"It's not just diabetes is it?" Sherlock asked as he searched through the filing cabinet in Mycroft's home office.
"No. It's not just diabetes." Anthea replied with a sigh, going back to sit on the edge of the desk.
"A tumour." John guessed, looking over at Anthea.
"Yes." Anthea said with a nod.
Sherlock stopped going through the paperwork and looked over at Anthea, "A tumour? I didn't see that." he admitted.
"He hides it as best he can. You know how he is." Anthea replied, "He's okay though. He has a team of doctors keeping him going."
"When was it diagnosed?" John asked.
"Last year when he wasn't getting along with Sherlock. Depending on the size and speed of growth, the doctors gave him an estimate of 2 to 10 years." Anthea explained.
"It's growing, isn't it? That's why he's forgetting things and becoming irritable." Sherlock said, "I want to see his medical files."
"Sherlock, I'm sure Mycroft has the best doctors looking after him." John said reassuringly.
"I don't care. They are idiots. I want to see his files." Sherlock replied dismissively.
"You'll have to talk to him about that. I won't give you access to anything personal." Anthea admitted.
Sherlock sighed and slammed the filing cabinet shut. Taking the file with him, he went out into the hall and straight upstairs.
"He's seems surprisingly sentimental all of a sudden." John said quietly to Anthea.
"They do care about each other, despite what they say." Anthea replied with a smile.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock demanded, standing in the doorway of the bedroom.
Mycroft sat up in bed and sighed, "You know then. About the tumour." he murmured.
"Obviously." Sherlock replied.
"I didn't want to bother you. It's not serious yet." Mycroft said dismissively.
"Were you going to tell me when it was serious? When you were dying?" Sherlock hissed.
"I'm dying right now." Mycroft snapped, "I'm dying every day, as the damn thing grows in size!"
"Why haven't you had it removed? Surely they can operate?" Sherlock asked.
"They can, but the risk is too severe. I would rather forget minor things over time than be left with memories permanently destroyed." Mycroft replied.
"Ah. I see." Sherlock nodded, "How are you coping?"
"I work, as always. I will continue to work until I'm forced to stop." Mycroft replied, checking his mobile on the nightstand.
"You could be doing yourself an awful lot of damage. You may live longer if you slow down and rest." John said from behind Sherlock.
"I've heard that before, John. My own doctors have said that." Mycroft muttered, "I live for my work. I have no wish to slow down."
"You may not have much choice." John warned, "You don't have to give up your work. Just take some days off."
"Your words are no comfort whatsoever, Dr Watson." Mycroft sighed.
"We should leave you in peace. Goodnight, Mycroft." John said before he left the room.
"John is right, brother. You shouldn't put your work before your health." Sherlock admitted.
"And what if it were you? Would you happily give up your cases? Would you sit at home all day?" Mycroft demanded.
"No." Sherlock sighed, "I wouldn't."