Mycroft disappears the next day and leaves Sherlock in turmoil. He busies himself with chemistry all day refusing to talk to anyone including John. The next few days pass in a similar fashion Sherlock passes the time doing expirments, and reading old newspapers and mentally solving the cases within. After a week John passes outside the door and I can hear him leaning against the pane of wood seperating them. "Please open the door Sherlock," I hear John plea. "Sorry John its for the best, I am not normal and I never will be you should probably go and find someone who will treat you better," Sherlock replies the tears collecting in the corners of his eyes betray his true pain to me. " Sherlock you prick I choose you becuase you aren't perfect I love you because I'm not perfect either." John pauses to take a shaky breath before he continues talking, "oh my god Sherlock I love you. If you really feel this way if you want me to walk out of your life then say it. Say you don't love me to my face becuase Sherlock despite anything you say I still love you." Sherlock hesitates his hand hovering over the doorknob he swallows back sob and opens the door. He is facing John who is crying silently and biting his lip. "I'm sorry John I don't love you. I am incapable of love," Sherlock says these words in a flat emotionless voice and closes the door. I hear John curse loudly and kick once at the door before pulling himself together and walking down the hall and out of the house. Soon he goes back to his old school a and keeps his promise to he cut himself from of Sherlock's life. Both are alone, both cry themselves to sleep every night. I try to comfort Sherlock. I'm a steady presence by his side letting him lone he isn't truly alone. However I fear that I may not be by his side for much longer. Just after Sherlock turns sixteen I begin to feel the sickness. I feel a growth within me it is foreign, smells rotten and makes me ill. It feeds off my life and uses it to grow. It gouges its self on my energy and I am left broken and exhausted. Every day becomes more difficult until one day I find myself facing death. My vision is a haze of cloudy colours and black sparks dancing across my eyes. I try to move but cannot muster the strength to haul myself out of bed. I lay there in defeat fighting against the pain to take every breath. I am aware of nothing but the feeling of disease growing inside me and the frantic beating of my own heart. It pounds against my ribcage as if begging to be free of the broken vessel I have become. I hear soft footsteps and try and raise my head, when I am unable to I let out a quiet cry instead. I have always been a silent dog, barking seems so primitive in comparison to the beautiful words humans have so I always avoid it. Today I fear I have no choice. I can't see anything but shadows however I know it is Sherlock before me due to his sharp scent. John smells like soap and rain and vanilla. Sherlock smells like ash and liquorice and sunlight. He bends over me and whispers "Oh Redbeard what's wrong." I whimper again and wish more than ever for the gift of words. Sherlock softly strokes me and gathers my limp form into his arms. He continues to comfort me saying, "Don't worry I'll take care of you. " I feel his teardrops burry themselves into my fur. Sherlock carries me to the car and carefully lays me across the back seat. I feebly wag my tail in thanks. He pats my head and says, "Its ok buddy its going to be alright." I hear him turn the keys and feel the seat vibrate beneath me as the engine roars to life. The pain becomes so great I will myself to fall asleep in order to escape it. When I awake Sherlock is lifting me out of the car and into a building that smells of sickness masked with the stench of disenfectant. Sherlock tells me we are at the vets and they are going to make me better. I hope for his sake he is right.
