He won't see out this year. He knows it, feels it deep down in his chest. This year is going to kill him. Maybe not immediately, maybe it will be quite slow. But somehow, some-when, this heart that insists on still beating inside of his chest is going to simply stop. And that will be the end of Sirius Black.
He can't get upset about it, he finds. The fact of his impending death of unknown cause is a quiet little piece of information that he finds it quite easy to regard calmly. There's no point railing against the fates now, not when it feels as if he died fourteen years ago on one stormy night. In truth, to die now would simply be the completion of what started then.
It might even be peaceful.
He might be able to sleep for the first time in so long without the echo of screams in his hears, that high hysterical laughter that he finds it hard to believe came from his own mouth. A night of easy sleep, an eternity of it, in fact. It sounds like heaven just now.
Remus will miss him, of course. And Harry. It'll tear them up, him dying, but perhaps it would be for the best. Yes, it would definitely be for the best. They'll have each other, if Remus behaves and doesn't distance himself and besides, both of them need so much that he just doesn't have the energy to give, certainly not locked up in this old house. Remus needs the blood brother that he was once, but that boy died when he reached the ruins of a house in Godric's Hollow. And Harry – What can he ever be for Harry when he can't even breathe fresh air? He can't protect him, can't even talk to him, now. He's trapped here in this cage, what can he do that's of use to anyone, least of all Harry?
(It's an odd pang of guilt, a stabbing hollowness in his stomach, that he even wants to die and leave them, but he must push it away. Feeling guilty for wanting to rest isn't going to keep him alive, and it's not going to help them. They'll learn to cope without him; they've already done it for twelve years. It should come easily to them again.)
He sets the bottle down and scrubs a hand through his hair. If he doesn't make it to the end of the year, perhaps it would be best for everyone. At least if he's gone they can't all spiral down with him.
But he won't go looking for death. That promise he can make to himself, and keep quite easily too when he can't leave the house. He won't seek his demise but nor will he run from it. Let it come to him and he won't object, will embrace it and let his last breath be a sigh of relief. If some good can come from his dying, then so much the better.
Let the question of how he will die remain a mystery. That way it will be more exciting. And the knowledge of how short his time is growing can live quietly in his heart, a comfort through the long lonely nights.