Irene woke up early on the forty-seventh day with a sinking feeling in her gut. Sherlock had had a rough night; he had whimpered throughout most of the night, clinging to Irene for dear life, squeezing her tightly as he fought night terrors. His breathing had been uneven for hours, and as Irene stealthily took his pulse from his wrist, she noted its unevenness. She knew that he didn't have much longer. As gruesome as she found it, she gave him no more than seven days.

She stared up at the ceiling, examining the cracks and the patterns they made. They had made a lot of progress on the story during the last few days, but she feared that there wouldn't be enough time to finish the story that she knew he wanted to finish. This was his life, and she was the only person who could share it with him. She was the only one he wanted to tell. It was an immense burden, but she was willing to bear it proudly. Sherlock was a lonely man who was dying. He had only tried to do good for the world, but no one had been willing to let him. The least she could do was help him. It was her job to help him.

Sherlock woke an hour or so later, letting out a soft moan as he opened his eyes to the filtered light from the sunrise. "Why are you awake?" he asked Irene as he realized she wasn't sleeping.

"It's morning," she explained.

"But it's only six in the morning. You've been awake for at least an hour."

Damn, he was good.

"It's fine. I don't need a lot of sleep," she lied.

The last two weeks had been amazing. She and Sherlock had gone around the Continent, exploring as much as possible. Now, they were in Austria, and Irene was concerned about how much longer Sherlock would be with the world. She knew that she had to get him back to London as soon as possible, but she didn't want to make it seem as though she was rushing Sherlock through his life.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked her quietly.

"Should we go back to London?"

"Why would we do that?"

"I don't know. I just don't get a good feeling about being so far away from home. I've always been like this."

"Irene, we're fine."

"I'm sure we are, but that doesn't necessarily help me with my nerves," she replied, almost jokingly to deter Sherlock's suspicions.

"We will fly home tomorrow. I want to see the opera, of course."

"Of course," she agreed, silently giving thanks for his agreeableness.

Sherlock responded by nuzzling his face deeper into her red hair, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out. Irene laughed. "You're tickling me!" she giggled.

He chuckled against her back and fell back to sleep.

That evening, they had a quick dinner before they headed back to their room to get ready for the theatre. Sherlock had acquired a tuxedo for the affair while Irene had brought the dress she had worn for her sister's wedding the year previous. Irene felt self-conscious when she saw how striking her husband looked in his garb, despite the fact that he was close to looking like the living dead. He smiled at her and escorted her out of their hotel room down to the car they had hired for the evening.

The opera was better than expected. Sherlock lost himself in the performance, completely enraptured with the music. Irene had never seen him so out of himself and even though she wasn't one for opera music, found she enjoyed the show.

Long after they had left the opera house, Sherlock kept humming the music, still blissfully living in the performance. Irene swore that he hummed the entire opera in his sleep that night.

The following morning, they went to the airport and caught the first flight back to London. The flight wasn't too long, but Irene could feel the burden of Sherlock's impending death on her shoulders. She wondered if he felt it too. He probably wouldn't mention if he did, simply for the sake of keeping Irene safe.

When they arrived back at Irene's flat, Sherlock dropped his bags in his room and quickly returned to the sitting room and picked up Irene's computer. "We have to add to the story," he informed her. "There is so much I remember now."

She stood in the doorway between the sitting room and the kitchen. "Remember, or came up with?" she asked him softly.

Sherlock glanced up Irene. His face fell when he processed what she had said. "I want to write about our trip."

"Okay. Let me freshen up."

"No… now."

"Sherlock, we've just been on a plane for several hours. Can I go take a shower?"

"Irene. We have to finish this," he insisted.

"Why?"

His eyes narrowed. "Oh, don't be coy."

"Coy? What on earth are you talking about?"

"I'm dying, Irene. I'm dying, and there's nothing either of us can do about it, except for finishing this!" he shouted.

She took a step back into the kitchen. "Sherlock, you have time."

"No, no I don't. I know you know that."

"I'm going to take a shower. You can start writing."

"No, Irene. You have to write. It's your writing. If I write it, it's going to be different."

Irene exhaled slowly. "Sherlock. I am going to take a shower. I won't be long. You can start without me, and later, we can go back and rewrite if necessary."

Swiftly, he jumped up from the couch. "Irene, we must start writing now!" he screamed.

"No," she answered quietly.

He grabbed her arm, squeezing it tightly, his nails digging into her skin. "What if we don't finish?" he yelled.

"Let go of me, or I will call the police," she threatened. "Now."

"We have to write!"

"Let go of me, Sherlock."

"Irene."

"Let go of me," she hissed.

His breathing was uneven and his pupils were dilated. He showed every indication of arousal, but this was not a sexual arousal. This was a reaction to his mental deterioration. Irene had been seeing the signs all along, but now, he was definitely getting into the thick of his demise. Irene knew that this would be one of those moments that she looked back on in her later years and would regret.

"Now," she growled.

He stared her in the eye for a moment more before his grip loosened slightly. Irene twisted her arm out of his grip and walked out of the room. She headed quickly to her bathroom and locked the door behind her. Before she stepped into the shower, she called the director of the mental institution that Sherlock had lived in prior to his stay at her home, informing them that she was bringing him back that evening.

During her shower, she sobbed uncontrollably. Things had gotten out of hand and instead of being something that she could brush to the dark corners of her mind, she had been brought into this uncontrollable mess. She had come to adore Sherlock, and even though he never had had any intention of hurting her, he had. He couldn't control his emotions or actions anymore and Irene had to hurt him by sending him away, like everyone else in his life. She couldn't fix him. No one could fix him.

Maybe if someone had tried sooner, he could have been mended and on his way. Maybe if things had gone differently, he wouldn't have ever had this fate. Maybe if someone else had taken this case, Sherlock could die a whole man.

But now, he was simply a shell of a human being. He wasn't more human the closer he came to dying; he was less human the closer and closer he came to death.

And now, as his wife, she had to betray him.

So, Irene cried.