The week that follows is much of the same. Sherlock and I spend most of the days looking through case files and discussing the cases that have been our life for years and avoiding the conversation that needs to be said. Every night I tried to climb into bed with him, but he never let me stay.

But every day Sherlock declines in very noticeable ways; he sleeps longer, goes to bed earlier, stops eating. He moves slower and pain is more distinguishable on his face. Every day it hurts a little more to see him. My heart begins to hurt more until there is an almost constant stabbing pain in my chest. Sherlock is fading away from me slowly and I feel myself fading as well. Wherever he is going, that's where I want to go.

I try to help him, but he won't let me; no matter how much pain he is in he insists on doing everything by himself. He's doing everything that he can to pretend that everything is normal and its infuriating. Because he isn't okay. On day five after finding out about his illness, I find him throwing up in the bathroom; he can't stop for what seems like forever. On day six, he passes out on his way to the bathroom. On day seven, he never gets out of bed. He sleeps all day; I spend much of the day sitting in a chair by his bed, just watching him. There is no color in his face at all and he seems gaunt even more so than a week ago. His breath is labored and he doesn't stir. That was the day that I became really scared.

On day eight, I wake up to snow. My bedroom is filled with white light so that when I open my eyes it seems incredibly bright. The whiteness stings my forever raw eyes. I was filled with a complete sadness as I crossed the room, pulling back the curtains and see a thick blanket of snow on the ground. I think of Sherlock's words from a week ago "I'd like to see some snow"

The snow finally came and I feared that he was too sick to see it.

I was staring out the window at the big flakes that were falling down on Baker Street when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around and saw Sherlock standing in my doorway. He looked absolutely horrible; his paleness was offset with a greenish sickly color, he was breathing heavy and he was hunched over as if he could barely stand. He was in so much pain that he couldn't even hide it from me.

"Sherlock, need something?" I asked, standing up and walking over to him.

Of all things, he smiled at me. "It's snowing" he said. "Let's go for a walk"

True to his stubbornness of the rest of the week, he didn't allow me to help him get dressed; it took him about ten times longer than it should. When we were both finally dressed and ready, we depart 221B. When we stepped out of the door and onto the side walk, Sherlock looked up and stared at the sky. The snow was truly, amazingly beautiful. It fell down from the sky like diamonds, slowly drifting down to us. As Sherlock looked up at the sky, he began to laugh. He closed his eyes and let the snow fall on him, touching his face and getting lost in his hair. I couldn't help but smile at him; it was almost like things were normal for a second.

Sherlock opened his eyes and put his hands out in front of him, catching snowflakes. I don't know how long he stood like that, just admiring the snow. It was a long time and I enjoyed every second of it immensely. After a while, Sherlock begins to walk and I follow him.

We walk to the park, to the same bridge that we walked to a week ago in the rain. It takes us three times as long on this trip than it did the first time. Sherlock had to stop several times and catch his breath; I felt like suggesting we go back but I don't. If this is what he wanted to be doing I would do anything to make sure it happened.

Finally we reached the small stone bridge that was now covered in snow. The water that had been freely flowing under us then is now solid ice. I leaned against the bridge and look over at him; he was still gazing at the snow that was falling down, a smile on his face.

"Beautiful isn't it?" I asked, holding my own hand out and catching a snowflake, watching it melt in my hand.

Sherlock nods. He is so pale that he could blend in with the snow, " I'm glad I got to see it, one last time" he said.

He said it so nonchalantly, so care freely. There isn't any sadness in his voice at all. It's like he almost doesn't understand what he is saying. That he is saying he will never see snow again. Because he will be gone.

The weight of everything that this means to me comes crashing down on me like a brick wall. Most likely in a few days he would be gone and I would be alone .The stabbing in my chest became almost unbearable; I could feel tears pooling in my eyes as my lip began to quiver. I tried as hard as I could to hold the tears in; I promised that I would not cry in front of him. But I found that I simply couldn't stop; part of me was being pulled away and it was leaving me with a huge hole in my chest.

The tears began to spill over my eyelids and fall down my face. My sobs were soundless, but they shook my body. Once I started, I couldn't stop; I was in so much pain. I put my hands on my face as if I could cover the fact that I was crying. Even if I could cover the sound of my muffled sniffling, I still couldn't fool Sherlock.

He allowed me a few minutes of crying before he intruded upon me. "John, please don't do this. Not right now. Please" he said.

I wiped my face with my hand and sniffled, looking at him. But I couldn't stop; he was leaving me. Damn this universe and the forces that were pulling him from me; I hated them all. It shouldn't be possible to feel this much pain and still be alive; I just wanted to die too. Why couldn't this world at least be that merciful that it could at least let me die?

"I wish it was me" I manage to sob out. I looked down at our feet, where snow was beginning to settle. I do wish it was me; it would be so much easier that way. Sherlock would morn my death, sure, but he would manage to go on. I don't think I can.

I hang my head and sob. I cried until the tears began to roll down my face, down to my chin and drip off. I was surprised when Sherlock reached over, put his hand to my face and wiped off my tears. His hand was so warm; it reminded me he was still here. I looked up at him in surprise. His eyes are filled with emotion, though I couldn't read what yet.

"I don't" Sherlock said softly. He looked at me and I could tell that he genuinely meant it. He didn't want to go through what I was; but he didn't understand. "Please stop crying"

"I can't" I wail shamelessly. "Don't you understand? You….. I feel like I'm pulling away on the inside. My heart, my soul, is ripping away inside me and it's unbearable! You'd do so much better if I was the one dying"

"Why is that?" Sherlock asked. It sounded almost angry, as if my assumption that I care more hurt him. "Why do you think it'd be easier for me?"

"Because you would be able to move on eventually" I said, choking on my own tears. "Eventually you'd get past it, get over it and I can't….because…." I take in a shaky breath, my lungs stinging from the cold air and the pain in my chest. "Because I…."

Somehow Sherlock knew what I was going to say; of course he did, he's Sherlock and that's what he does. Before I can say it, Sherlock takes my face in hands and looks at me. I see so many things in that face hat I've never seen before. His face is intense, with pain, emotion. His eyes actually have tears in them and I can tell he's struggling to keep them inside. He grips my face tightly and I put my hands on his wrists. "Don't, John don't say it, please" he begs me.

"Why?" I asked. It was so quiet it was almost a whisper, just a breath.

"You're making it too hard on me John" Sherlock said, desperation in his voice. " I can't take it"

"I'm sorry" I stumble out, holding back my tears and determining to be strong for him. His words were so few and yet I was able to read everything in them that he wanted me to. It is hard for him; maybe just as hard for him as it is for me. My breakdown was making it harder for him to stay strong. He had pushed me away and ignored the situation this long so that he could try to forget about the pain. It was hard enough to accept that we were being separated. If I said those three little words, even just once, it would become real and if it was real neither of us could stand it. The pain of our loss was already too much; we couldn't stand to lose anymore. But I wanted to say them so terribly bad; for him to know I felt them, had always felt them. But selfishly, I wanted to know that he felt it too; I wanted to hear him tell me. I knew deep down that he felt it, but I wanted to hear it. Just this once.