Idiopathic Restrictive Cardiomyopathy resulting in Acute Heart Failure.
Translation: Your heart is giving out.
He knows what this means, knows the risks and complications and…eventualities…that come with the diagnosis, but he allows the Cardiologist to explain them aloud for Sherlock's benefit.
"The heart muscle has become ridged, less elastic, and is failing to fill with blood between heartbeats," the man says. "We believe, in your case Mr. Watson –
"It's Doctor Watson," Sherlock interrupts.
"Right, yes. We believe this was caused by genetic factors. Family history, you might say. Normally, Restrictive Cardiomyopathy is treatable with certain medications –
"Get to the point!"
"Sherlock," John says, "You're not helping."
The Cardiologist looks at his shoes. "You must understand, Mr. Holmes, that his heart isn't working properly anymore. We can try to treat him, to make him comfortable, but eventually…"
John can see his friends' ire rising swiftly. He could always tell, you see, by the color of his eyes. They grew dark when pleased with himself, bright when he was about to fly into a towering rage. "You'll have to be a bit more thorough than usual. He's doesn't like being uninformed," he says.
"If he receives treatment and everything goes well, he could live for quite a few more years. But he's already an advanced case. If we'd caught it early there may have been more we could do, but it's a bit late for that. He's already in heart failure. There's no way of knowing when his heart may just give out on him."
"He'll die?"
"…Yes."
Later, John will be quite impressed with the aerodynamics of the bedpan, but he's quite shocked at the moment it fly's past the Cardiologist's head. "Out!" Sherlock shouts.
"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?"
"Now that I've gotten rid of that idiot I'm going to find you a better doctor."
"Sherlock –
But nothing he can say will deter the man in front of him. His dogged pursual of any and all hear specialist in Great Britain is a rather praiseworthy, if moot, gesture of the friendship Sherlock feels for him. Three days later he's been seen by four different specialists.
They all say the same thing.
When he's strong enough to be discharged they allow Sherlock to take him home. He pulls himself up the stairs one at a time, Sherlock's arm wrapped around his waist for support, until they reach the landing.
221B is transformed. It's cleaner for one, but it looks as though his flatmate has done away with anything that might be considered a "hazard" to his invalid friend.
"Uh, Sherlock?"
"Mmmmm."
"What? How? What happened in here?"
"Mrs. Hudson," he says from behind his laptop.
"Ah, right," he mutters. "Well, I'm off to bed then."
He turns and makes for the stairs, hell bent on collapsing on the tiny bit of heaven known as his mattress, when Sherlock spoke. "Where are you going?"
"Bed. Upstairs. You know, where my bed is?"
"We've switched rooms," he says, staring intently at the computer screen.
John shakes his head a bit, trying to clear it, because he's sure he'd just heard Sherlock say they'd switched rooms. "Come again?"
"Really, John, do keep up," Sherlock does that eye roll thing he does when he thinks someone's being stupid and John resists the urge to punch him. "One flight of stairs is enough for you to contend with. Forcing you to go up two is just plain idiocy. Mrs. Hudson said she'd give us her flat on the ground floor, but I knew you'd say no, so I switched our rooms. It's quite simple."
"Oh," he says. He knew this. It'd happened before, like argument about the eggs. This, this wild, rare phenomenon, was Sherlock showing that he cared. "Thank you."
Sherlock blushes and avoids his gaze, "Sentiment."
"Too right it is, but thanks all the same," he says, hobbling across the floor to his new room.
Sherlock has arranged the room exactly as John himself would have. The bed is far from the door (old army habit) and his gun is inside the bedside table. His dresser is across the room. On it is the cologne Mrs. Hudson bought him last Christmas, a dish of loose change, and a picture of Bagdad he'd taken from inside a helicopter.
He opens the drawers and frowns. Sherlock has implemented his sock index to…well. More than his socks. He shakes his head and smiles. Only Sherlock would think it was okay to rearrange someone's underwear.
He crawls into bed and ignores the feeling of dread that settles in his stomach. Bad things come in threes; this happiness will not last.
He waits for the other shoe to drop.
