I insisted we go to the crime scene. Lestrade phoned about a fresh murder ten blocks away and, despite John's disapproval, we took a cab to the home where the body lay.

It was a good morning. I had managed to get myself to the bedroom on my own before John got back and didn't attempt to rise until the next morning. A good night's sleep helped and my dizziness and the nausea was low as we got in the car. I was aware of the leery eye contact that John gave me as I walked and examined the body at the scene. He observed my every move, which grew quite annoying as I tried to deduce what had happened to the victim.

I know he talked to Lestrade as I worked in the other room. He was the only person that I wished to tell until the time grew closer. It would only make it difficult to work if I was to be surrounded by people who had pity for me along the contempt that they already felt. It would result in a complex emotion and I did not care to interact with them on that level until it was necessary. The only reason Lestrade was to be told was to arrange the subsequent criminal proceedings accordingly. If my body was to be found in the apartment then there was the chance that John could be implicated in the crime. I could do work on my end to ensure any suspicious party that I was taking the pills of my own volition and he nothing to do with it but there would still be questions and Lestrade would be able to close the case quickly and without needing to look into John's motives.

It was clear how the murder was done. I was surprised that they felt they needed me to come down to look. Even with a brain tumor the size of a tangerine I was able to figure it out before them. What were they going to do without me, I had to think. It's so clear. I gesture John over.

"What is it?" he asked.

While the dizziness has calmed, moving quickly is not within my power. Instead I have John get Lestrade and the others and bring them to me. Half a dozen officers surrounded the body and awaited the answer to the question they had all failed to figure out on their own. As Anderson and Lestrade came in closer, there a bolt of pain that shot between my eyes. I winced but was able to turn away from the officers before they could see me. John, however, saw it all. He began to move closer and I gestured him to back down. It throbbed but it was manageable. The case wass simple as was the deduction.

"So?" Lestrade said.

I breathed through the second bolt and began to speak with the vocal fluidity that had escaped me the last few days. "Charles Petre was a car collector who was behind on his mortgage. He was an enthusiast but not a wise investor. This house was up for foreclosure and he needed to sell his cars before they took his residence. As shown by the print-outs on his desk he was interested in selling the vehicles in order of newest to oldest. The 2005 is gone. The 2002 is gone. He has sold a number of his cars for little money. He was down to his vintage supply. Then he angered the seller. Email on his computer shows a Gregory Lawson. He was to sell him his prize possession. His—"

There was another bolt that seemed to crackle within my brain. The pain knocked the words from my mouth. What, mere seconds ago seemed so obvious, was now gibberish. I looked out at the officers who stared in confusion as I tried to finish my sentence but I could not think of the words. John stood beside Lestrade and his face fell as I looked at him. I tried to speak but I couldn't.

For the first time, I was scared. My heart pounded as I looked down at the dead Charles Petre. He died. How. Why. Damn it, Sherlock. Just say it. The picture is right in front of me. The car. It's a car. What car.

Why can't I just say it?

I point at the car and look towards John. "What is that?"

Lestrade chimed in. "A late-model Citroen?"

Citroen.

Of course.

I nod towards Lestrade. He knew now. John had told him everything since he had that same dazed look on his face. I hated it and I hated myself for not being able to push past this. "Citroen. He was selling his Citroen. Lawson killed him after a bad deal."

I can't say anymore. My jaw ached and I could feel the nausea setting in. Lestrade came in close and put his arm on my shoulder and subtely helped me stand up straight again. "That's enough. Thank you."

The night goes poorly. I can't stop the nausea and it got worse with every passing minute. As soon as we got home from the scene, John needed to walk me to the washroom where I spent the next hour vomiting every bit of food that I had eaten in the past week. My chest ached as I heaved and struggled to catch my breath between bouts of nausea. John would come in with a cold washcloth or a glass of water but there was little he could do. His faux cheery attitude poorly hid his medical worries. I had researched my condition and he knew the symptoms. This was just the beginning of the end.