would go down in a few days. But when it didn’t I decided to bring Benny in. I didn’t think it was anything significant but it doesn’t hurt to make sure.”
“That’s very sensible of you, Mrs Carlson.” John lifted his hands from Benny’s neck and walked to the desk. It seemed like cancer, he mused thoughtfully as he glanced over Benny’s medical history records. But then there’s something strange about it that he can’t put his finger on… “Mrs Carlson, has Benny ever had swellings like this before?”
Mrs Carlson looked at her son thoughtfully. “I don’t think so… though I do remember that when Benny was born, he had these little swellings on the skull… the doctors said it was some kind of bleeding? I don’t remember the exact word?”
“Cephalohematoma?” asked John with a wry smile. He winked at Benny who grinned and winked back.
Mrs Carlson laughed. “Yes, that was it. The doctors weren’t too concerned and anyway it was gone after a month. No one thought much about it; Benny’s grandparents and myself were mostly concerned about the way his toes were growing crooked. We were really worried that Benny wouldn’t be able to walk properly in future.”
A memory stirred at the back of John’s mind, teasing and dancing around the edges of his consciousness. A tall gangly dark haired boy laughing as he was being chased down a suburban street… John waiting alone in the hospital foyer, avoiding the curious looks of the other patients… John waking up after a nightmare and walking downstairs to accidentally overhear his parents talking about the selling of the house next door…
“Doctor Watson?”
John jumped up with a start, his mind whirling with unpleasant memories and half-formed theories. “Terribly sorry, Mrs Carlson. I was just reminded of someone I used to know, a long time ago.
The line across Mrs Carlson’s forehead deepened even further, but she smiled and nodded. Benny, hearing his name being mentioned, looked up at John with a curious stare.
“Benny,” said John. “I was wondering if you could show me your feet?”
Benny flushed and looked around nervously. “You won’t laugh?” He half-mumbled, half-whispered.
“Of course I won’t,” John reassured him gently.
Benny nodded.
“Mrs Carlson, would you like me to help?”
She nodded and together they removed Benny’s trainers and socks. The moment the thick cotton socks were removed, John felt as if someone had just dunked a bucket of cold water over his head. He smiled at Mrs Carlson and stooped down, pretending to be engaged in an intent study of the little toes that protruded from the feet before him. He didn’t need to look. He knew as soon as he saw those malformed, inward arching first metatarsals of the big toe, he knew exactly what had caused it. How many times had he seen the same kind of toes, curled so awkwardly like that, in the past? The same toes that flailed in the water as its owner doggy-paddled away…toes that slapped the hard wooden floorboards as their owner and John sneaked into the kitchen for a midnight snack.
He felt sickened.
He wanted to laugh aloud at the irony of it.
“Thank you for showing me your feet Benny,” he heard himself say. He straightened and looked down upon a small, expectant face. He ruffled Benny’s hair comfortingly and forced himself to smile. “Your mum can help you put your shoes and socks back on again.”
“Oh okay.” Benny looked a little deflated.
John avoided Mrs Carlson’s inquiring gaze and patted the boy’s shoulder. “In the meantime, do you like comics, Benny?”
The boy’s face brightened. “Oh yes I love comics!”
“Good. I’ve got a couple of Iron Man comics in my desk, once you’ve put your shoes on I can give them to you to read while your mother and I have a little chat.” He shot a quick look at Mrs Carlson. She was struggling with Ben’s right shoe, her face set in a grim, taunt mask. “Would you like that?”
Benny grinned eagerly and John walked over to his drawer to find the comics, his heart tightening in his chest at the sheer innocence and carelessness of the little boy. He handed the glossy pages to the boy who immediately hunkered down in a chair at the corner of the room to read. John watched Benny’s engrossed rapture for a while, aware that Mrs Carlson was studying him. He hated this bit. It was fine enough, diagnosing asthma and migraines and eczema… but this…
“He’s a wonderful kid,” said John finally. He turned his head to look Mrs Carlson in the eye. “He’s far more intelligent than the kids at his age, isn’t he?”
“How did you -? Never mind,” Mrs Carlson folded her hands on her lap. “Yes. Yes, he is a bright.”
“How did I know? The way he behaves around people, some of the things he said…” Mrs Carlson bit her lips and dropped her head. Well done John, he thought bitterly. Sherlock would be so proud of your deductions. “He reminds me of a friend of mine.”
Mrs Carlson nodded tersely and lifted her head. There were tears in her eyes and she whispered hoarsely. “Is it cancer?”
John signed and leaned forward placing a comforting hand on her shoulders. “I’m not a hundred percent sure what it is, Mrs Carlson. I’ll have to refer you to some other doctors I know. Specialists.” A tear ran down Mrs Carlson’s face and John reached behind him to hand her a tissue. “But I don’t believe it’s cancer.”
Mrs Carlson’s head jerked up quickly, relief flashing across her eyes. She smiled and turned to look at Benny. John followed her gaze and saw the boy still engrossed in the comic, his head lolling to once side.
“That’s good, isn’t it, Doctor?”
John didn’t comment. He didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to destroy this woman’s hopes. Didn’t want to condemn Benny to what would a lifetime of suffering. Funny, he thought. One would’ve imagined that two years spent in the hell on earth that is Afghanistan would make one less sensitive to these kind of fancies.
“What is it, then, Doctor?” Mrs Carlson’s voice had regained its fear and desperation. “For God’s sake, tell me!”
John sighed.
“Mrs Carlson, have you ever heard of the condition called Fibrodysplaisa ossificans progressiva?”
***
It was a moonless night, and the clocks were striking ten.
Sherlock let out a soft cry and collapsed onto the bed, muscles quivering and glistening with sweat. Thrusting wildly, John following him down, riding on a haze of desperation that seemed to electrify every neuron in his body. He was almost lying on Sherlock now, their hot skins so close they brushed against each other with his every stroke. He was so close. So close…
The body beneath him shifted and suddenly Sherlock’s sphincter muscles clenched rhythmically around him in a purposeful, controlled fashion and fuck! It was all just way too much heat and wetness to bear. John thrust inside once more and threw back his head in a voiceless cry that seemed to blast the ceiling open and expose them to the dazzling bright lights of London.
To John, it seemed like aeons before the light finally dissipated and vision returned. He slowly lowered his aching limbs onto the bed and carefully extricated himself from Sherlock, taking care not to rip the condom as he pulled it off. Sherlock muttered something unintelligible as John quickly cleaned up their mess, tenderly wiping away the crusty remnants of Sherlock’s come from his skin. There was a red mark - several red marks - on Sherlock’s back and thigh. Teeth marks, John realised with a frown. Oh dear…
“You’re such a vampire,” Sherlock’s voice was muffled but intelligible.
“I don’t remember doing it,” confessed John as he fingered the ugly indentations of his teeth on Sherlock’s pale skin. “It doesn’t hurt, does it?”
Sherlock scoffed and rolled over with a groan. John felt the bed shift behind him and a few seconds later, Sherlock was sitting behind him, his upper limbs encircling John’s waist and his head resting on John’s shoulder. John opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock murmured something that sounded suspiciously like “shut up” and John desisted. They sat like that for a few minutes, the silence punctured by the ambient bustle of the world outside.
John was dimly aware that Sherlock’s fingers were tapping, almost absently, on his abdomen, the touch feather soft and strangely comforting. He wondered what Sherlock was thinking - a nigh impossible task at the best of times and definitely not to be attempted when his damned mind was trying to drag his thoughts to the events of that morning instead, that hour looping and over in his mind; a kaleidoscope of faces he would rather not see again.
Finally, it was Sherlock who broke the embrace and dragged John to lie down on the bed before, snuggling himself against John’s chest and draping an arm over his scarred right shoulder. They stared at each other. Curious pale green ones meet glazed and exhausted blue ones.
“John.”
“Sherlock.”
“That was quite counterproductive, don’t you think?”
John blinked. Sherlock sighed with exasperation and leaned forward to brush a strand of hair from John’s forehead. “Sex is nice enough I suppose, but it doesn’t make your problems go away, John,” he said.
John’s heart quickened. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t be so obtuse, John,” said Sherlock kindly. “What terrible and rare disease did you have to diagnose a little boy with today?”
Oh.
“I’m not even going to bother asking how you knew that,” sighed John. He rolled onto his back and stared blankly at the ceiling.
Sherlock’s tone was apologetic. “Even an idiot like Anderson could have deduced that something happened today to upset you. The details, though, are more intricate.”
John rolled his eyes.
“You came home at seven, two hours after your clinic closes. You committed the unforgivable sin of snapping at Mrs Hudson as you came upstairs before launching yourself upon me the moment that front door was locked. That was... unexpected.”
“Good,” muttered John. Sherlock laughed.
“You didn’t go to Sarah’s place after work, because I couldn’t smell her perfume on your coat, which, by the way, was quite damp from the recent drizzle, leading me to conclude that you must’ve been wandering around London on foot for two hours, thinking. Given that you’d just finished work, it is evident that whatever had troubled you so much had something to do with your patients. Now, I know John Watson. I know that he’s a compassionate and sympathetic person, but only rarely has he let his nerves affect his composure as badly as it had did today. Evidently, he must have had to make an unpromising diagnosis, and it was no grand leap of logic to deduce that it was some rare condition that’s relatively fatal or debilitating.”
John closed his eyes. It was all too much. What kind of man are you? He wondered. You’ve put me on some kind of pedestal, where I don’t deserve to be, and somehow you’ve eased yourself through my shields and understood what you’ve found at the heart better than myself.
There was a moment of silence, and John felt a delicate hand hesitantly caress his brow. It smoothed over his hair and traced a line along his temple, down past his air and onto his neck.
“And how did you know it was a boy?” said John, trying to keep his voice light.
“You had an Iron Man comic in your coat pocket.”
“Brilliant,” drawled John sarcastically. “Well done Sherlock. Now we’re all satisfied, can I sleep?”
“No.”
“Sherlock - ” John opened his eyes and glared at the face peering down at him. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“And yet you’re willing to fuck me to stop thinking about it - ”
“Stop it,” muttered John, burying his face into the pillow.
“Is that what I’ve become, John?”
“No of course not! Stop it!”
”…A cold, heartless sex object to be used and discarded at will?”
“NO!!!!!!!!” John cried out hoarsely. He sat up and stared at Sherlock’s shadowed face. “God, of course not! Sherlock - I never - I would never - I could never - treat you that way. Christ!”
“Then talk to me, John!” Sherlock grabbed his face. “I’m not the most comforting, sympathetic or compassionate person, I know that. But I would like to think that we were friends. Are we?” John nodded mutely. “I’ve never had a friend quite like you John, but isn’t that what friends do? We trust each other and we rely on each other.”
John choked back a laugh. “Sherlock Holmes? Rely on someone else?”
“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, thoughtful. He released John’s face and compressed his palms together in his familiar thoughtful pose that had always struck John to be more like a benediction or a prayer. “I trust your opinion. I rely on you to support me during our cases together. I rely on you to talk to people when discretion and sympathy is needed. I rely on you to do the cooking, and the grocery shopping and… what?”
John’s mind, strained by the stresses of the past day, had suddenly filled with a ridiculous image of Sherlock dressed in a flowing white cassock and an ostentatiously embroidered red and gold stole. His initial inner amusement leaked from his mouth into a giggle that soon descended into peals and peals of convulsive, hysterical laughter.
It was a full minute before John calmed down. Still wearing a grin on his face, he wiped away tears of mirth from his face and addressed a gaping Sherlock. “You. You’re the most impossible man I’ve ever met.”
“Should I be insulted?”
“No, no. It’s just that, well… cooking, Sherlock?”
“Dishwashing, then.”
John sighed and rubbed his face wearily. “You’re right, of course.”
Sherlock said nothing.
“I should be telling you. I wanted to tell you. It’s just - not easy.”
“Nothing in life is easy, John. You of all people should know that.”
“Yes, yes I should.”
They stared at each other.
“Well?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
John nodded and lay back down onto the bed, staring at the darkness above him. He felt Sherlock settle beside him and an arm snaked around his waist.
“When I was a kid,” John began, “My family lived in Glasgow for a while. Our neighbours had a son who was about my age. Jeremy, his name was. To cut a long story short, Jeremy and I became friends.”
“One day, we were having a race down the street. He was in front, but I was catching up slowly, and as I passed him, I must have pushed him because a moment later I heard a most sickening noise. He had fallen and broken his right wrist. He must have also hit his head somewhere. There was so much blood.”
“They took him to hospital and I didn’t see nor hear from him for a few days. His parents were never at home so I couldn’t find out what happened.”
“So you went to the hospital yourself?” Sherlock breathed into his ear.
“Yes,” said John, seeing the white washing hospital building materialise from the depths of his memory. “My parents were too busy to come with me, but dad dropped me off. I walked into the foyer, trying to act all grown up-“ John smiled bitterly. “I asked about Jeremy Robertson at the reception, and the nurse said that he had been transferred the day before to another hospital in London where they specialised in bone disorders. However, the parents were coming back in a few hours to sign a few forms, if I didn’t mind waiting.”
“I’m sure you can see where this is leading to, Sherlock. Jeremy’s parents came and were openly hostile towards me; evidently they blamed me for Jeremy’s injuries, and the way they acted, it was almost as if I was personally responsible for inflicting that disease on Jeremy in the first place!”
A soft kiss was planted on his ear and John reached desperately for Sherlock’s hand, entwining those long, delicate fingers with his own.
“Yesterday morning, this five year old boy, Benny Carlson, came to me with a swelling at the back of his neck. I thought it was cancer at first, but there were a few things that didn’t add up properly… Benny said that he only got the swelling after a fight with a classmate, and his mother said that when Benny was born he had these little swellings on his skull before they disappeared after the first month. It wasn’t until Mrs Carlson told me about Benny’s toes... You see Sherlock,” John took a deep breath. “Benny’s big toes were abnormally curved inwards and upwards, almost protruding from the rest of his feet. I remembered that Jeremy also had those very same toes.
“At that moment, all my past and future came rushing together in one huge, shocking moment of realisation. I didn’t know why Jeremy had been moved away so quickly. I overheard my parents talking about how Jeremy’s parents had decided to sell the house… even though we briefly touched on this disease at medical school, more as a curiosity than anything, I didn’t associate it with Jeremy. But Benny - he reminded me so much of Jeremy, Sherlock. And that’s why… when I saw the malformed toes, I realised. I should have realised long along. We were told at medical school that those bloody toes were as sure an indicator as anything!”
Sherlock’s fingers squeezed his reassuringly. “What’s it called?”
“Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva.”
“Progressive transformation of fibrous tissue into bone,” mused Sherlock thoughtfully. “I think I’ve heard about this before.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s a disease with unique features that would appeal to your morbid sense of humour.”
“My sense of humour is quite refined, thank you,” said Sherlock lightly.
John snorted. “And yet… despite the uniqueness of the disease, it’s commonly misdiagnosed - even I almost did it! But you were right about it being very rare, though, Sherlock. From the research I did this afternoon, I found it affects only about one in two million people. And it’s genetically caused, by mostly due to mutation than by passing the genes down from parent to children.
“Unfortunate.”
“Can you imagine the sheer horror of it, Sherlock?” whispered John. “To have every single bit of the connective tissue that’s joining your body pieces together turn progressively to bone. Like Medusa, turning her victims to stone with just one look at her eye.”
“Apt description,” murmured Sherlock.
“This disease… there’s no cure Sherlock! No one knows how and why it does what it does. Once you’ve got it, you’re committed to a slow progress of metamorphosis. Flesh to stone. Living human to stone angels.”
“Surgery?”
John shook his head. “It’s like trying to dig a weed from a garden: no matter how much you dig up, next time you look they’ll all be back in the same place again, and now there’s more of them.”
“Hmmmmm.”
John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hand. “Do you want to hear more? Do you want to know about how one eventually starts to lose motor function as the bones fuse and interconnect? The inevitable end point, Sherlock, is paralysis. Complete immobilization. After that, it’s only a matter of time before some other disease comes along and takes advantage of your weakness. Death would be a relief, I think.”
“Yes, I think most people would be glad for it.”
“Jeremy’s parents were right.” John sighed. “I condemned him to a lifetime of misery and I just did the same thing to Benny today. His mother was utterly inconsolable and Benny… well we thought he wasn’t listening to our conversation, but he approached me afterwards and thanked me, thanked me, for working it out because he always knew there was something weird about his big toe and now he knows why.”
He laughed humourlessly and turned to face Sherlock. “Why is it always me?” He whispered. One in two million people, and I condemned two of them!”
Sherlock’s eyes were thoughtful behind his curly black locks. “Logically, John, there is no reason for it. I hate the word luck. I detest using it, but I don’t see any other possibility here. You were just unlucky. But, my dear John, you really shouldn’t be blaming yourself. In fact, you ought to be proud, John. You’ve exposed this condition sooner for these two boys, so they can take start taking precautions and making the necessary adjustments … and, well, maybe that’ll make a difference. Have you thought about tracking Jeremy down? I can get Mycroft’s help - I’m sure he’ll agree to help you. He seems quite fond of you.”
John shuddered and closed his eyes. “Too late.”
Sherlock sighed and leaned in to kiss his forehead. “How?”
“Four years ago from progressive primary TB. I called a professor I knew from Medical school. It took a while to get through to her but I did and she checked some records for me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
John looked down at his and Sherlock’s intertwined hands, wondering what it would be like if their bones, those delicate phalanges and metacarpals that made up their fingers and palms, fused together. How would it feel, being permanently attached to someone for the rest of your life? Knowing that there would be no escape, perhaps not even in death?
He sighed.
“Do you want to know what the worst thing was, Sherlock?
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What you’ve just told me wasn’t bad enough?”
John laughed bitterly. “The last thing I said to Jeremy was: ‘don’t be such a wimp, I’m going to call an ambulance.’ That’s the tragedy of it all, Sherlock. I never got to say goodbye.”
------------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note: Yes, Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva, or FOP as it is commonly known, is a real disease, and as terrible as I have described it. There is no known cure, although recent developments and discoveries in genetics have proved to be a good step forward in our understanding of what causes the disease. However, there is still much to be done.
Below is the skeleton of Harry Eastlack, who died at the age of 40 from complications of FOP. His will donated his skeleton to science in the hope that a treatment can be found for it in future.
Please, take some time to go to the International FOP Association or UK Website to find out more about the disease, and donate to help fun research into it.
I was inspired to write this after seeing a few FOP skeletons, not as severe as Eastlack's, at the anatomy museum at my University. I went online and did a bit of research into it, and I was shocked at how devastating the disease is, and how little can be done for those who suffer from it, and determined to learn more and to rise awareness of the condition.
Thanks for reading this everyone!
PAIRING: John/Sherlock
RATING: R
SPOILERS: None
WORD COUNT: 4000
WARNINGS: Descriptions of medical conditions that may be confronting.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Sherlock belongs to the wonderful Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss.
SUMMARY: Some things are never forgotten. One of John's patients triggers a memory from his childhood. Some H/C, sex and angst.
NOTES: Beta'd by the wonderful brewsternorth, whose 'ruthless Britpicking' has been of much help. Any mistakes are my own.
The little boy who shuffled gingerly into his consulting room at half-past eleven was John Watson’s sixth patient of the morning. He had been in the clinic since eight-thirty was desperate for a lunch break. A quick nap wouldn’t go astray either, he mused longingly as the door swung open. Sherlock had been tireless last night.
A short cough reminded John of his current responsibilities and, suppressing a yawn, he looked up from his notes. The boy was about five or six, had dark brown hair and a pale complexion. He was followed by his mother, a nervous looking young woman with a perpetual line of worry etched across her forehead. With her dark hair tied up in a bun, she looked almost matronly. Almost. John got up from his chair and knelt down so he was eye to eye with the boy.
“Hello there, young fellow. How are you today?”
The boy looked over him curiously and his lips drooped downwards. “Bad.”
“Oh that’s no good,” John smiled reassuringly. “Why don’t you sit down over here and we can work out what’s the matter?”
“Mum?”
“Your mother can sit with you.” John straightened and addressed the mother. “Mrs Carlson?”
“Yes, how do you do doctor?” Mrs Carlson held out a thin hand and John shook it.
“Not too bad Mrs Carlson. Please, sit down. Now…” he turned his head back to the boy and held out his hand. The boy shook it solemnly. “My name’s John, what’s yours?”
“Benny.”
“How old are you Benny?”
“Five years and ten months,” said Benny proudly.
“Well aren’t you a big boy,” smiled John. He dragged his chair out from behind his desk and sat himself in front of the boy. “Now Benny, would you like to tell me about why you’re not feeling so well today?”
“I have a bump.”
“You have a bump. Can you show me where it is?”
The boy hesitated and looked nervously across at his mother.
“It’s all right Benny,” murmured Mrs Carlson. “Do as the doctor says.”
Benny extended his arm and awkwardly reached behind to touch the nape of his neck - dorsal cervical region, John noted.
“It’s lumpy.”
“Thank you Benny, you can put your arm down now. No need to make it sore.”
John stood up and walked behind the boy’s chair. He placed his fingers where Benny had indicated, between the second and third cervical vertebrae, and slowly felt around, massaging and prodding the structures underneath. There was definitely a swelling there, a firm, prominent extrusion from what seemed like the second spinal segment.
“Does it hurt when I press down like this, Benny?”
Benny shook his head vigorously. “No, just feels funny.”
A tumour, thought John immediately. Benny, you poor child, what have you done to deserve this? He had seen and treated quite a few childhood cancers before, and never does it get any easier. He sighed inwardly and felt a bit further down the spinal column, his fingers slowly tracing and pressing each section as he passed. He reached the seventh cervical vertebra and paused, frowning slightly. There was another swelling there that was just beginning to form, and, unlike the other one, still too small to be visible. He pressed it, gently, but Benny, fidgeting and shifting his weight from side to side on the seat, seemed not to notice. Evidently this one didn’t hurt either.
“When did you first notice the lump, Benny?”
The little boy’s face screwed up in indignation. “Matthew called me a weirdo and he stole my book. I went to get it back and he pushed me and I fell on the ground and my neck started to feel funny.”
“It was last Monday afternoon, Doctor Watson,” interjected Mrs Carlson with an embarrassed smile. “I saw it then and thought it was just an ordinary bruise and would go down in a few days. But when it didn’t I decided to bring Benny in. I didn’t think it was anything significant but it doesn’t hurt to make sure.”
“That’s very sensible of you, Mrs Carlson.” John lifted his hands from Benny’s neck and walked to the desk. It seemed like cancer, he mused thoughtfully as he glanced over Benny’s medical history records. But then there’s something strange about it that he can’t put his finger on… “Mrs Carlson, has Benny ever had swellings like this before?”
Mrs Carlson looked at her son thoughtfully. “I don’t think so… though I do remember that when Benny was born, he had these little swellings on the skull… the doctors said it was some kind of bleeding? I don’t remember the exact word?”
“Cephalohematoma?” asked John with a wry smile. He winked at Benny who grinned and winked back.
Mrs Carlson laughed. “Yes, that was it. The doctors weren’t too concerned and anyway it was gone after a month. No one thought much about it; Benny’s grandparents and myself were mostly concerned about the way his toes were growing crooked. We were really worried that Benny wouldn’t be able to walk properly in future.”
A memory stirred at the back of John’s mind, teasing and dancing around the edges of his consciousness. A tall gangly dark haired boy laughing as he was being chased down a suburban street… John waiting alone in the hospital foyer, avoiding the curious looks of the other patients… John waking up after a nightmare and walking downstairs to accidentally overhear his parents talking about the selling of the house next door…
“Doctor Watson?”
John jumped up with a start, his mind whirling with unpleasant memories and half-formed theories. “Terribly sorry, Mrs Carlson. I was just reminded of someone I used to know, a long time ago.
The line across Mrs Carlson’s forehead deepened even further, but she smiled and nodded. Benny, hearing his name being mentioned, looked up at John with a curious stare.
“Benny,” said John. “I was wondering if you could show me your feet?”
Benny flushed and looked around nervously. “You won’t laugh?” He half-mumbled, half-whispered.
“Of course I won’t,” John reassured him gently.
Benny nodded.
“Mrs Carlson, would you like me to help?”
She nodded and together they removed Benny’s trainers and socks. The moment the thick cotton socks were removed, John felt as if someone had just dunked a bucket of cold water over his head. He smiled at Mrs Carlson and stooped down, pretending to be engaged in an intent study of the little toes that protruded from the feet before him. He didn’t need to look. He knew as soon as he saw those malformed, inward arching first metatarsals of the big toe, he knew exactly what had caused it. How many times had he seen the same kind of toes, curled so awkwardly like that, in the past? The same toes that flailed in the water as its owner doggy-paddled away…toes that slapped the hard wooden floorboards as their owner and John sneaked into the kitchen for a midnight snack.
He felt sickened.
He wanted to laugh aloud at the irony of it.
“Thank you for showing me your feet Benny,” he heard himself say. He straightened and looked down upon a small, expectant face. He ruffled Benny’s hair comfortingly and forced himself to smile. “Your mum can help you put your shoes and socks back on again.”
“Oh okay.” Benny looked a little deflated.
John avoided Mrs Carlson’s inquiring gaze and patted the boy’s shoulder. “In the meantime, do you like comics, Benny?”
The boy’s face brightened. “Oh yes I love comics!”
“Good. I’ve got a couple of Iron Man comics in my desk, once you’ve put your shoes on I can give them to you to read while your mother and I have a little chat.” He shot a quick look at Mrs Carlson. She was struggling with Ben’s right shoe, her face set in a grim, taunt mask. “Would you like that?”
Benny grinned eagerly and John walked over to his drawer to find the comics, his heart tightening in his chest at the sheer innocence and carelessness of the little boy. He handed the glossy pages to the boy who immediately hunkered down in a chair at the corner of the room to read. John watched Benny’s engrossed rapture for a while, aware that Mrs Carlson was studying him. He hated this bit. It was fine enough, diagnosing asthma and migraines and eczema… but this…
“He’s a wonderful kid,” said John finally. He turned his head to look Mrs Carlson in the eye. “He’s far more intelligent than the kids at his age, isn’t he?”
“How did you -? Never mind,” Mrs Carlson folded her hands on her lap. “Yes. Yes, he is a bright.”
“How did I know? The way he behaves around people, some of the things he said…” Mrs Carlson bit her lips and dropped her head. Well done John, he thought bitterly. Sherlock would be so proud of your deductions. “He reminds me of a friend of mine.”
Mrs Carlson nodded tersely and lifted her head. There were tears in her eyes and she whispered hoarsely. “Is it cancer?”
John signed and leaned forward placing a comforting hand on her shoulders. “I’m not a hundred percent sure what it is, Mrs Carlson. I’ll have to refer you to some other doctors I know. Specialists.” A tear ran down Mrs Carlson’s face and John reached behind him to hand her a tissue. “But I don’t believe it’s cancer.”
Mrs Carlson’s head jerked up quickly, relief flashing across her eyes. She smiled and turned to look at Benny. John followed her gaze and saw the boy still engrossed in the comic, his head lolling to once side.
“That’s good, isn’t it, Doctor?”
John didn’t comment. He didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to destroy this woman’s hopes. Didn’t want to condemn Benny to what would a lifetime of suffering. Funny, he thought. One would’ve imagined that two years spent in the hell on earth that is Afghanistan would make one less sensitive to these kind of fancies.
“What is it, then, Doctor?” Mrs Carlson’s voice had regained its fear and desperation. “For God’s sake, tell me!”
John sighed.
“Mrs Carlson, have you ever heard of the condition called Fibrodysplaisa ossificans progressiva?”
***
It was a moonless night, and the clocks were striking ten.
Sherlock let out a soft cry and collapsed onto the bed, muscles quivering and glistening with sweat. Thrusting wildly, John following him down, riding on a haze of desperation that seemed to electrify every neuron in his body. He was almost lying on Sherlock now, their hot skins so close they brushed against each other with his every stroke. He was so close. So close…
The body beneath him shifted and suddenly Sherlock’s sphincter muscles clenched rhythmically around him in a purposeful, controlled fashion and fuck! It was all just way too much heat and wetness to bear. John thrust inside once more and threw back his head in a voiceless cry that seemed to blast the ceiling open and expose them to the dazzling bright lights of London.
To John, it seemed like aeons before the light finally dissipated and vision returned. He slowly lowered his aching limbs onto the bed and carefully extricated himself from Sherlock, taking care not to rip the condom as he pulled it off. Sherlock muttered something unintelligible as John quickly cleaned up their mess, tenderly wiping away the crusty remnants of Sherlock’s come from his skin. There was a red mark - several red marks - on Sherlock’s back and thigh. Teeth marks, John realised with a frown. Oh dear…
“You’re such a vampire,” Sherlock’s voice was muffled but intelligible.
“I don’t remember doing it,” confessed John as he fingered the ugly indentations of his teeth on Sherlock’s pale skin. “It doesn’t hurt, does it?”
Sherlock scoffed and rolled over with a groan. John felt the bed shift behind him and a few seconds later, Sherlock was sitting behind him, his upper limbs encircling John’s waist and his head resting on John’s shoulder. John opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock murmured something that sounded suspiciously like “shut up” and John desisted. They sat like that for a few minutes, the silence punctured by the ambient bustle of the world outside.
John was dimly aware that Sherlock’s fingers were tapping, almost absently, on his abdomen, the touch feather soft and strangely comforting. He wondered what Sherlock was thinking - a nigh impossible task at the best of times and definitely not to be attempted when his damned mind was trying to drag his thoughts to the events of that morning instead, that hour looping and over in his mind; a kaleidoscope of faces he would rather not see again.
Finally, it was Sherlock who broke the embrace and dragged John to lie down on the bed before, snuggling himself against John’s chest and draping an arm over his scarred right shoulder. They stared at each other. Curious pale green ones meet glazed and exhausted blue ones.
“John.”
“Sherlock.”
“That was quite counterproductive, don’t you think?”
John blinked. Sherlock sighed with exasperation and leaned forward to brush a strand of hair from John’s forehead. “Sex is nice enough I suppose, but it doesn’t make your problems go away, John,” he said.
John’s heart quickened. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t be so obtuse, John,” said Sherlock kindly. “What terrible and rare disease did you have to diagnose a little boy with today?”
Oh.
“I’m not even going to bother asking how you knew that,” sighed John. He rolled onto his back and stared blankly at the ceiling.
Sherlock’s tone was apologetic. “Even an idiot like Anderson could have deduced that something happened today to upset you. The details, though, are more intricate.”
John rolled his eyes.
“You came home at seven, two hours after your clinic closes. You committed the unforgivable sin of snapping at Mrs Hudson as you came upstairs before launching yourself upon me the moment that front door was locked. That was... unexpected.”
“Good,” muttered John. Sherlock laughed.
“You didn’t go to Sarah’s place after work, because I couldn’t smell her perfume on your coat, which, by the way, was quite damp from the recent drizzle, leading me to conclude that you must’ve been wandering around London on foot for two hours, thinking. Given that you’d just finished work, it is evident that whatever had troubled you so much had something to do with your patients. Now, I know John Watson. I know that he’s a compassionate and sympathetic person, but only rarely has he let his nerves affect his composure as badly as it had did today. Evidently, he must have had to make an unpromising diagnosis, and it was no grand leap of logic to deduce that it was some rare condition that’s relatively fatal or debilitating.”
John closed his eyes. It was all too much. What kind of man are you? He wondered. You’ve put me on some kind of pedestal, where I don’t deserve to be, and somehow you’ve eased yourself through my shields and understood what you’ve found at the heart better than myself.
There was a moment of silence, and John felt a delicate hand hesitantly caress his brow. It smoothed over his hair and traced a line along his temple, down past his air and onto his neck.
“And how did you know it was a boy?” said John, trying to keep his voice light.
“You had an Iron Man comic in your coat pocket.”
“Brilliant,” drawled John sarcastically. “Well done Sherlock. Now we’re all satisfied, can I sleep?”
“No.”
“Sherlock - ” John opened his eyes and glared at the face peering down at him. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“And yet you’re willing to fuck me to stop thinking about it - ”
“Stop it,” muttered John, burying his face into the pillow.
“Is that what I’ve become, John?”
“No of course not! Stop it!”
”…A cold, heartless sex object to be used and discarded at will?”
“NO!!!!!!!!” John cried out hoarsely. He sat up and stared at Sherlock’s shadowed face. “God, of course not! Sherlock - I never - I would never - I could never - treat you that way. Christ!”
“Then talk to me, John!” Sherlock grabbed his face. “I’m not the most comforting, sympathetic or compassionate person, I know that. But I would like to think that we were friends. Are we?” John nodded mutely. “I’ve never had a friend quite like you John, but isn’t that what friends do? We trust each other and we rely on each other.”
John choked back a laugh. “Sherlock Holmes? Rely on someone else?”
“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, thoughtful. He released John’s face and compressed his palms together in his familiar thoughtful pose that had always struck John to be more like a benediction or a prayer. “I trust your opinion. I rely on you to support me during our cases together. I rely on you to talk to people when discretion and sympathy is needed. I rely on you to do the cooking, and the grocery shopping and… what?”
John’s mind, strained by the stresses of the past day, had suddenly filled with a ridiculous image of Sherlock dressed in a flowing white cassock and an ostentatiously embroidered red and gold stole. His initial inner amusement leaked from his mouth into a giggle that soon descended into peals and peals of convulsive, hysterical laughter.
It was a full minute before John calmed down. Still wearing a grin on his face, he wiped away tears of mirth from his face and addressed a gaping Sherlock. “You. You’re the most impossible man I’ve ever met.”
“Should I be insulted?”
“No, no. It’s just that, well… cooking, Sherlock?”
“Dishwashing, then.”
John sighed and rubbed his face wearily. “You’re right, of course.”
Sherlock said nothing.
“I should be telling you. I wanted to tell you. It’s just - not easy.”
“Nothing in life is easy, John. You of all people should know that.”
“Yes, yes I should.”
They stared at each other.
“Well?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
John nodded and lay back down onto the bed, staring at the darkness above him. He felt Sherlock settle beside him and an arm snaked around his waist.
“When I was a kid,” John began, “My family lived in Glasgow for a while. Our neighbours had a son who was about my age. Jeremy, his name was. To cut a long story short, Jeremy and I became friends.”
“One day, we were having a race down the street. He was in front, but I was catching up slowly, and as I passed him, I must have pushed him because a moment later I heard a most sickening noise. He had fallen and broken his right wrist. He must have also hit his head somewhere. There was so much blood.”
“They took him to hospital and I didn’t see nor hear from him for a few days. His parents were never at home so I couldn’t find out what happened.”
“So you went to the hospital yourself?” Sherlock breathed into his ear.
“Yes,” said John, seeing the white washing hospital building materialise from the depths of his memory. “My parents were too busy to come with me, but dad dropped me off. I walked into the foyer, trying to act all grown up-“ John smiled bitterly. “I asked about Jeremy Robertson at the reception, and the nurse said that he had been transferred the day before to another hospital in London where they specialised in bone disorders. However, the parents were coming back in a few hours to sign a few forms, if I didn’t mind waiting.”
“I’m sure you can see where this is leading to, Sherlock. Jeremy’s parents came and were openly hostile towards me; evidently they blamed me for Jeremy’s injuries, and the way they acted, it was almost as if I was personally responsible for inflicting that disease on Jeremy in the first place!”
A soft kiss was planted on his ear and John reached desperately for Sherlock’s hand, entwining those long, delicate fingers with his own.
“Yesterday morning, this five year old boy, Benny Carlson, came to me with a swelling at the back of his neck. I thought it was cancer at first, but there were a few things that didn’t add up properly… Benny said that he only got the swelling after a fight with a classmate, and his mother said that when Benny was born he had these little swellings on his skull before they disappeared after the first month. It wasn’t until Mrs Carlson told me about Benny’s toes... You see Sherlock,” John took a deep breath. “Benny’s big toes were abnormally curved inwards and upwards, almost protruding from the rest of his feet. I remembered that Jeremy also had those very same toes.
“At that moment, all my past and future came rushing together in one huge, shocking moment of realisation. I didn’t know why Jeremy had been moved away so quickly. I overheard my parents talking about how Jeremy’s parents had decided to sell the house… even though we briefly touched on this disease at medical school, more as a curiosity than anything, I didn’t associate it with Jeremy. But Benny - he reminded me so much of Jeremy, Sherlock. And that’s why… when I saw the malformed toes, I realised. I should have realised long along. We were told at medical school that those bloody toes were as sure an indicator as anything!”
Sherlock’s fingers squeezed his reassuringly. “What’s it called?”
“Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva.”
“Progressive transformation of fibrous tissue into bone,” mused Sherlock thoughtfully. “I think I’ve heard about this before.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s a disease with unique features that would appeal to your morbid sense of humour.”
“My sense of humour is quite refined, thank you,” said Sherlock lightly.
John snorted. “And yet… despite the uniqueness of the disease, it’s commonly misdiagnosed - even I almost did it! But you were right about it being very rare, though, Sherlock. From the research I did this afternoon, I found it affects only about one in two million people. And it’s genetically caused, by mostly due to mutation than by passing the genes down from parent to children.
“Unfortunate.”
“Can you imagine the sheer horror of it, Sherlock?” whispered John. “To have every single bit of the connective tissue that’s joining your body pieces together turn progressively to bone. Like Medusa, turning her victims to stone with just one look at her eye.”
“Apt description,” murmured Sherlock.
“This disease… there’s no cure Sherlock! No one knows how and why it does what it does. Once you’ve got it, you’re committed to a slow progress of metamorphosis. Flesh to stone. Living human to stone angels.”
“Surgery?”
John shook his head. “It’s like trying to dig a weed from a garden: no matter how much you dig up, next time you look they’ll all be back in the same place again, and now there’s more of them.”
“Hmmmmm.”
John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hand. “Do you want to hear more? Do you want to know about how one eventually starts to lose motor function as the bones fuse and interconnect? The inevitable end point, Sherlock, is paralysis. Complete immobilization. After that, it’s only a matter of time before some other disease comes along and takes advantage of your weakness. Death would be a relief, I think.”
“Yes, I think most people would be glad for it.”
“Jeremy’s parents were right.” John sighed. “I condemned him to a lifetime of misery and I just did the same thing to Benny today. His mother was utterly inconsolable and Benny… well we thought he wasn’t listening to our conversation, but he approached me afterwards and thanked me, thanked me, for working it out because he always knew there was something weird about his big toe and now he knows why.”
He laughed humourlessly and turned to face Sherlock. “Why is it always me?” He whispered. One in two million people, and I condemned two of them!”
Sherlock’s eyes were thoughtful behind his curly black locks. “Logically, John, there is no reason for it. I hate the word luck. I detest using it, but I don’t see any other possibility here. You were just unlucky. But, my dear John, you really shouldn’t be blaming yourself. In fact, you ought to be proud, John. You’ve exposed this condition sooner for these two boys, so they can take start taking precautions and making the necessary adjustments … and, well, maybe that’ll make a difference. Have you thought about tracking Jeremy down? I can get Mycroft’s help - I’m sure he’ll agree to help you. He seems quite fond of you.”
John shuddered and closed his eyes. “Too late.”
Sherlock sighed and leaned in to kiss his forehead. “How?”
“Four years ago from progressive primary TB. I called a professor I knew from Medical school. It took a while to get through to her but I did and she checked some records for me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
John looked down at his and Sherlock’s intertwined hands, wondering what it would be like if their bones, those delicate phalanges and metacarpals that made up their fingers and palms, fused together. How would it feel, being permanently attached to someone for the rest of your life? Knowing that there would be no escape, perhaps not even in death?
He sighed.
“Do you want to know what the worst thing was, Sherlock?
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What you’ve just told me wasn’t bad enough?”
John laughed bitterly. “The last thing I said to Jeremy was: ‘don’t be such a wimp, I’m going to call an ambulance.’ That’s the tragedy of it all, Sherlock. I never got to say goodbye.”
------------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note: Yes, Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva, or FOP as it is commonly known, is a real disease, and as terrible as I have described it. There is no known cure, although recent developments and discoveries in genetics have proved to be a good step forward in our understanding of what causes the disease. However, there is still much to be done.
Below is the skeleton of Harry Eastlack, who died at the age of 40 from complications of FOP. His will donated his skeleton to science in the hope that a treatment can be found for it in future.
Please, take some time to go to the International FOP Association or UK Website to find out more about the disease, and donate to help fun research into it.
I was inspired to write this after seeing a few FOP skeletons, not as severe as Eastlack's, at the anatomy museum at my University. I went online and did a bit of research into it, and I was shocked at how devastating the disease is, and how little can be done for those who suffer from it, and determined to learn more and to rise awareness of the condition.
Thanks for reading this everyone!