Sorrow's my body on the waves
Sorrow's a girl inside my cave
I live in a city sorrow built
It's in my honey, it's in my milk
Don't leave my half a heart alone on the water
Cover me in rag and bone sympathy
Cause I don't want to get over you.
-The National
I sit and I hear the words. I am numb.
Inoperable. Deep. Intracranial pressure. Terribly sorry. Options. Arrangements.
Sherlock sits next to me, legs crossed. He is calm. "How long do I have?" is all he asks.
The neurosurgeon is a classmate of mine from Bart's. He's a good man. He is looking at me with sympathy, presuming what they all do. I don't mind so much. "A month. At the outside."
I have more questions but Sherlock is on his feet. "Thank you, Doctor. Come, John." And he is out of the room. I start to follow.
"John – I'm so sorry," says my old friend. "We can make him comfortable."
I laugh. I'm surprised to hear it come out of my mouth. "He's never been comfortable in his life. No need to start now."
We say nothing on the cab ride home. I am staring out the window. Look at that. Look at the world, still turning. I feel like I've fallen off.Sherlock's fingers drum on his knee. He is out of the cab before it's hardly stopped and into the flat, running up the stairs. Then he's into his files. Looking, tossing, stacking. I have no idea what he's doing.
I just stand there. "Sherlock." He doesn't respond. "Sherlock!"
"I'm not interested in examining my emotional state right now, John, which is clearly your object."
"Then how about your physical state?"
He snorts. "Given what I've just been told, what could possibly matter now?"
"We need to talk about it."
"About what?" He tossed down a folder and turns to face me. "That I have a month to live?" The words strike me like the deep thump of heavy gunfire, at the base of my spine. "I suspect that it's you who needs to talk about it."
"Yes, all right, I do. Sherlock…"
"My only concern is how long I'll be able to continue my work before I am incapacitated."
I'm incredulous. "Your work?"
He stops, finally, and faces me. "I depend on you for truth, John. So give me truth now."
I take a deep breath. Detach. Float it away like a balloon. Tether it to you so you can draw it back later."Your headaches will get worse. You'll begin to experience aphasia and difficulty speaking. Your balance will be affected, soon you won't be able to walk or stand. Your cognitive processes will be impaired and your vision will begin to go. You'll experience nausea, vertigo, pain and muscle weakness. Eventually you will lose consciousness."
He nods. "You are no doubt aware that the balance problems and aphasia have already started." I nod back. "I have no desire to go through all that, John." He meets my eyes. He looks calm, but I know him as no one else does, perhaps as no one ever has. And I can see right now that Sherlock is scared.
"And I can't watch you go through that." Worse than the thought of losing him is the idea of watching his mind deteriorate, vaguely aware that it once was special and amazing but unable to remember how or why. Seeing his boundless energy trapped in a body that will no longer obey his commands, laid low in misery by the foreign growth deep inside his brain.
