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The ride back to the flat is the longest cab ride of my life. The day is a beautiful one; the sun is shining the wind has stopped blowing and the temperature has risen slightly so that it's not too cold to be outside. People are riding bikes and walking their dogs, going to work, catching a bus; life is going on. I don't know how it can.

I look over at Sherlock often, though out of the corner of my eye so as not to let him know I am watching him. He looks out the window but I see familiar look in his eyes that tells me that he isn't really watching what's out there; rather he is deep in thought and doesn't want to be disturbed. I know I'm being selfish for thinking of myself and how I'm affected at a time like this; I should be thinking of how this affects him. But I can't help it; when it's over, I'll be the one that is alone. A puzzle with a very large missing piece.

When the cab arrived back at the flat, I paid the cabbie quickly, and Sherlock actually waited for me rather than dashing quickly inside. But then again he wasn't really doing anything quickly; he was pale and drawn and he moving slowly. I wondered how long he had been feeling terrible and he covered it up for me.

When he got inside the flat, we stood frozen inside the living room for a few moments. We just stand there, frozen. The silence in the flat is deafening; I wish I could say something, but what? What could I possibly say at a time like this? I wish Sherlock would say something and break the tension. Sherlock had always been able to fill in the blanks. Right now I'm was just wishing he would tell me this is all a mistake; I'm wishing he would fix it like he always does.

Sherlock stood in front of me lost in thought; he looked down at the ground, not meeting my eyes. Even though he wouldn't look at me, I couldn't look anywhere but at him. The light from the early afternoon sun shone through windows, falling on him, It made the flecks of green in his blue eyes sparkle, the pale skin of his face glow brighter. I followed the light down the curves of his silver, shadowy curls and down to his face. He looked so young….he was young. We had only just celebrated his 55th birthday last month. He's too young to die.

Sherlock seemed to become aware I was staring at him; perhaps he was aware the whole time. He looked up at me and I was prepared for him to say something. Only he didn't; he just turned and walked toward his room without a word. I waited a few seconds before following him. When he went into his room and shut the door, I knew that that meant that he didn't want me to follow him.

I stood outside the door, not knowing where to go. I was hurt that he didn't want to be around me right now. I was not surprised, but still I was hurt. My time left with his was so short that I didn't want to waste any of it. But I didn't want to push him; so I turned and left.

The rest of the evening was almost unbearable. I couldn't do anything; my mind would not stay focused on a single thing. I turned the telly on but that was a joke; nothing could even remotely keep my attention. I went to my desk and turned my computer on, but I just ended up starting at the blank screen for a long time. I was frozen, unmoving. Nothing was important enough that it required my attention. The only thing that was important was the man behind the door that wouldn't allow me to see him.

I went to bed early, just hoping to get a small escape from the mental prison that I was in. I put my pajamas on, feeling extremely spent; every so often my heart would give me a stabbing pain, almost as if to remind me of the pain. As if I could forget.

I pulled back the sheets and lay down, turning off the lights. It seemed so dark and cold in my room. I pulled the covers as high as they could go. The sadness was pressing upon me like a weight, making my chest hurt. I tried to cry; if I could cry again maybe some of the pain would go away. But even in the darkness, when it was completely acceptable to cry and I wanted to cry, no tears would come. I suppose that I spent all the tears that I was allotted for that day.

I laid in bed for a long time trying to sleep, but sleep alluded me. I watched the small sliver of moonlight that came from window change position on the floor as it moved across the night sky. My eyes stung but they would not close to sleep. The crushing loneliness and dark cloud of depression pressed too heavily on me.

I pushed back the covers finally and got out of bed, wondering how I could move when the weight was so heavy on me. I walked down the hall and to Sherlock's bedroom. The door was still closed, but it wasn't locked. I knew that I should respect Sherlock's privacy and leave him alone; he no doubt was having strong feelings and wanted to be alone. If he needed to collapse or cry he wouldn't do it around me; I should give him time to get that out.

I put my hand on the doorknob and paused. I didn't know why I was here really; I had no idea what to say or do once I got into the room. Maybe Sherlock would even tell me to leave. Maybe he wouldn't. I just knew that I wanted to see him, talk to him; know that he was still real.

I pushed the door open and looked in. Sherlock was lying under the covers, sound asleep. The lamp beside his bed was turned on but Sherlock's face was turned away from the light and door. I walked around the bed so that I was on the side that he was facing. It was dark but I could still see most of his face from the light of the lamp. His face didn't look calm like it usually did in sleep; it was drawn and seemed pained, even in sleep. It hurt me to see him this way; he was in so much pain and I couldn't do a thing about it. I was a doctor; I should be able to save him. Or at least stop the pain; I couldn't do either.

I stood there and just watched him for a while, the rise and fall of his chest as he slept. On a lonely impulse, I pulled back the covers and climbed into Sherlock's bed. I suddenly felt so much warmer; the weight on my chest didn't seem so heavy. I could instantly go to sleep here, but I didn't. I still watched Sherlock, wondering what it all meant; him leaving me. I'd been with him for so long that I didn't even remember who I am without him. He'd been my friend, college, flat mate for so long. I had spent most of my time with him for two decades now, not just as his friend but as…..? There isn't a word I can conjure in my mind what Sherlock is to me. He's part of me; already I felt the part of me that is him pulling away and leaving me with a wound so deep that it would never heal.

I reached my hand up slowly; it's almost connected to Sherlock's face when he speaks. "John, what are you doing?" he asked tiredly, his eyes still closed.

My hand froze in mid-air, stayed there for a second, and then I pulled it down as Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at me. I honestly didn't know what the hell I was doing.

I stuttered out "uh" and "um" incoherently until Sherlock says, "John, really, just go back to bed."

I felt crestfallen at the thought of going back to my dark, cold, lonely bed. I didn't want to be alone; I wanted to be with him. "Why?" squeaked out. I didn't want it to sound desperate, but it did.

"This is not something you've ever done before, why start now?" Sherlock asked calmly. He was trying to pretend that this was just a normal night; he didn't want to acknowledge what we both now knew.

"I don't want to go" I said. The tears I wanted to so desperately shed in my bedroom now wanted to spill over but I refused to let them. However, the sound of me covering them up is betrayed in my voice. It comes out small and weak. I sound so feeble and I'm ashamed of it.

Sherlock continued to be emotionless. "Just go John, please?" he asked.

He didn't plead or beg; he knew that he didn't have to. He knew that I would just do what he wanted.

I got up off the bed and walked for the door. I was about to open it when he said, "Sleep good". He didn't turn to look at me but I knew in his tone he's sorry that he's sending me away. He didn't want me to leave but he didn't want me to stay. His "sleep good" was really, "I'm sorry"

"Yeah, you too" I said before walking out the door. I made my way down the hallway and flung myself on my bed. I didn't have any trouble producing tears now.