I played for him that night. It wasn't as sharp as it used to be, but he seemed to enjoy it as much as he used to and maybe more. Almost eleven at night and I stood by the window, watching the rain fall as I played. These were the kind of nights that hurt the most. When you can hear shoes squishing on the sidewalk and the cars rolling through the puddles. The faint patter of the water hitting the roof. Because that was his favorite. And maybe later on the rain would stop and you could go outside and look up at the stars. Even if you know nothing about them, it doesn't mean you can't appreciate them.
But it wasn't the same anymore. Because we weren't home on Baker Street. We were in a hospital, sitting around, waiting to die. We were old now. And he didn't even know it was me.
I closed my eyes as I played, pouring everything I had into the piece. The piece I wrote for him years ago.
It's always him. Everything was for him.
As I finished, I took a deep, shaky breath and opened my eyes. I put my violin on my bed and sat on the edge of it. I buried my face in my hands and John clapped softly as he laughed.
"It was very good," he said. "Thank you."
I laid on my bed and curled up on my side. "Any time."
One of the nurses knocked softly on our door and came in. "Can you keep it down, please? The man next door is trying to sleep."
"My apologies. We'll put it away," John said.
There he was, apologizing for me again. As if he were my mother.
He is in a way. He's also a brother.
And my best friend.
Always.
"Thank you," the nurse said softly and turned out the lights at John's request. She left, closing the door behind her.
I heard John giggle and I smiled slightly, even though my throat was closing up and my eyes were burning with tears.
"Goodnight," he whispered. His bed squeaked as he moved, trying to get comfortable.
Soon after, I heard his faint snoring and I clutched my sheets in my fists. I wept uncontrollably for what seemed like hours. I tried to keep quiet, but I couldn't breathe. Every time I gasped for air, I expected him to wake up.
Part of me didn't care. The pain was numbing and I couldn't focus on one thing, let alone worry about it.
Another part of me did. If he woke up to me sobbing, I couldn't lie to him. I've lied too much and I regret it more than anything. He couldn't know. He just couldn't.