Difficult to be Happy with Cancer

It’s really hard to enjoy the Christmas spirit when you have cancer, Sherlock knows that. ‘Acute lymphoblastic leukemia,’ is what the doctors had told him a few months back when he was having problems. Once the news hit John had gone into a wreck of care. He bought Sherlock milder shampoos, satin pillows, gentle bristled brushes, ect. Sherlock didn’t really pay attention, all he really did was lay on the couch and gaze at the ceiling. He was always tired, he got tons of infections, and he bruised at the brush of a feather.

It wasn’t the fact that his body was infected with cancer cells that really bothered him, it was bore of the fact that all the therapy treatments he had gone to had damaged his hair quite effectively. Once the first hair had fallen from his head, he knew he was getting into something unexplainably horrifying.

Sherlock’s hair meant a lot to him, it was one of the only physical things he was proud of owning other than his height. His hair was the thing that John leafed through when they were cuddling on the bed, his hair was the thing that he actually took care of other than John, his hair was what he could tug at when he was thinking, and without his hair Sherlock just felt… repulsive.

The night after the first few hairs had left his head he couldn’t sleep, and eventually he found himself doing something he doesn’t do often.

Crying.

His pillow was drenched in the sorrowful tears that stained it and his eyes were red and puffy. Sherlock didn't want to die, nor did he want to live out his days watching his hair slowly become brittle and fall from his head.

So he rolled out of bed and found his way into the bathroom, stumbling here and there in a not so gracious manner. He dug the electric razor from the...

... middle of paper ...

...his hair and his head is slung across his chest, a small string of sleepy drool at the corner of his mouth, and he just feels so… right. This is where he belongs, tangled up with John in their comfy messiness, snoring softly and dreaming as one.

He remembers John’s eyes, blue and illuminated, like a hot burning star full of bright hope and colorful excitement. When he is lost in the dark murkiness of his sorrow John’s eyes lean gently towards his way with a friendly little sparkle and he dissolves the dark.

“If you get sick, if you get bloody cancer, it’s my duty to take care of you, to ignore the difficulties and make sure that you get out of this- which you will, I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock smiles at the thought and lulls himself to sleep thinking over and over again to himself.

I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes.

Works Cited

creativity,