I'm posting an extra chapter tonight just because I can. Hope you like this one!

Chapter 4 – Of Transience and Wine

"We're out of milk."

I glance up from my bowl of pasta. Sherlock is sitting in his usual seat at Angelo's, looking out the window at nothing in particular. He's vacantly fiddling with the corner of his napkin, lounged in his chair in a way that shouldn't be possible for legs that long. He hasn't stolen the tomatoes on my side salad yet.

"Why are you telling me this?" I know perfectly well why he's telling me this.

"You know perfectly well why I'm telling you this.

Yep.

"I can't go shopping tonight, Sherlock. It's late."

He hums cryptically.

I roll my eyes.

Angelo refills our wine glasses, even though Sherlock hasn't touched his and I've only taken a sip of mine.

Sherlock glares at a passing couple through the window.

I glare at Sherlock.

It's been like this for the past week, ever since the gay bar incident. Sherlock brings up everything and nothing all at once, and I'm left to figure out what in the hell he's talking about. There haven't been any other cases, yet he doesn't seem overly bored. The bruising is still there, sending twinges through his rib cage when he moves too quickly. He doesn't talk about it and I don't ask, but he still comes to me every day and wordlessly lets me check his ribs to make sure they're healing. It's an odd thing, seeing Sherlock shirtless on a daily basis. Before the attack, that didn't happen often. Sure, there were days where he'd walk around in his sheet or duvet, but otherwise he was thoroughly covered.

The most miraculous thing about it all is the fact that he seems almost nervous about it. Whether it's the proximity or the embarrassment of actually being injured (which is ridiculous because I'm a doctor and have seen pretty much every stupid injury there is to see), he refuses to make eye contact, and barely speaks.

"Sherlock."

He tilts his head slightly in my direction, still looking outside. "Hm?"

I set down my fork and lean across the table. "Is something wrong? You've been acting odd for weeks. Odder than usual," I have to add.

I don't expect him to look at me. I expect him to huff and brush off my question like every other time I've asked. But he doesn't.

Pale, enigmatic eyes meet mine. He doesn't say anything immediately, but his face isn't closed off and I can read more than he verbalizes. It's like he's letting me read him before he even says a word. Something is bothering him. Obviously. It's not quite fear, more like extreme bewilderment. Like a puzzle he can't quite solve. Nothing dangerous, or I would (hopefully) know about it.

He blinks before speaking. "Mycroft isn't well."

If my eyebrows could have shot up any farther, they wouldn't be on my head anymore. "And you're actually concerned?"

Sherlock looks like he's been slapped.

I mentally throttle myself. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. That's not what I—" Cutting myself off, I rub my face with my hands and look back at my friend.

"Contrary to popular belief, John, I do have a heart."

I gulp down some wine, wishing I could take back what I had said and wipe the hurt expression off of Sherlock's face. "Shit, I know that. I know. I'm sorry."

We're both silent a moment.

"What does he…?"

"Cancer."

"Jesus."

Another silence. I figure out in the short seconds that this must have been what Mycroft had come to tell Sherlock all those weeks ago. It wasn't really the skull that had him upset.

This time, it's Sherlock to speak.

"It's not terminal, and he's getting treatments." He crumples his napkin in his hand, then adds quietly, "That seemed like something you'd want to know."

I think before I speak this time. "I seriously don't know what to say, Sherlock. No clue."

The detective actually quirks a small smile. "That's considerably better than your first comment."

I shake my head in self-deprecation. "I'm human. Mistakes. Sorry."

His face becomes empty again, only a touch of disquiet showing in his eyes. "Do stop apologizing."

Somehow, I get the feeling that the actions and the words have very little to do with each other.

Sherlock picks up his wine glass for the first time that night and drinks a good portion before pulling it away from his lips and studying it. "Mortality."

I can't be sure I've heard it. "Sorry, what?"

"I suppose we're all human in the end, John.

It affects him more than I thought it would, honestly. He's quieter, almost pensive. There's violin playing in the middle of the night, silence for days on end. Actually, it's pretty normal. Except it's not.

It starts with the morbid statements.

"Lestrade, you should call your mother before she's dead."

"Donovan, your cat died this morning. Cab hit her. Condolences."

"Mrs. Hudson, I do believe you should start getting your affairs in order."

Or my personal favorite:

"I suppose I ought to begin the search for a compatible female to carry my child. Someone has to take my place when I'm gone."

Then there was the day when he walked around London holding the skull (which we finally found in the bathroom cupboard, of all places) under his arm.

"Sherlock, you're going to scare someone with that thing."

"We're all skeletons, John. Walking, talking skeletons."

It goes without saying that Sherlock is burning bridges quickly.

The first time I see Mycroft since I found out, he looks fairly normal. Perhaps a bit paler, and Sherlock has no reason to tease him about his weight anymore, but overall, good.

Mycroft sits in my chair and sips tea.

Sherlock sits across from him and plucks his violin.

Mycroft watches his brother.

Sherlock looks at everything except his brother.

It goes pretty well, I think.

The problem, I believe, isn't that Mycroft has cancer. I suppose it's more the fact that his formerly immune and immortal brother has now become very much mortal. There's something about that type of thing that reminds a man that he too will die someday.

Okay, so I've gone dark and morbid with this. I apologize. Sherlock is really not that sick and twisted about the whole thing.

I watch as he submerges a pair of ears into two beakers. "What the hell are you doing?"

He doesn't look up. "Cartilage."

That's all the answer I'm going to get.

Back to the former. To be completely honest, I haven't the slightest idea as to what's running through the genius's head. He seems well composed (as well composed as Sherlock Holmes can be between cases) and would never in his life come right out and say he's worried about his brother. I can tell he is, though. Sibling rivalry (if that's what it is) can only go so far, even for a "sociopath."

I deduce, in the end, though, Sherlock Holmes is realizing that he's actually human. He'd told me as much in Angelo's, though at the time I took it as him saying everyone makes mistakes. I think differently now. It's one thing to fake a death, and a completely different one to actually die.

Temporary versus permanent, transient versus eternal.

Now I'm just rambling.

Reviews appreciated. :) -C