The room is nice and bright, like John himself and his Mary too, it's sunny, whatever it places on the low floor. Windows overlook the green yard, just next grows curved old plum, full of small dark fruits, and sparrows arguing in its branches, shrieking loudly. In the guestroom guests talking, and glass tinkles, John has a lot of friends, Sherlock isn't only one who want to bask in amazing heat shine, emanated by John. But Sherlock is like a huge cold block, he can pull all the heat entirely, he needs more and more, unable to warm up for all the previous life, and these people hundredfold return joy.
"No", John beats, slipping into the kitchen after Sherlock, he doesn't find a cigarette in his fingers, but continues amain: "Mary shouldn't swallow smoke. Of course, I shouldn't say anything, all these women's superstition, "as long as the mystery don't show itself", but all the signs are obvious".
John bursting with joy, and Sherlock got to the kitchen just to catch breath. Window wide open: air and light, rustle of leaves not like in town, squeak, the thrill of small wings, but that's not enough, that's not enough if hardest choice clutches your throat. And its right arm is time running out, and the left is that John's look on Sherlock's trembling lips. Is John really thinking - Is Sherlock himself really - No, he can't bring awful news, but they shell understand what paleness, and nausea, and missing periods can sign, and take action then sooner - John, you're a doctor after all. You're an idiot, like all the people, wishful thinking.
"Y-yes", hardly up voice, Sherlock reaches into his pocket, as if looking after cigarettes, and shamefully escapes, slipping past John, in the cold and darkness of the echoing, crypt likely entryway.