Mycroft had a hard time finding his feelings, so whenever he did, it was often something strong.
"I'm sick, Mike." It rang through his ears, her soft and sad tone telling him that it wasn't a common cold.
"With what? You don't look ill, sister mine." He'd taken to calling her that since finding his brother's surprise.
"John diagnosed me. I'm surprised he hasn't already told you. It's called 'acute lymphoblastic leukemia'. 'ALL' for short. That's what all of these bruises are from, Mike." she said, lifting her sweater sleeve. Her arm was covered it yellow and purple marks, all around the size of a tiny hand. Could even his touch hurt her now?
"Marlow is so like him, Mike." she softly said, running her fingers over her child's accidental marks on her skin. "I know, dear. From his hair to his attitude."
"He didn't cry much as a baby, you know..." she trailed off, wiping tears from her eyes. "I don't want to leave him, Mycroft. Not like...he did." she didn't look up as he put his hand over hers.
The rain was beginning to subside, the day becoming just a bit brighter. The café was roped off to the sidewalk, a tall umbrella over her and Mycroft's head's. She couldn't see him, but behind her was the man she could never stop thinking about, just behind her. He looked over her, noticing how sick she did indeed look. Pale, fragile, her clothes hanging on her like they would on a hanger. The rosiness of her was missing. Mycroft said it'd been slowly fading since the day Sherlock went away.
Mycroft briefly looked up to his brother, and shook his head. What had been planned as a reunion rendezvous was now a place of mourning. Deciding now wasn't the time, Sherlock stood from his seat, shoving the glasses and wig he had on onto the ground. He popped his collar up, and walked in the opposite direction of his fiancé, away from the mother of his child. That's the other thing he needed to do, meet his son.