"Seizures like this can happen with brain metastases. Had you ever had to deal with seizures before your diagnosis?"

"No ... never."

"They can be treated very well in your case. I'll write down a medication for you."

Nod.

"And then, Mr. Watson, I'll give you some urgent advice: take it easy. Avoid physical exertion; you're not doing yourself any favors. Believe me, it robs you of too much strength that your body desperately needs."

Awkward silence.

Uncomfortably clearing his throat.

" ... Yes ... I know."

"Can, um ... can I talk to you for a minute, Sherlock?"

"Sure."

"Okay, um ... I'm just going to say this once, and please don't ask me why I changed my mind, even though I know you can read it off me, please, keep it to yourself, I'll ... I'll just say it and then it's done and over with. ... I won't accompany you to your cases anymore."

"Our cases."

"No, Sherlock, they're your cases from now on. I can't come with you any longer and ... I'm very sorry it is ... the way it is. But ... I'm sure you'll do very well without me."

"John-"

"No, Sherlock, please ... I just wanted to say that I'm grateful for what my life has turned out to be up to this point, and I wouldn't ever want to trade a moment of it for anything else."

"Where's the body now, Lestrade?"

"Upstairs. A 53-year-old woman, she's been strangled."

"Same murder weapon as in the other two cases?"

"We strongly believe so. ... Where is John, by the way?"

"Not here, obviously."

"A serial killer and you come alone? Is John tired of crime scenes? I couldn't blame him, who wants to be constantly confronted with death?"

A brief faltering of footsteps.

Then, silence.

John closed his eyes as the warm water splashed down on his clammy body. The warmth brought life back to his limbs and mind, wrapping him up like a cozy blanket on a cold winter evening.

He had just come home from radiation therapy. It had been his eleventh round - one more week and he would have completed the first block of therapy.
Ever since he had left the hospital building a little over half an hour ago, he had longed for a hot shower. Sherlock hadn't been home when he got home. He was probably out on a case.
It had been three days since he had told Sherlock of his decision. But he hadn't had much time to miss working with Sherlock. The last few days had been one doctor's appointment after another and he had been exhausted, so he had dozed or slept the little time that remained.

With a soft sigh, John dropped his head back, letting the water run over his face, warming his cold cheeks. Slowly, he then lowered his head again and rubbed his palms over his face to wipe away the excess water, then ran his hand through his hair. Unexpectedly, he felt something soft and moist in his hand. He lowered his gaze and stared at a tuft of hair. John blinked and gasped softly as he looked down at himself: the hairs were everywhere - sticking to his body, the floor of the shower was full of them. "What ..." he gasped, feeling carefully for his head, whereupon he faced another handful of hair.

Suddenly, disgust overcame him, filling his stomach with a foul liquid that welled up and made its way relentlessly upward. With trembling hands, John pushed open the shower stall door, rushed to the toilet, and vomited. A sour stench rose to his nose and on his tongue he tasted bile and vomit, while his stomach contracted painfully that tears welled up in his eyes. He continued on like that for a moment, coughing in between, until the irritation finally subsided and his stomach relaxed. For a moment he hung over the toilet bowl, still panting, waiting for the dizziness to fade.

Trembling, he groped for a towel and only after what felt like an eternity managed to stand up and wrap the towel around his hips. He flushed and stepped toward the sink, and when he turned on the water, he could still see individual hairs clinging to his damp hands. Frantically, he rubbed his hands under the stream of water until not a single one was visible anymore. He took a deep breath, bent down a little, and gathered water in the hollow of his hand to rinse his mouth.
With his hands supported on the edge and his head lowered, he hung over the sink and hardly dared to lift his eyes. Of course, he knew that he would lose his hair during this radiation therapy, which affected his head. He had known. But this just had overcome him unexpectedly anyways - both the hair loss and his reaction to it. Perhaps it was also the awareness that he now could no longer hide his illness on the outside and would now be confronted with questions and looks. Questions and looks that he was not able to bear yet.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and took a deep breath, shaking off the thoughts that would torment him soon enough. He realized that he would have to fully admit his illness to himself first - to let others know, to talk about it with others, and even to just face himself in the mirror.
He took another breath and finally lifted his gaze. As if facing an enemy, he took posture, lifting his chin, his back straight, his shoulders broader. He eyed himself in the same way, suspiciously, like a stranger, and suddenly it seemed to him as if he had not looked at himself in the mirror for years. He remembered a John from another life, a John he would never see again.
He clenched his jaws, not realizing until they ached that he had tensed not just his jaws, but his whole body. His gaze was fixed on the image before him as he seemed to register, piece by piece, what he was now seeing: sharper facial contours ... pale skin ... dull look ... tired, worn face. Then his eyes fell on his head. Where there had once been a shock of hair, there was now what looked like a forest after a fire - pale scalp peeking out from between tufts of hair that still sat tight, while other areas showed only a few lost strands. It looked pitiful.

He hastily yanked open the side door of the mirrored closet and reached for the razor. He hesitated only a second, then put the apparatus on.

Silently, blond strands fell into the sink.

They belonged to a time long gone.

Light-footed, Sherlock climbed the stairs and rumbled into the apartment.

"John! Oh, John, it was wonderful!" gushed Sherlock about the case he had just solved as he stepped into the living room. It was in darkness, but dim light filtered into the room from the kitchen. "The Halverson case, John! Oh, I tell you, the murderer was clever!" Still standing in the living room, he brushed off his coat and loosened his scarf as he walked toward the kitchen. "Not as smart as me, of course, but I must say, that was a challenge at last! You wouldn't believe what-"

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks when he caught sight of his friend. He sat at the kitchen table, hands clasped around a cup of tea, staring at the tabletop in front of him. And his head was bald. He must have been sitting there for a long time. The cup was still full to the brim, but it was no longer steaming, had apparently already cooled down.

"Are you going to stand there staring at me much longer?" spoke John without taking his eyes off the kitchen table.

Those words snapped Sherlock out of his initial shock. He cleared his throat a little uncomfortably and finally moved into the kitchen. He grabbed a cup from the cupboard and sat down across from John. He reached for the pot and now filled his own cup, while his gaze roamed carefully and unobtrusively over his roommate. He was tense, posture stiff and unnatural, jaw taut, and it almost seemed as if he had to concentrate on keeping his gaze fixed on the imaginary point on the table.

Cautiously, Sherlock took a sip from his cup and cleared his throat once more. Uncertainty spread through him. He hated it. Should he ask John how he was doing with it? Should he ask how his day was? Should he just keep talking about the case? After all, John wanted to continue to be treated normally. If he wouldn't be sick, Sherlock would have told him about the case.

"I, um ... well the case was absolutely interesting," Sherlock began, but hesitantly this time. "When I got to the scene, once again Anderson had noticed all sorts of things except what was important. You see, under the victim's fingernail there was the remnant of a fiber that-"

The deep and audible intake of breath from John made Sherlock pause, thinking he was about to say something. But instead, he just had his eyes squeezed shut, his hands clasped tighter around the cup.

Sherlock frowned, insecurely. Was he supposed to stop talking about the case after all? But John didn't look in the mood to talk about his illness either. Besides, talking to John about it was still a horror for Sherlock. He felt wholly unsuited for it.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, Sherlock leaned forward in the chair and tried to make eye contact with his friend. Unsuccessfully.

"Um ... would you like some more tea? I see yours has already gone cold and you haven't had a sip, so-"

Before he finished speaking, John got up and left the room without comment. Sherlock heard him climbing up the stairs, the fifth, which always squeaked particularly loudly, and finally the door slammed shut.