No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse.
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan
And mock you with me after I am gone.
–William Shakespeare
It has been 7 years since the roof of Bart's.
7 years since the phone call.
7 years since good-bye.
Streaks of grey made him look years older, as did the glasses John now relied upon.
John worked the clinic when he could manage, his leg forcing him to drop from five to three days a week.
John had known something was wrong with him for a while,now. His limp was back but this was something else, something worse.
It started with a constant,dull ache in his left shoulder, the one he'd dug the bullet of -oh, it seemed so long ago- and the ache came and went with the rain but after a particularly nasty fall it persisted. It was constant and gradually grew worse. The pain was so bad he could barely keep food down. Not a good thing, as his weight was already dwindling at a terrifying rate.
John been a doctor for long enough,well over twenty years, and he recognized the symptoms.
But he choose to ignore him.
He had bigger things to worry about.
So life went on and the blackness grew.