John and I have worked together for many, many days.
This is about my last 20 days with him.
His sweet golden hair blew gently in the soft breeze, as he sat with his head in his hands on the park bench. I could hear his broken sobs through his fingers, and I just wanted him to stop being so sad, to sit up, to chit chat about a new girlfriend, to do that silly fidgety thing, to argue about trivial nonsense like location of the sun, to brag about how many people visited his website, to complain about the groceries, to just be…. John.
His fingers slipped through his hair, ruffling it, as I held back tears, pulling the strands of composure around me, as he turned to look at me. I stood up slowly, flipping up my collars, just the way he hates it, and hailed a cab.
"Sherlock. We have to talk about this."
I feel the tears rising in my throat, and I swallow. "No we don't. Not right now. We have plenty of time."
"No we don't Sherlock! This isn't going to go away if we ignore it. It will get worse and worse until one day, I will be gone all together. We can't wait until the last minute Sherlock. I've only got so much time."
I closed my eyes, and slipped into the cab.
This can't be happening.
Not to him.
Not to my friend.
My best friend.
My only friend.
We came back to the house to find Lestrade at the door. I can see the relief in John's face. We both need a distraction right now. John leads the way up the stairs. I watch him carefully, noticing all the small signs that he is in pain. I wince as I see him trip slightly on the last stair. He sits in his usual spot, but this time, his laptop is closed. Usually he does his silly blog about now. But at the moment, he just seems to be staring at the wall.
"There's been a murder."
Right. Lestrade is here. I look him over, and I can tell he knows something is off. He's choosing to ignore it though, and continues to tell us about how some bloke was found in the closet of a flat that hadn't been opened in three months with a bullet through his back. Of course, he gave us more information, but I just couldn't seem to stop noticing every movement John made, carefully watching to see if it was all a lie, so I could tell myself it was all a practical joke, or just some silly cold, or poison that I could get him the antidote for…
"Sherlock!" I looked over, and judging from the crease of concern wobbling over Lestrade's eyebrow, this had not been the first time he had said my name. "Will you take the case or what?"
I looked over at John, then back at Lestrade. John is more important than some stupid case. That man is already dead anyway. "Actually, I think that I better-"
"We'll take it." I looked over at John in amazement.
"Ok. You start on Monday." As Lestrade turned to leave the apartment, John shoved himself out of his chair.
"No. We start now."