Chapter Sixteen.
"Happy now?" Watson demanded angrily as they walked to the curb outside Penrose Gill's Harley Street Practice to hail a cab, Sherlock looking up and down the street but there was no sign of a taxi anywhere.
"Ecstatic. Are you?" Holmes sighed wearily and deflected the question back on to Watson.
"You twerp! You arrogant, selfish, self serving egotist! You couldn't stop yourself, could you? You played that old man like your rotten fiddle! You had to do it, didn't you? You had to bring up the case."
"It's not just the case, John," Holmes turned to face his friend, sorrow in his face now. "There's much to think about. Much to do. A little over a week isn't much time to get my affairs, and my life in order. I thought you of all people would understand that."
"That's a low blow, Sherlock."
"Besides, I told the truth in there. It matters to me not to let Cassia Ingram down. I want to finish this business, John; I need to finish it, while I still have the chance. Afterwards, I may not be up to it. I may never be up to it again," he paused, a shudder running down his spine now, which had nothing to do with the weather, which was still scorching hot and uncomfortably humid, and there was an odd catch in his deep, baritone voice.
Holmes' words hit Watson like a punch to the solar plexus.
Holmes knew exactly what he was up against, and his thinking was balanced and crystal clear.
Unlike his own, which was clouded with emotion.
What's more, Holmes really was scared, although he was trying not to show it.
He had been forced to face his own mortality, for real this time, and he didn't much care for what he saw.
Holmes had been up all night coming to terms with his future, and formulating what he wanted and how he was going to approach the problem.
Reviewing both the positives and the negatives, thoroughly, but not completely unemotionally.
Thus far, he had made two important decisions.
One, that he wanted John Watson at his side every step of the way from this point on, and two, that if Cassia Ingram was the real McCoy and did have psychic powers, which it seemed she did, then her dreams could indeed give him vital information about a real crime and a real killer.
He at least owed it to her to hear her out.
That was why he had sent her a text early that morning, inviting her to Baker Street at 3pm this afternoon.
"I don't want to shuffle off leaving loose ends."
No, you want to go out with a bang! Watson thought bitterly.
"Dammit, you are not going to shuffle off!"
"I applaud your confidence, my friend, but, we have to be realistic and face the possibilities. There are always risks with any kind of surgery. I would be a fool not to have taken them into consideration. In an ideal world, everything will turn out fine, everything will go as you all anticipate and I will be as good as new in no time."
Holmes paused to take a breath.
"However, we both know that we don't live in an ideal world. In the real world, things go wrong; Witty might encounter some complication that he cannot foresee today, something beyond his control."
Watson knew that Holmes was right.
Of course he was, loathed though Watson was to admit it.
Watson heard about such horror stories every day from his colleagues in the medical profession.
They were not God.
Holmes had obviously given considerable thought to the more negative aspects of this and what he wanted if things went pear shaped.
Of course he had.
He was Sherlock Holmes.
He was nothing if not thorough.
"You heard what Penrose Gill said, John. It can't make all that much difference, after all, I'm not putting it off until next Christmas."
"No? What if you haven't solved the damn case by then?"
"That's four months away, John. I've never taken that long!"
Holmes was genuinely hurt by Watson's lack of faith in him, but at that moment a cab came around the corner and he moved to the curb to flag it down.
Watson didn't like to tell him that he might be blind, deaf, paralysed and bedbound or even dead by then, if he didn't come to his senses and accept the inevitable.
There was no point.
Holmes knew all that, and he was still determined to have things his own way.
Selfish git!
"John, did you hear anything I said in there, about trusting you completely?" Holmes spoke softly, as Watson joined him and they waited for the vehicle to pull up at the curb, regarding his friend solemnly.
"I am keenly aware that there will come a time when I may no longer be able to function properly, so I am relying on you to see to it that it does not go that far. After all, I am no use to Miss Ingram if I cannot see or hear, or if I am in a coma," Holmes acknowledged solemnly.
"I will make a promise to you now, my friend, my good friend, John. The very first time that you feel that I am in any way seriously jeopardizing my life, I expect you to step in and take matters out of my hands, by whatever means you deem necessary."
"Can I punch you?" Watson scowled.
"If you feel it necessary."
"Can I have that in writing?"
Holmes emitted a deep sigh.
"Dammit, Sherlock, can't you see that you're doing it again, you maniac! Risking your life just so you can prove you are right!"
"No. Not this time. However, the point is moot anyway, John. Until I hear what Cassia Ingram has to say, I cannot say how long the case will last, or, indeed if there is even a case to pursue. Please, let's just agree to wait and see."
John Watson wasn't happy about it, not happy at all.
In fact, he was absolutely livid, but at the same time, he found that he suddenly understood where Holmes was coming from.
His successful cases were his legacy.
The only mark he could leave on the world.
Who was he to stop him?
Watson nodded silently, still overwhelmed by the trust that his friend was placing in him and genuinely touched by the deep affection and warmth that he had seen in Sherlock's eyes a moment before, telling himself that he had to put his anger and his fears to one side.
This was neither the time, nor the place.
Right now he needed to be the friend that Sherlock both wanted and needed him to be, supportive and concerned, but trying to keep things as normal as he could by doing what he always did when they were on a case.
Silently and thoughtfully, Watson clambered into the cab behind Holmes and regarded his friend with a new found admiration and understanding as they settled in for the journey home.
He really was quite an extraordinary human being, and a unique friend.