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I woke the next morning and for a few glorious seconds I forgot what had happened the previous day. I heard rain pounding gently on the roof and I lay and listened to it for a while, coming out of my drowsy state. But then I felt my heart giving a stabbing pain, as if to remind me. The events of the day came rushing back to me in a blurring fashion, coming down on me like a hurricane. The force of it hit me so hard that it took my breath away. I allowed myself a few moments to lay in bed and sorrow over it; then I put a neutral mask on my face and left my room. If Sherlock wanted to act as though nothing had happened, which he obviously did, then I would do my best to play along with the act.

I went into the kitchen and began a pot of tea; Sherlock wasn't up yet. I looked vaguely at the food that was lying on the counter and thought that I probably should eat something. I hadn't eaten since yesterday at breakfast but my stomach rolled at the mere thought of food. I made a few pieces of toast and determined to force them down. I took the toast and the tea into the living room and sat down. I poured myself a cup of tea and then another one for Sherlock. I placed the cup on his side of the table and then stared at my toast vacantly. I wasn't sure why I had decided to make it because I felt like I was going to vomit.

I stared out the window for a while when I heard sound coming from Sherlock's room. A moment later he emerged, hair disheveled and eyes tired. He moved slowly to the door and picked up the paper before coming to the table. He sat down in his seat across from me and looked at the cup of tea that I had sat on his spot. He didn't seem to want it but he took a few small sips from it before opening the paper and surveying it. I was aware that I wasn't doing anything but sitting there and in an effort to look busy I began to eat my toast. It was horrendously dry and felt like cardboard in my mouth but somehow I managed to choke it down. As I finished my toast, Sherlock set the paper down on the table and put his fingers together, looking out the window. Thinking.

"What should we do today?" I asked. I was trying to make it sound normal, like a day off. Only we never just had days off, so it sounded strange.

Sherlock stared out the window. "Let's take a walk" he said distantly. I stare out the window at the rain that's pouring down; it's an odd request to me but he's not pushing me away and that's enough for me.

….

An hour later Sherlock and I were strolling along the street the street in the rain. I held the umbrella in the middle so that we were both kept as dry as possible. The weather was horrible; it was freezing cold and the rain never ceased. I was surprised that the rain was not snow; our breath came out in little puffs.

Despite the umbrella my pants and shoes were soon soaked and I was freezing. Sherlock was shivering too and I noticed alarmingly how slow he was walking. I could tell that he was in pain though he was doing a really good way of hiding it. Finally we came to the park; it was deserted in this horrible weather. We walked to a small stone bridge that crossed a small stream in the middle of the park and this is where Sherlock stopped. I stopped alongside him and we both gazed down at the water that was passing underneath us.

After a while, Sherlock spoke. " I wish this was snow" he said looking off at the rain. "I'd like to see some snow"

"I don't think it will be too long before it is snow." I said. I don't say what I'm thinking; that even though it is soon, I'm not sure he will be here when it does happen.

Sherlock starred off into sky. " I am sorry John" he said, not looking at me.

I was taken aback by this sudden apology. "What for?" I asked.

"All this" Sherlock said. "For being so deceptive"

I didn't know what to say which was okay because he carried on. "I was going to tell you. I just didn't want to bring this out until it was…..almost time. When they told me that I wasn't responding to the treatment anymore, I knew that it was time to tell you. And I really was…..I just couldn't find the words." His voice seems to crack a little at the end, almost as if emotion is getting the better of him. But he was too good for that. He recovered quickly. With a little chuckle he said, "And then I have to do something like bloody pass out in front of all those sniveling idiots. I'd love to know which one called the hospital. I'd fail him."

He chuckled but I wasn't fooled. In the subtle tone of his voice I read the embarrassment, hurt, pain, fear that he is hiding so well. No one else would ever see it, but I did. Perhaps it was from being around him so long; I like to think his powers of deduction had rubbed off a little on me. But I pretended that I didn't notice any of this; I gave him a small smile that I didn't feel and said, "Well that git deserves no less"

Sherlock smiled again, and it was a little more genuine this time. "I really hate them all anyway" he said.

I pretended that I didn't read through the lines of that one too. "Yeah I know you do." I said.

We lingered there for a long time, discussing the stupidity of the human race, before Sherlock took the lead and began to walk again. He was even slower on the way back and it alarmed me. He was shivering extensively and I was worried about him; I guess I shouldn't have been worried he would catch a cold. That was the most ridiculous ever.

When we got back to the flat I made a fire in the fireplace to warm the place up. I was shivering almost as much as Sherlock was and I was anxious to get changed. I went to my room with some reluctance; it had been nice to walk and talk with him even in the freezing cold rain. I was afraid when I came out of the bedroom I would find him locked away again, hiding from me.

I changed quickly, peeling my wet clothes off and drying quickly with a towel before putting on my warmest pajamas. I still didn't feel warm; I didn't think any amount of clothing would get rid of the chill that seemed almost constant to me since yesterday. I was drying my hair with the towel as I came back into the living room , hoping to see Sherlock there. But I didn't. I felt my heart drop, sensing that Sherlock was going to freeze me out again. Maybe that was why I still shivered despite the fact I was in dry clothes now. I noticed one of Sherlock's dressing gowns thrown over the arm of the couch; I took it and put it on myself, wrapping it tightly around myself; maybe if I squeezed tight enough I could hold myself together.

I let my head fall on my chest against the dressing gown that was on me; it smelled like Sherlock. I breathed the scent in deeply; it was a nice smell. Not a smell I could describe with any words, just that it was nice.

I noticed that Sherlock's bedroom door was cracked slightly. I knew that I was being a nuisance but I couldn't help it; I walked to the door and knocked gently. I was very surprised when he said, "Come in"

I pushed the door open to see Sherlock sitting on the floor by his bed, leaning against it. He was dressed in his own pajamas, his curls still damp upon his head. There were books, papers, files, photos strewn all around him. It took me a second to figure out exactly what he was doing; when I did, it made me sad down to my core. They were case files; the cases we had solved. He was remembering them.

"Do you need something John?" He asked, looking up at me. I could see his eyes notice his dressing gown on me and the no-doubt defeated way I was standing but he didn't say anything. He was trying to keep things as normal as possible; acknowledge the illness as little as possible.

"I was just…." I stuttered. I felt silly; I couldn't tell him I just desperately wanted to be with him all the time. "Just wanted to see if you wanted some lunch or something"

Sherlock gave me a pleasant smile. "Are you having anything?" he asked.

Of course I hadn't been thinking about lunch; the toast I'd had earlier still felt like a weight in my stomach. Sherlock knew this of course; he knew I wasn't going to eat unless he made an effort to eat too. "Maybe I'll just make some soup" I said after a while.

Sherlock smiled, pleased with himself. " Get me some too?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'll be back in a moment." I said, making my way back out the door and to the kitchen. I heated up two bowls of soup; my stomach rolled at the smell of it, but I was going to make an effort if Sherlock was.

I took the soup back to Sherlock's room; I handed him the bowl, hoping that he would let me stay. "Thanks" Sherlock said as he took the soup from me. I was happy when he moved some of the files that were sitting next to him, making a spot for me. I sat down beside him and leaned against the bed. Sherlock and I took small sips of soup; neither of us wanted to eat but refused to give in lest the other one stop eating. I would notice Sherlock start to move his bowl aside and I would do the same; he'd see me out of the corner of his eye and take his bowl back. After what seemed like forever, we both finish up out lunch; I felt very queasy and sick to my stomach but at least it had succeeded in warming me up.

As we put our bowls aside, I surveyed the files that were strewn around me. I smiled when I noticed a very familiar one. It was one I had named "A study in pink" for my blog. Sherlock had always rolled his eyes at my names for our cases.

When Sherlock noticed the file I had in my hand he smiled too. " I'm not surprised you'd go for that one first" he noted.

"Well, it was the first, after all" I said.

"The first for you" Sherlock said slyly. "I had a very productive career going before you showed up"

I snickered. "Which would have been over if I hadn't showed up" I said.

"Oh , you think you're that good?" Sherlock asks, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes, I do" I said "You were going to take that bloody pill til I showed up and saved you"

Sherlock smiled. A little innocent smile I didn't see often; one he just reserved for me. "I knew I had the right pill. There was no chance I was wrong."

"Sure" I said.

We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening looking over case files. We discussed the cases we had worked over the years. We laughed, we kid each other; we never talk about the matter at hand. Never once dis we discuss why we are looking at the files.

It was early night when I noticed Sherlock starting to wane; he'd be talking and stop abruptly, head drooped down, nodding off. He fought it several times, jerking his head up abruptly. But eventually he couldn't fight it anymore and his head remained slumped. It was early; Sherlock was sleeping more. I began to wonder how much time he was going to be asleep over the next days. He was losing energy; he was in pain and it was taking a lot of energy to fight it.

I tried to shake him, to get him to get up just long enough to fall back into bed, but he was out cold. I walked around so that I was in front of him and put my arms under his arms, lifting him up; he hardly weighed anything. How had I not noticed that he was losing weight? I backed him up until he was against the bed and laid him down. I pulled the covers over him and turned him so that he was lying on his side; he didn't like to sleep on his back.

I was hoping when I looked at his face that I would see his face might have been eased a little from the way that it looked last night. But when I looked at it, I didn't see that; I saw the mask of pain again. Even in his sleep he couldn't get any relief.

My loneliness and sadness came back to weighing on me without Sherlock to talk to; we weren't laughing and talking anymore and I therefor had nothing else to distract me from the thoughts of why we were here. At least I didn't want to cry this time; but I did feel that crushing depression that I had felt the night before.

I really tried to be quiet and gentle as I climbed up onto Sherlock's bed; he was passed out so it shouldn't have been hard, I mused. But the slight sound and movement that the bed made from me getting onto it was enough to make him stir. "Don't John" he said, eyes still closed. "We talked about this last night"

I wasn't surprised that he said this, but still it stung. I couldn't understand how he could bear to be alone at a time like this especially at night. The thought of it was oppressive to me. It was obvious that he didn't need me as much as I needed him. Feeling wounded and embarrassed at showing him how weak I was, I climbed out of bed and left his room. This time he didn't say anything and either did I.

My room was too dark and sad and I couldn't bear the thought of going there. So instead I laid down on the couch and turned the telly on. I didn't watch it; I just had to have something that was making sound and noise to keep the darkness from completely closing in on me. I stared blankly at the telly screen until my eyes burned. I shut them tightly and tried to sleep. It was a long battle to get to sleep; I pulled the dressing gown tightly around me and held on to the one thing I had of Sherlock. I pulled it towards my face and took a small consolation in Sherlock's scent. My heart was hurting, stabbing deeply; I really just wished that it would give out on me.