CREDIT BELONGS WHERE CREDIT IS DUE

Chapter 11

As John left, he called in the doctor to speak with Sherlock; he could not do it himself. It hurt him too much, this was too personal. John had given more than his fair share of depressing diagnoses to patients; it was time for the doctor to give his. Sherlock's doctor was middle-aged, but due to the stress of the profession he looked at least five times older. He was a widower with three children, clearly obvious given the status of his wedding band, speech patterns and disposition. He was intelligent and got straight to the point, didn't make an effort for small talk. Sherlock appreciated that; he loathed small talk claiming it "made for too much stupid in the room." During the diagnosis, a stoic expression remained on the consulting detective's face. It was a face he used many times in countless situations, but for a reason unknown to his brilliant mind, he had a hard time keeping his composure together underneath that mask.

"Wandering through the corridors of his Mind Palace he sought answers in a room labelled "Cases". What is this 'condition' the doctor told me about? I have heard of it vaguely before, somewhere along a case…must not have been important since I deleted it. But, wait...portions of that case are coming back to me now. It was a "Christmas Murder" type case…solved in 3 days…something about the victims having limited sight and hearing, and the attacker knew that ahead of time so used it to his advantage. Oh, yes...He waited until the lights were dimmed and wore slippers to cover the sound of his heels clicking on the tile. The victims did not stand a chance. For any ordinary person, the victims' death would have seemed to be 'ordinary'. However, there was more than meets the eye because the corpses were found in a particular position; it was clearly obvious that those had no peripheral vision. One victim could not see out of the corner in his left eye, but was deaf in his right. Head cocked left and left eye staring strangely, much unfocused….but there is an adjoining room with more information….no...No. Not about cases and victims. It was a small closet labelled "Sherlock's Health" It is about me! Think Sherlock! This IS important. What is 'it'?"

Sherlock stared at the ceiling trying to remember what it was exactly. He knew it was something important, but had deleted it, deeming it not worthy of remembering.

Then he bolted up into a sitting position, instantly regretting that decision, for it sent another wave of dizziness to him. Huffing out an annoyed sigh, he resigned himself to reclining on his back perfectly still recalling the memory precisely. So there had been a reason for deleting this particular bit of information, it was about his family and their health. The curse of genetics had dealt him a horrible hand. Yes, the reason for storing it in the farthest room of in the enormous palace.

Of course Mycroft never bothered with it, but why should he?! He has nothing to be concerned of! He's not the one with the Sword of Damocles looming over his head. I am! Now I understand the Greek legend so much more. How conveniently I had forgotten about it until now. Come back to bite me, I guess. I do not deserve it! I loathe it.

He fought hard to keep his barriers up and not let a tear fall down that sullen face. With that dismal thought, Sherlock realised how grave the situation would turn out to be. His invincible walls were shattered. A flood of tears poured out from that trembling body, enough tears stored for a lifetime streamed into the pillow. There was nothing worse than this. This was it. This was the end. Life as Sherlock knew it ended the moment the doctor opened his mouth to confirm the fears he buried in the dungeon of his Mind Palace.

"I might as well be dead, would have been a better choice than this. Nothing more could come from it. I know that my health was not as it used to be...well that would be expected with the profession. It was taxing on the mind and body, especially when it came to apprehending criminals, since the oh so magnificent Scotland Yard could not so much as keep the peace in the office, much less so about London. Especially not with Anderson around, he has zero intelligence Maybe that is why the Yard is so inept? He brings down the IQ of the whole place? Gosh Anderson! You're such a dim-bulb, I am honestly flabbergasted that you are in this field of work and can actually maintain a position here, unless Donovan had a hand in keeping you from being fired by the Chief Superintendent Ugh! Sally Donovan! You are no better than Anderson, forever pointing out the obvious. You are the 'Freak'. Any blind man could see twice as better than the lot of you two idiots!"

The intricacies of his mind slammed in to a brick wall. For a full moment he was astounded of his own words.

"What on earth did I just say? Where did that come from, left field? The sky? Sight is precious, all the senses are precious, but without sight how will I complete The Work?! The work! Details are the key to solving every case. Without my sight, what is there left for me? Nothing. I am useless. My brain will rot and I will be forced to die a slow and painful death unless..."

For the next few hours, Sherlock shouted indecent adjectives at his condition. He had hoped that by forgetting, it would never show itself, but sadly biology is partial and always manifests itself in some form. Those years of skipping visits to the optometrist because of countless cases had come to haunt him now. He wished that he had more male siblings, though such a cruel wish he knew it was, but couldn't help feel that way. At least it would be a one-fourth chance in having the autosomal recessive retinal disorder gene that led to macular degeneration. It wouldn't be half as terrible if he had been twice his present age, but no, of course not, the evil Genetics decide to bring about the curse at least two decades earlier. A curse meant for Sherlock when he was well 'over the hill'. Oh how the curse danced in his face, he could almost feel the hand of Genetics sniping at his vision. One by one, with each strand cut led closer to the world of black nothingness. Helas, he had 'it'. The bad one. The cursed one. The evil one. Mycroft had the good one. The fortunate one. He hated Mycroft! IT IS NOT FAIR!

With absolutely nothing to do except sulk in a pool of misery in his Mind Palace, he resorted to his anchor.

He called John.

He needed him more so now than ever.

John was his stronghold.

"John."

"Hello Sherlock, how do you feel?"

"Fine...could you come...please?"

"Yes Sherlock. I'll be there in ten minuets."

"Thank you, John"

As he rung off, John realised that Sherlock was most likely very shaken by the news. He said 'please' and 'thank you', those words only came out in times of distress and despair. John felt sad for Sherlock, but he couldn't afford to lose his composure in front of his best friend. He downed the last sip of his third cuppa and headed toward the hospital.

A-N: As always, thank you for your lovely comments. I do appreciate them and they are the highlight of my day.

Thank you a million!
Xx