Characters: Sherlock & James When: Friday afternoon Location: Cabin #805, currently occupied by James Warnings/Rating: None Summary: Sherlock goes to meet the man his gentleman friend has been rather preoccupied with of late. And takes him some food. Because he's a gentleman deep down. Status: Closed.
Sherlock had been curious when he'd first heard that there was a new person on board who could 'be a clone of you, legitimately. It's really bloody weird', moreso when he'd learnt that the man in question was really rather sick. Of course, John being John, being the doctor and all round good, honest man that he was had gone ahead and befriended the ill-fated man, much to his own torment. Because there was nothing he could do about the condition, there was nothing he could offer aside from pain killers and it had been upsetting Sherlock to see John so upset. To see that hint of self-doubt that crept in every so often, the thing Sherlock could only liken to the helplessness that John had felt his last day in the army.
John's new friend was called James. Molly knew him as well, apparently, and that was a whole different level of concerning. She was so caring, for one thing. And if she grew attached to James (he hated to think of it, honestly, but if she grew attached to James in lieu of Sherlock) and something terrible happened to him (or the one possible conclusion to his condition) it would break her heart. But he could hardly get defensive with a man with a terminal illness.
Anyway, John had been very busy the last week with the bizarre wasp creatures that had run riot through the train and the casualties of said rampage; not that Sherlock hadn't been incredibly helpful and on occasion very nice, but his bedside manner wasn't always welcomed and so he had to devise other ways for him to make himself useful.
James had moved from the infirmary to make room for the influx of wasp victims and had relocated himself to one of the spare cabins for a variety of reasons Sherlock concluded to be related to his illness and the lack of medication for his pain. John had been concerned about that as well. And what would happen if James came in contact with the poison. It was probably not a secret cure for cancer.
Today, then, Sherlock had decided that his good deed was going to be to take some food to James and make sure he was doing as well as he could be on the cocktail of painkillers that had been pulled together.
James had admirably held back a stream of curses when he opened the door to come face to face with an astonishingly familiar man. Aside from their hair (Sherlock's was impressively unruly today) and the obvious difference in weight it was as accurate as looking in a mirror.
Sherlock frowned, not as certain.
"Wow," James regained his composure, looking Sherlock up and down from his unbuttoned shirt collar down to his mismatched socks. "That is incredible."
"I made you a sandwich and a thermos of tea," Sherlock offered, holding them out to James. The other man looked tired, worn and impossibly fragile, swamped in layers of clothing that reminded Sherlock of John more than himself. "John was worried. And busy. I thought I'd try and take a little weight off of his mind."
"I appreciate it, thank you," James said, smiling with such genuine gratitude that Sherlock was a little taken a back. "Do you want to come in? Or do you have to get back to John?"
Sherlock hesitated. James was staring at him, still not quite over the amazement at their similarity. Well, similarity was putting it lightly. He turned to limp towards the table with his lunch, leaving the man in the doorway to make up his mind.
The limp looked more painful than John's had been. Sherlock watched the way James held his body, the way he moved to sit down, the effort it clearly took to do everything. He wondered if the piled on clothes covered up his completely wasted body or if he was just cold constantly. He looked thin, but that was to be expected. His feet were covered with an odd pair of thick socks, one grey, one a dark blue. Sherlock smiled.
"Socks."
"Hm?" James looked down at his socks, the socks he wore instead of shoes because shoes were too painful to try and put on on his own and God help him if he was going to ask anyone to help him dress. His smile mirrored Sherlock's when he saw he wasn't alone in his dismissal of footwear. And matching things.
"What strain of cancer do you have?"
"Oh, straight to the point. Jolly good. Don't like to beat around the metaphorical bush," James grinned, turning himself in the desk chair so that he could look at Sherlock. "Come in, sit down, let's talk about cancer."
Sherlock snorted. Dark humour. He liked that. "I was under the impression you didn't have a lot of time left, I thought you might appreciate the blunt approach."
"Without a doubt. Please-" James gestured to his bed, waiting for Sherlock to sit before continuing. "Rhabdomyosarcoma. It's-"
"Very rare," Sherlock interrupted, his interest caught. "Very rare. Wow."
"You seem on the verge of congratulating me. Admittedly I did win the cancer lottery. Rare and now untreatable," James nodded, picking up his sandwich and peering between the slices of bread. "Cheese, beetroot, and onion?"
"I couldn't decide. Cheese salad was boring, beetroot is great." Sherlock returned. "It's in your hip, is it? The cancer?"
"I love beetroot," James said, clearly very happy with his lunch. "Oh, yes. Yes, my right hip is completely fucked. It's been springing up in other places as well since they stopped the treatment, but this area here is the most messed up," he nodded, taking a bite of his sandwich.
"It must hurt," Sherlock replied, his voice a little softer and more empathic than it had been before. James nodded, pointing at the neat piles of pills on the desk. But Sherlock knew they would hardly be keeping the pain at bay. "Is it getting worse? Are you- well, considering there is no actual time on the train itself I was curious to know whether or not you were still deteriorating."
"I don't know. It's hard to tell since I've run out of most of my usual medication. John said he would find me some the next time we stopped, but I don't think Haiti is hot on medical supplies. Um, but no, I don't think so. I used to be able to feel it, the way it progressed, I'd feel it eating away at me. But not any more. Perhaps it's because I'm clinging on to my life and there's nothing more it can do, or perhaps it is to do with the train. I don't know. But if I get home I'm still going to die, so I've stopped thinking about it for now."
Sherlock nodded. "We are quite alike," he said quietly, tapping his feet gently upon the carpet.
James considered him silently for a few moments. "Are you going to die when you get home?"
"Maybe. I hope not," Sherlock corrected himself quickly. "I have something dangerous to do when I get back."
"With John?"
Sherlock hesitated, looking out of the window at a fairy that clung to the glass. "Maybe. Hopefully. It's complicated."
"Well, contrary to popular belief, I have time," James replied, uncapping his tea. "Start from the top."