I was bored so here's another update :) Enjoy! Please review and follow!
I'm taken aback by his response; so carefree, so nonchalant. He acts as though he's talking about them telling me what's for dinner rather than them telling me that he's dying.
"What?" I croak out. I wish I could have thought of something to say but that was the best my shattered mind could come up with.
Sherlock surveys me with a look as if I am stupid. " Those bloody doctors told you" he says. " It's obvious in the way that you are carrying yourself, the color in your face, your still slightly red eyes. They told you."
Despite the circumstances I feel slightly embarrassed that he can see through me that easily. I really didn't want him to know I had been crying about it. Though I feel in that moment that my weakness is a lot better than his callous at this whole thing. He doesn't even seem upset.
I cross the room and take a seat in the chair beside him, looking at him closer. Despite the way that he's talking I can tell by the way he lays, the color in his face, the light out of his eyes that he feels horrible. He's so pale that he could just blend in with the sheets. Somehow he seems smaller than I remember.
"Well, it's a good thing that someone told me" I say, taking pride in the fact that I can keep my voice steady. "Sherlock, honestly. Why didn't you tell me?"
Sherlock huffs. "I was going to tell you, I just hadn't yet" he says defensively.
"Really, when were you planning on telling me?" I ask, my tone rising slightly. I'm upset that he hid this for all this time. I could have been cherishing the time that we had left and now that I know, times almost up. It so like Sherlock, just to not tell me.
"When I needed to" Sherlock said simply, looking down at the bed and not me.
Silence hangs in the air for a minute before I speak. " Two years now…..why didn't you tell me?" I ask.
Sherlock looks up at me, neutrality in his features. "What could you have done, John? Telling you would not have prevented my illness; I would have still been sick whether you knew or not. It saved your heart a lot of trouble" he seems to understand how he worded that and adds. "You know, after the heart attack and all. I was informed of my condition shortly after you became unwell"
That's when the whole thing dawns on me. After the heart attack Sherlock decided that it would be best to put the consulting work behind him and do something easier. I always assumed it was because of me. But it wasn't; Sherlock had to stop because his health was declining. I should have seen it really; Sherlock would have never have given up the work that he loved so much if there was any other choice. He knew that I, and everyone else, would assume that it had to do with me since I couldn't do it anymore. That's what Sherlock wanted; he didn't want anyone to know that it had anything to do with him.
I angry with myself; I should have seen it. How could I live with him for past two years and not know something was wrong? I just put it all up to aging….I should have none better. Sherlock isn't a normal person; he's not like anyone else.
I hang my head. "Sherlock, there might have been something I could do" I say desperately. " We're the same blood type, maybe they could have done a transplant." I don't know where this reply comes from, but I meant it genuinely.
Sherlock smiles; a genuine, warm smile. "John that is very kind of you" he says, knowing I meant it. "But I could hardly have asked you to do that"
"You wouldn't have had to" I say simply. I'm glad at this moment that I did all my crying already because it my body had any tears left they would be threatening to come out now. If he had told me, I would have done it without a second thought.
"I know I wouldn't have" Sherlock said. "All the more reason to not tell you. John, you were very ill. Your body would not have survived that kind of operation. To even ask would have been tremendously selfish"
I know he's right and yet I still want to be angry. I want to be angry at him for not telling me. I want to be angry because he didn't allow me the chance to do anything. I want to be angry because he didn't give me time. But I can't be angry at him; I never could do that very well.
I don't know what to say; Sherlock isn't talking either. There is so much that needs to be said, and yet we aren't saying it. I know Sherlock won't bring it up and I don't want to either. I look down at my hands; the clock in this room is ticking annoyingly loud as well, telling me with each tick that time it slipping from me. Finally, Sherlock breaks the silence.
"John, let's go home" he says.
I open my mouth to argue with him; I am going to tell him that he has to stay here, that he's sick and the doctors need to take care of him. But then I look at him; so pale, so tired, and yet what I see most is sadness. Its only there for a second, and then he recovers, covering it with the mask of neutrality that he's put on so well.
"Okay, let's go" I say, standing up and looking for Sherlock's things.