I hear him enter the flat, shutting the door in his usual, mostly silent manner, leaving it to close by itself, while he strides up the seventeen steps, taking two at a time, after stepping on the first stair normally. However, there is a dullness to his pace, as he ascends, not as hastily as how he would when on a case, but not as slowly either. So while he comes up, I take another sip of my tea, eyes on the novel in front of me. It is boring, a part of his vast collection of various books, but I had nothing better to do today, so I decided to read about something that did not involve death or murders. Or anything even close to that, for that fact. However, his pace at the stairs worry me, and my mind wanders from the pages in front, the thoughts all coming together to form a single, coherent unit that said only one thing.
Bad news.
I watch him as he enters, not meeting my eye for the first seven seconds, the papers in his hands making a ruffling sound as they are continually folded and reopened in his long and thin hands. Nervous hands, he always had them, since I time I could remember. The only time they were still was when he was under the influence of an analgesic, or in a case that required absolute precision in handiwork. Else, they perennially trembled, just like now. I look up, to his face, searching, wondering about the results, the ones he is holding in his hands. On getting no reply, I call his name out.
He looks at me with the face, the same way he would always gaze, whether it be us entering a crime scene, or him talking about one of his experiments. The same neutral expression of a mask that he constantly wore to avoid being asked about his emotions. Yet, there is something off, for he seems different. A little... Uncomfortable. Yes, uncomfortable, for though he rarely is, I do see that look when I bring my dates home, and engage in various activities with them, while he tries to concentrate on his work. He always gave that look to me, a silent request to stop distracting him. Couldn't blame him, I guess, for we always did make a lot of noise.
"Well?" I ask him, eyes glancing down at the papers, before back to him. I need an answer, after all.
He nods.
Sighing, I lean back against the couch, balancing the book over my belly as I rub my eyes with my right hand. Of course it was correct. There was no way this could be wrong. The signs were all there, and my mind would never allow me to stop diagnosing things, irrespective of who it was. But there is more, I realize, as I hear him shuffle a little, rather awkwardly, at the doorway.
"How long?" I ask, hoping it would be long enough. It had to be, this was bad enough. To have little time would get much worse.
"Not very. The doctors are giving a time-frame of three months without medications, four with it." He explains, voice unusually clipped. For a second, I can actually imagine a robot talking, the brevity of the situation forcing him to abandon his emotions in the face of logic. Of course he has to, after all. A person cannot die with attachments, emotions, and in many ways, he is doing the correct thing. But.. It feels odd. I want him to be human, at least now, if not more often. Three months..
"Well, what are we waiting for?" I ask, removing the book from my lap as I stretch and then stand up, the injured shoulder giving a sudden twinge as I do.
"Let's start planning. There will be a lot of things that need to be taken care of. Come on now.." I tell him, walking to the kitchen to retrieve my notepad and a pen. Three months of life. What can someone do in that? Hell, what can't they? And it's Sherlock, planning out the bucket list. I'm almost certain that he could complete all of it in one month, irrespective of what it is, and then leave the two months just for.. Nothing.
"Start. I'll add mine in later.." I tell him as I go towards him, giving him the notepad and the pen, taking the file from him. That is my domain, this is his. He is the planner of all things, and I'm just the scrutinizer, pointing out inaccuracies and errors. I can't see him now, but I can feel his gaze on my back, watching me as I walk away, towards my room, out of the door and up the stairs, glancing through the figures, reports, comments, and what not.
This was going to be the longest three months of our lives.