Hours passed, and neither man said a word, preferring instead to bury themselves within their own personally constructed confines. Sherlock became determined to re-examine every microscope slide in his collection, while John suddenly felt it absolutely necessary to dig up every newspaper clipping in the apartment and re-organise them in chronological order within the case they were associated with. At one stage in the afternoon, Mrs Hudson had made an appearance, chattering about in the living room like she usually did, until the tension between the two friends drove her away in a cloud of concerned confusion. She left in her wake a faint ringing in the air, interrupted only by the feint rustle of Johns paper, or a small click from Sherlocks microscope.
Dusk had settled in by the time John found his work finished. He rose from the arm chair and went to stand next to the open window, gazing out as the last traces of sun disappeared behind the buildings. Baker Street was aglow in the soft orange light, windows reflecting the onset of evening, a slight breeze stirring the awning of the sandwich shop below. He watched as people passed below him, enraptured in their own lives, completely oblivious to those around them. With a weary sigh, he let the thin curtain fall back into place, turning to re-enter the lounge and the harsh reality that had become of his life.
John gave a start when he was confronted with the shadowy outline of Sherlock standing in the kitchen archway. He hadn't heard him move from the table, so he wasn't expecting the tall, slender figure to be staring back at him from across the room. The tension in the air seemed to come alive, crackling like sparks between them before Sherlock finally broke the silence.
"How long?" his voice was low, heavy, and John felt his heart beat in his throat. He swallowed dryly before answering, trying to sound calm and matter of fact.
"Oh, you know, it's still early days. No telling really, what with treatments and the like." He fidgeted with some loose papers on the desk next to him, breaking eye contact with Sherlock out of nervous habit.
"Alright, tell me about treatments then." John felt Sherlocks eyes on him as he moved across the room, pointlessly shifting a pile of books from the desk to the coffee table. Finding nothing else to distract himself with, he settled with standing awkwardly by the couch, eyes downcast away from Sherlocks concerned expression.
"Well, there's the usual really. Chemo, radiation. Surgery, if we get it under control in time." John had kept his eyes locked on the title of one of the novels on the table, so the gentle touch of Sherlocks hand on his arm came as a surprise. He looked up into his companions face, and felt a knot form in his stomach as he registered the sheer grief staring back at him. Another immeasurable moment passed between them until John felt Sherlock give his arm a small squeeze before stepping away and clapping his hands together.
"Right, well." All at once he was back to his usual self, striding around the apartment collecting his coat and scarf, leaving John to trial behind in confusion. "I'd say dinner is in order, are you hungry John? I thought we could eat out tonight, no point messing up the kitchen."
"Sherlock," John took a step forward, shaking his head to try and make sense of the sudden change in atmosphere. "Sherlock, wait, where are you going?"
Sherlock, who was already at the top of the stairs at this point, turn to face the doctor, taking two long strides and coming to a halt in the doorway. He raised an eyebrow.
"I thought we decided on eating out tonight."
John was taken aback by his casual tone.
"Sherlock, I just told you that I'm dying."
"No." Sherlocks voice was harsh, cutting. "You told me you were ill, yet able to undergo treatment. If, as you say, you were in fact dying, then any form of treatment would be a waste of time, and therefore not up for consideration. You specifically mentioned three methods that I'm willing to bet your doctor listed to you just this morning, so why don't we just skip the dramatics and eat hmm?"
Without waiting for a reply, Sherlock spun on his heel, the hem of his coat billowing out, sending a ripple of air through the apartment, and was away onto the street before the last scrap of paper settled to the floor at an astonished Johns foot.
