"John? Are you sure?"
I insisted that Mycroft come to finalize the legal side of it all. He'd taken the news as I imagined he would. At first he was surprised then became practical. There were specialists that he could call and treatments that he had read about. When I told him of my plans he did not argue. He simply nodded, acknowledged the legal trouble that could get the accomplices in and then moved on when I told him that I had handled it. What I wanted from him was his official legal signature on the Power of Attorney papers that I needed done before my mental abilities began to be compromised.
"Yes. He is my doctor. He will make the correct decisions."
Mycroft didn't care for John and I understood his trepidation but I did not trust anyone but him to make the decisions for me.
"What about the flat? Your belongings?"
"John will have the flat. He can sell what he wishes, keep whatever else."
Mycroft scribbled on his notepad. "Have you told Mother?"
"No," I said, "I'd rather not worry her."
He looked up with surprise. "You aren't going to tell her at all?"
"No. There is nothing she can do at this point. Why burden her?"
I understood his frustration at keeping the secret from Mother but I had thought about this decision since the diagnosis. Mother was a nervous woman and would fret and fall apart at the notion of my illness. She would be on the next train to London and cook and clean and fuss over me like a child. I would still die but it would be on her terms, not mine.
Mycroft didn't argue. I knew that he wouldn't. "Understood."
"Thank you," I said.
He tapped the paper anxiously with his pen. It was the one tell that he had when he was nervous. Mycroft was skilled at keeping a poker face no matter the situation but he was incapable of calming his hands.
"Let me get this to the office and I'll come back for you and John to sign later today."
He leaves without another word.
John came home shortly after Mycroft leaves. He appears tired and rattled after, what I assume, was a tense interaction with Mycroft on the sidewalk.
"Sherlock," he said, "I was just speaking with your brother. I don't want your things."
I sit up in the chair and concentrate my energy into focusing on John's figure in front of me. "There is no reason to keep my equipment around. This is your home. You may do with it as you wish."
"I don't want to stay here…" he begins to say.
I had assumed John would want to stay in the flat after I was gone. This was his home and there was no reason besides sentiment to move away. John was an emotional person, always attaching such romanticism to the most mundane of objects.
"If you wish."
He brought his hands to a fist at his side—angry and frustrated. "Sherlock, why can't you just act like a normal person. I mean, Jesus, I feel like I'm talking about some distant relative's terminal illness and not yours. How can you be speaking about your death like it's nothing."
His words were shocking but not surprising. "There is no reason not to plan for the inevitable."
"Aren't you scared?"
The words came out before I had a chance to stop myself from speaking them. "Of course."
He stopped. The fists loosened.
Was that the truth or just what he wanted to hear? I wasn't so sure myself. There was a large part of me that felt such tremendous guilt for what John's had to endure. On my end, I was simply fading away. One day I would be here and the next I would not. John had to watch it all occur without control over how and when it would ultimately end.
The blindness began when I woke up the next morning. There was a pounding in my temple that awoke me in the middle of the night. I went to take one of the pain medications that John had provided me when I noticed my depth perception was compromised. It took me a moment to realize that it was my right eye. At that point the vision had only been compromised, like the blur of opening one's eyes underwater.
It wasn't until we were preparing for an afternoon walk that the vision faded completely.
I didn't want to tell John. When we began the walk I was able to stand up on my own I felt an unusual sense of energy as we stepped out onto the sidewalk. It was like nothing had changed.
The park was three blocks away. With each step I felt the strain in my muscles and the nausea and dizziness begin to take over. The blindness had caused me to stray to the left and I kept bumping into John's shoulder which only served to increase his worry. At first I spoke about the case and about the connection to an earlier case I had worked on but partway through the story I lost track of the details. John attempted to fill in the gaps but gave up soon after. He told a story about a patient of his at the clinic but I had trouble following the chain of events. The pain had grown stronger and seemed to create a sense of white noise within my synapses. Every time I felt I understood and processed his story I realized that he had moved on and I was once again behind. I continued to nod and appeared to listen but even that grew nearly impossible.
As we got to the corner of the park, I could no longer continue. I felt nauseous and weak and nearly collapsed if it hadn't been for John's quick reflexes. He caught me few from the benches and helped me onto the seat. It did like to help but with the weight off my feet allowed me to focus long enough to speak.
I point to my eye.
"What is it?"
"The vision," I said. "It's gone."
His face falls. "When?"
"An hour or so ago."
His skin grows pale. "You should have told me."
I don't quite now why I didn't. Any answer I gave would make him angry so I decide to stay quiet.
All I want is to end this. I want it to continue that way it used to. I hate the way he has to look at me now—like a worried parents fussing over a child. I wish I was stronger.
"Could we go home?"
"Of course," he said.
As we waited for the cab to arrive, I watched the children run down the path with such ease and happiness. Their worries were long past and their futures were far-reaching. I knew that I would never live long—even as a child I sensed my life would be short. I never expected this to be how it ended. Always I had envisioned a life that concluded with a fall from a mountain or a shot from a criminal's gun. I cultivated a life of risks and I assumed one day that I would not come out alive.
This was not how I wanted it to end.
As I huddled close to John and prayed for sleep to come, I felt a sense of disappointment. So many years of fine-tuning my mind to a perfect instrument and this was how it repaid me. If it wasn't so dire, it would be almost humorous. My tool turned against me.
We sat in silence waiting for the cab and I could feel that each moment was counting down precious seconds. It wouldn't be long. If I wanted to control this, it would need to be done soon.
"John," I said. "I want to do it Friday."
"What?" he asked.
I didn't want to say it any more than he wanted to hear it.
"It's so soon. Two days. Sherlock…"
Two days would be an eternity. "Please. It's what I want."
He nods and looks back out towards the roads. I can see the tears that form in his eyes.
There's a date.
We wait on the bench…
We wait for Friday to come.