Sherlock
Ilean heavily against the cold chair, my legs not willing to support me any longer. They feel like jam. My stomach tosses and turns horribly, threatening me to retch. A thin layer of sweat coated my entire body. I feel cold down to my core. I'm in complete and utter shock by the news I just had the misfortune to hear.
I can't wrap my brilliant mind around it. Sherlock Holmes, master of his mind and all it contains, but I couldn't break past the wall that formed around the words I just heard.
One year. That was all they were giving my blogger. One year left of John's life and he would be gone. Snuffed from this earth and buried in the ground, never to return.
John sits there completely still. If someone were to peer in from the outside, they would think that I was the one that was dying and John was the strong wall that held me up. I wish that were the case.
I am fascinated by John's ability to keep his compousure. However much John looks compoused by the grave news, I can catch just a glimpse of what was really behind his mask. I can see through everyone's mask, but John had always been particularly difficult. He never ceased to amaze me on what he would do. He always surprised me. I would never let John know that of course; he'd probably laugh at me.
But right now, I stare at my blogger as he sits completely still like a statue. His arms are tightly glued to his side, hands clenched in an unmoving fist. He's in his army stance. It's how John disconnects himself from unpleasant situations. He brings up his army front and won't let anything in, but I can see a little bit of what was going on behind his tough mask. He's scared; terrified that he only had one year left on this earth, but he'd be dammed if he let anyone else see that he was like a frightened child on the inside.
The doctor was still going on about the details, but I wasn't listening anymore. I just looked at John. My blogger, observing every bit of his detail, already committing it to memory. Every now and then I'd pick up words, such as inoperable, make him comfortable, arrangements... Much to my regret as whenever these words are spoken I feel a small part of me rip open and die.
My throat tightens to a hair pin width as my body tries to betray how much the news was affecting me. I wouldn't let it however. I will remain strong. No one will see how much this was affecting me, not even John.
You see, John has a rare and fatal brain tumour forming in cerebrum. As time progresses his mind will deteriorate. The tumour is located in a part of the brain that will affect every aspect of his cerebrum. His ability to move, vision, hearing, communication, and memory will all decline slowly over time. His emotions and personality will begin to alter as the tumour grows. He will have massive, debilitating headaches. The doctor has given him medication to help ease him through all of this, but it won't keep John alive.
As I thinks about the painful times that lie ahead of John and I, I hardly noticed the doctor's departure. Thus leaving the dying blogger and distraught detective alone.
"Suppose we should head back to Baker St now." John says, tightly. Breaking the silence.
"Uh... Yeah..." I says quietly, standing up slowly. John begins to put on his coat when I quickly walks over, grabbing ahold of it to help John in. He looks at me confused, but his expression quickly changes to that of sadness and compassion. With a painful ache in my chest an stinging in my eyes, John slides easily into his coat, giving me a quiet ta.
We make our way to the door. Neither of us willing to talk about what's happening. My cold heart begins to break into a million pieces as John's becomes hard and callous.
We step out onto the street and hail a cab, making the quiet journey to Baker St.
I feel myself become ancy, no longer being able to bear the silence I turn to John.
"We need to talk about this." I says, staring at my blogger sadly. Normally I wouldn't be peeved by the silence, I use to revel in it. But now I simply can't sit here and pretend nothing is wrong. I have to talk to John about this, but John is not so willing.
"No, Sherlock. We don't." He responds coldly not looking at me.
"But John..." I begin to plead, but he cuts me off.
"No, Sherlock. We're not talking about this and that's final!" He raises his voice, causing the cabbie to look at us oddly.
I feel all my energy physically leave me and I slump against the seat, defeated. Why won't John talk to me about this? Why is he shutting me out? It's so unlike him. He's the one that always wants to talk things through, but now that his clock is counting down he refuses to let me in. I just want him to let me in...
We remain in silence the rest of the way to Baker St. I glance at John to see him just staring out the window, watching the building and people pass by. I turn to look out mine, but I don't watch what we pass. I don't see anything. I stare unseeing outside, willing my emotions, the emotions I have always been a master of, not to betray me. I simply wants to weep, but I won't let myself. Not here. Not now.
As we arrive at Baker St., I practically throw myself out of the cab and run upstairs, leaving John to deal with the cabbie.
He walks up the stairs only to enter an empty flat. He glances to the direction of Sherlock's room and can see the shadow movements of his detective under the door. He sighs sadly and goes to the kitchen to make two cuppas.
I tear into the flat and into my room, closing the door behind me before I collapse.
My emotions take over and I weep in a pile on the ground. I feel like I've been stabbed in the heart. I clutch my chest against the pain and place my other hand firmly over my mouth to quiet my sobs as I hear John make his way up to the flat. He pauses and then begins to make his way to the kitchen, probably for tea.
I continue to sob against my hand, my breathing is rough and laboured as my cries come out as whimpers and gasps. I can't hold myself up in the sitting position any longer and I collapse weakly onto the ground. I curl onto my side, pulling my knees up to my chest, and burying my head against my knees. I can feel my hot sticky breath against my face and my head is starting to pound with the onset of a cry induced headache. My face feels swollen, but I can't stop the tears from falling. I lie there for a while longer slowly gaining my compousure. I can hear John softly approaching my door.
"Sherlock? I made you a cuppa..." He says, waiting for a response. When their is none, he continues. "Right. I'll... uhh... just set it right outside your door."
I hear the cup being set on the floor followed by John's slow retreat. With the effort of seemingly a thousand men, I picks myself slowly off the floor. I run my fingers gently through my hair and fix my lopsided shirt. I straightens my shoulders and tilt my head high. I wipe the remainder of my tears off my face and opens the door.
I pick up the tea John had left there for me and softens my expression to one of content. I make my way to the sitting room where John is sitting alone, lost in his thoughts. He smiles at my approach, glad to not be left alone. We sit across from each other, talking and watching crap telly. Neither of us bringing up the devastating news we heard just hours prior.
Hours pass and John soon departs to his room. I bid him goodnight and remains in the sitting room.
In that exact moment in time, I make a silent vow to myself that I will make this last year the best year of John's life. I will make John's final year his most memorable. So when it's time to say goodbye, John will have only happy memories to think upon. I will never leave his side, not for one moment, not for one second. I will be with my blogger until his last breath. Forever the Holmes to my Watson. This will be my last vow.
To be continued...
