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The wind was knocked out of my lungs as if I had been punched in the stomach; actually I wished that I had. It would have been less painful. My lungs were frozen in my chest for a few horrible seconds; when I finally managed to get air into them, my chest hurt.

"W-what…..happened?" I managed to stutter out. I was desperate to not become a sniveling mess in front of Michael; especially not until I had gotten all the information I possibly could.

Michael's face was a mask of pain; not his own pain but someone else's. Mine. It was the look I'd had so my face many times when I had had to deliver tragic news to someone. That face you had when you knew that what you were saying was going to change that person's life. "He collapsed" Michael said, " He was in the middle of a class and he just collapsed."

The image of Sherlock collapsing amid his brilliant ramblings was pitiful. He must really be sick for this to happen in front of all his students. I didn't understand; he had been fine this morning. Sure, he hadn't eaten or drank anything and he had overslept but those were not abnormal things, for Sherlock at least. Not now.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth before I can manage to stutter out " Do they know why yet?"

If I thought the look of sympathy on Michael's face was bad before, I didn't now. His face fell even further and a grimace crossed his continuance. " John, sit down" he said, motioning to the chair beside me.

"No, no I don't need to sit" I argued. "Just tell me" I knew what it would mean if I sat; if I sat terrible things would happen. As long as I was standing, the world couldn't end.

Michael spoke quietly. "John, really, you need to sit" he said. "The other doctors told me it would be best if I told you"

I could feel my eyes stinging, and a lump forming in my throat but I choked it down. " I can't…" I rasped out, fearful of the tone of my own voice.

Michael put a hand on my arm and gently sat me in the chair, sitting in the one across from me. "Sherlock's really sick John" he said gently. "He has been a for a while now"

This information doesn't make sense to me; Sherlock isn't sick. He's brilliant, strong, inhuman at times even. He isn't sick….he doesn't do that. "What-what do you…..what do you mean?" I stuttered out.

"It's his kidneys, they're failing" Michael said simply. He's not looking at me and I'm not looking at him. I'm staring down at my feet, surprised that they are still planted on the ground; I feel like I'm floating away. " They have been for a while."

"What….how long?" I managed to ask. "How could he not know?"

Michael looks uncomfortable. "He did know. He's known for two years now. He's been doing dialysis twice a week. He was doing fine until a few weeks ago; but then his body stopped responding to the treatment." he said.

The room around me is dissolving away; black colors the edge of my vision and I grip the arms of the chair for support. I feel like I'm going to fall out of the chair if I don't hold on. "How long?" I somehow manage to ask. I know deep down that there is no other question to ask at this point.

Michael grimaces again and that makes my stomach drop further. "A few weeks at the most" he says. "And that's assuming he stays in the hospital, which he is refusing to do."

I possibly can't breathe. A few weeks…..that's all I have. I put my hands on my head and close my eyes. This isn't happening, this isn't happening….maybe if I say it enough I will make it true. I feel a pain, sharp and deep in chest; the pain is familiar but worse this time. My weakened heart is trying to fail me….maybe I should let it.

Michael sits in silence for a long time, not pushing me by saying anything or making me say anything. I hold my hand to my chest until the pain becomes bearable; because it doesn't go away, it just becomes less severe. Finally I speak. "Can you give me a minuet?" I ask unsteadily.

Michael looks at me knowingly and nods his head. "Sure….of course." He says, "They are putting him in room 1417. Just come up when you are ready." He stands, pausing before he walks away. He places a hand on my shoulder and gives me a reassuring squeeze. "I am so sorry John"

I know his words are meant to comfort me but at the moment nothing could possibly bring me comfort. Not when the world has stopped.

Michael had only just shut the door when I lost it completely. I put my hands in my lap and weep senselessly. I cry so hard that the sobs make the pain in my heart hurt even worse. I don't even care; he's dying and that's all that matters to me. He's all that matters to me…..

I let myself do all the crying that I could possibly do; when I see Sherlock I can't possibly do this so I have to get it out now. I don't even try to wipe the tears or mucus away; I crumple off the chair into the floor in a mess, my face smeared. I lie on the floor and tuck my legs up to my chest, continuing to sob until nothing comes out anymore and it's a dry hiccupping pathetic sound that comes out of me. When my body can no longer produce any tears, I sit up and stare at the wall, wiping the mess off my face with my sleeve. My stomach and chest ache, my face is raw from the crying. I give myself plenty of time to sit and recover from my spell; I don't want Sherlock to know I've been crying.

I sit and watch the clock on the wall, slowly ticking by the seconds of this miserable life. I should be at home with Sherlock. We should be having lunch; I should be eating my lunch and listening to Sherlock rant about how his students are so dull. He should be shouting at the crappy daytime telly and insulting my intelligence for watching it. He should be sitting in front of me, well and vibrant. But instead he's in a hospital room somewhere and I'm sitting here sobbing senselessly.

Tick, tick, tick….a few weeks. The realization is positively horrible. It's so little time; I'm not prepared. For a moment it all doesn't seem real; 20 minutes ago I was sitting at my desk waiting for lunch. Now I'm sitting in the floor preparing to see Sherlock, knowing he's fading from me.

When I feel that sufficient time has passed, when my face is dry and no longer red from the crying, I pull myself up from the floor and get prepared to walk out the door. I've spent too long crying; I should be with him. There will be plenty of time for crying later….

I step out of my office and walk through the hallways to Sherlock's room. The hospital seems so loud and racing around me; but I feel as though I'm frozen. My feet walk as if in slow motion. All around me people are carrying on; doctors are working, nurses are chatting, babies being born, people dying, laughter, tears. Life, death….it's all so horrible I want to scream.

When I reach Sherlock's room I pause outside for a moment. My chest still hurts and I'm not sure it has to just do with my weak heart. I don't want to see him like this. The rock, the one that's always been strong; to see him weak is like accepting that superheroes can die. The knowledge changes the way you view the world in a horrible way.

I step into the room and see him lying there in the hospital bed. I'm glad he's not hooked to a ton of machines; rather he's just lying there as if he's just in for a bit and planning to leave soon, which I guess he probably is. Though he still looks like Sherlock, I see the pain that creases his face slightly, the way his color is even paler than normal. He's tired.

I'm standing there not sure what to say. Sherlock looks at me from his spot on the bed and I don't know what I was expecting him to say. Not what he did say.

"Oh God, they told you, didn't they?" He asks exasperated as he rolls his eyes in true Sherlock fashion.