They spent that day in quiet, John drinking tea to soak up the shock. Sherlock perched quietly, letting John come to terms with it. It had, after all, taken him a month.
But John was strong, Sherlock knew that for sure, and figured by the end of the day, he would be yelling at him for not telling him earlier.
Sherlock was amused to find that he was incorrect.
John went to bed without yelling or raising his voice. Actually, he went to bed without speaking to Sherlock at all.
It was the next morning, when Sherlock was playing his violin, perhaps a little loudly for 6am, that John came stomping down the stairs and demanded he stop.
And of course, that demand led to more yelling, on a completely different topic.
Sherlock had known it was inevitable.
So he sat patiently and took it, even managed to look ashamed of himself, look guilty, look like he felt bad. And John finally finished, exhausted from the anger, and slumped into his chair.
And then Sherlock realized that he wasn't just looking ashamed and guilty, he actually felt that way. Because even though he thought he was protecting John, just like he had thought he had when he jumped off that roof, really, he was only hurting him.
That time it was necessary. This time it was not.
So he did something he though he would never do.
He gave John a hug.
It was rather awkward, especially as John was sitting down, and Sherlock was much taller than him to begin with, but it was a hug.
John looked shocked.
"Do you need a blanket?" Sherlock smirked at him.
John only glared for a moment, then softened.
"That was... uh... good. Yeah," he nodded.
They sat in their respective armchairs. They knew what they had to talk about, but neither wanted to bring it up.
So Sherlock began, as if it was any other of the 'normal' conversations that took place in Baker street.
"I want to work as long as possible."
John nodded. Sherlock had suspected more of an argument.
"And I don't want them to know."
John nodded again. That he understood.
"It will-" he hesitated. "It will become more obvious." He looked Sherlock directly in the eye. "They will start to notice the symptoms, and we will have to tell them. Maybe in as little as a month."
Sherlock nodded. He knew that. He knew that a month ago. He knew that before he even spoke. And he hated that he knew it.
"Until then."
John nodded. He knew that Sherlock hated showing any weakness, even if it was just a cold, so this, this would be devastating.
So they went to a crime scene the next day. Double homicide. Sherlock proved that it was actually a murder suicide. Well, closer to a suicide pact, as he so kindly pointed out to Anderson.
Sherlock was rather disappointed. No chase. No legwork.
Sherlock sulked for the rest of the week. John finished up work at the surgery, explaining to Sarah that he wouldn't be able to continue working after that. She was bewildered, but John explained he couldn't say why, at least not now.
She saw something in his eyes, some sort of broken sadness.
And she understood.
The next week, there was talk of a serial killer. Three murders, seemingly unrelated, because all the victims had died in different ways. One of a gunshot, another of a knife wound, and the last by strangling.
But Sherlock had noticed something in the crime scene photos and demanded that Lestrade let him in on the case. He agreed, bewildered, and John trailed behind him, slightly concerned, but not wanting to show it.
Sherlock pointed out to everyone in his usual fashion how the murders were indeed the work of a serial killer, and how. John grinned as he made everyone look stupid. Typical.
The grin faded when Sherlock plotted to catch the serial killer, noting his pattern of hunting, and determining he would strike that night, and to top it off, knew it would be another strangling.
They had a fighting match that all of Scotland yard probably heard.
Sherlock won. John was furious. He went along though of course, figuring he may as well be there when Sherlock got hurt, as was typical in cases like this.
It was never of great satisfaction for him to be right about these sorts of things.
As predicted, the serial killer indeed surfaced that night, in the spot Sherlock predicted, and preyed upon the planted policeman, just as Sherlock predicted, trying to strangle him.
Predicted.
And of course, as John predicted, Sherlock indeed got hurt. To be honest, it wasn't in the way John had expected, falling off a roof chasing the killer or perhaps a stab wound from fighting him.
No, it was Sherlock being unusually clumsy, tripping over a kerb in his rush to catch the culprit.
He was more irritated that Donovan caught him than he was that John insisted they go for x-rays of his wrist. (Sherlock was right about that though, not broken.)
But John saw the thing he feared most, progression.
Sherlock would have never fallen over anything before. Before. That's what it was now.
Before. And after.