He wandered out to the kitchen later, made himself a cup of tea, and flicked on the telly, looking for anything interesting to watch.
One of his favourite movies was on, V for Vendetta. And no wonder, once he realized what the date was. Guy Fawkes day. The festivities had likely already begun, bonfires and drinking, with the fireworks to come just before dark.
He watched it while nursing his tea, enjoying the themes behind the masked crusader's vengeance. He wondered if Sherlock liked the movie. They'd watched it before, and by that, John meant he watched while Sherlock did some sort of experiment in the background, but he'd never said anything.
Which, when dealing with Sherlock, was probably a good thing.
He set his cup in the sink, and rinsed it out with cool water before returning to the bedroom to check on Sherlock.
He felt the eyes on him before he saw them, peering out of the murkiness.
"Look who's awake," John said, going over to the window to open the blinds slightly.
"Yes, indeed I am," Sherlock sighed.
John returned to the bedside. "How are you feeling?"
Sherlock shrugged.
"Do you need anything?"
He shook his head.
John shrugged, and sat on the couch, pulling his laptop towards him. Before he could even open it, Sherlock spoke again.
"Remember, remember, the fifth of November," Sherlock muttered.
John smiled. "The gunpowder treason and plot. I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason-"
"Should ever be forgot," Sherlock finished.
"I should be quite pleased you know what the date is."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and tilted his head towards the hallway, and consequently, the telly in the living room. "You're watching the movie. You only watch the movie on November 5th. And I can hear the fireworks."
John smiled. "Clever detective," he murmured, smoothing down his curls.
Sherlock smiled too.
They sat like that for a few minutes, John's movie quietly playing in the background, while outside, the sounds of firecrackers were already beginning, even before dark.
"John," he said quietly. "It's time."
All hints of a smile on his face vanished, but John nodded, once, slowly.
He didn't want to. What he wanted to do was protest, to beg Sherlock one more day, one more week, one more month. For Christmas, for the new year, to see his next birthday.
But he didn't.
Because he saw Sherlock.
And he wasn't Sherlock anymore. All the things that he was, brilliant and arrogant and pompous and fascinating and genius and annoying and wonderful. They weren't there. The disease had taken everything.
And now Sherlock wanted to take something before the disease could. John understood that.
Besides, John could never say no to him.
