（夏洛克）Alone on the water原文

Sorrow's my body on the waves

【收藏奇书屋，防止丢失阅读度】

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

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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."

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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 clearlyyour 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. Eventuallyyou 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.

I know what he wants. God help me, it's a relief. "I'll take care of you."

His face softens minutely. "I know you will." Then his granite composure is back. "No injections."

I'm momentarily puzzled. "That'd be the simplest way."

"I won't have any suspicion cast upon you. It must be believable that I did it myself. Are there pills"

"Yes. They'll take a bit longer. Half an hour. But it'll be painless."

"Good. Lay in the pills and we'll take it one day at a time. I will continue to work and you'll tell no one of my condition, understood"

I understand. I understand that I can't obey this request and he knows that I can't, but that everyone will preserve the gentle fiction that no one knows. "All right."

"We'll decide when it's time. Whoever wishes to see me, I suppose I ought to allow it, but I will spend the last day alone."

My throat tightens. "Alone"

"Yes. So I hope you'll be able to beg off the surgery that day. It'll be short notice."

Relief swamps me. "Ah. I'm sure they'll understand."

He hears something in my voice and takes a step closer. "John. When I said 'alone' what I meant was" He clears his throat. "Well. I hope that's acceptable to you."

Acceptable. My best friend has just informed me that he'd like to spend his last day on earth alone with me. There is no part of that which is acceptable.

My mind has not yet touched the reality that he is leaving. I can barely remember life without him in it. He's slyly inserted himself into all my memories, as if he'd been there all along. He's there in Afghanistan, sitting on the next cot, commenting on the other men, bothering me when I'm trying to stitch someone up. He's at Bart's, interrupting my study time to drag me over to the morgue, stealing my textbooks and marking them up in red pen when he finds errors. He's at school with me, at home, in the park I played in as a child.

I stand in our living room and watch him go back to his files. At some point over the past two years he and I have become a hybrid. Sherlock-and-John. The graft has been so complete that even when we're separated, for days or weeks as has occasionally occurred, I still feel the invisible seam that joins me to him. For a moment, I'm angry. Because he won't be the one who'll have to cut away half of himself and go back to being a singular entity. John-and-[redacted]. The seam will remain, though. I will bear the scar down my center to remind me of what I've lost.

We introduce each other as flatmates. What we really mean is that we're friends. People sometimes assume that we're lovers. None are accurate descriptions. I'm not sure the English language has a word for what we are. Harry once called us "hetero life partners." Sherlock liked that. It made him laugh. I don't know if that covers it, either. We're just – well, we're just us.

All I know is that there is a deep pit in my chest and it's yawning wide and hollow and in a minute it's going to swallow me and I can't let him see that. "I need to go out for awhile," I say. My guilt at leaving him alone given the news he's just been given is mitigated by the knowledge that he'd rather be alone than have to deal with me expressing any emotion.

He just gives me a terse nod. "See you later."

I turn and clatter down the stairs. My stomach is cramping. I have to hold onto the wall for a moment. I make it outside and hail a cab.

I keep it together until I get to Sarah's. Yet another relationship in my life that defies categorization. Girlfriend No. Friend Yes, but more. Shag buddy On occasion. These terms might apply, except she's been more privy to what I go through with Sherlock than anyone. She knows about the seam. It's made us unable to have what we started out hoping for, but yet unable to retreat into a safe zone of friendship. So we hover here in the land of undefined. She dates other people. I just have Sherlock.

She sees my face and pulls me inside. "What's happened"

I'm shaking. "Sherlock."

"What's he done now"

"He's gone and gotten himself a bloody brain tumor."

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She holds me while I have an honest-to-God sobbing breakdown of the sort that I probably ought to be embarrassed about, but somehow living with Sherlock's perpetual detachment has left me remarkably unselfconscious about whatever it is that I feel myself. I've become an avatar for his humanity. I must express all the emotion that he suppresses, so I end up doing double duty.

I tell her about the pills I need, and about Sherlock's plan. I half-expect her to object, but she just nods and offers her assistance.

"How long do you think it'll be before he's – had enough" she asks, quietly.

I am holding a cold washcloth over my swollen face. I can't go home looking like this. "I don't think more than a couple of weeks. It's going so bloody fast, Sarah. I first noticed he was having headaches just last week, for fuck's sake." I hear my voice cracking.

Sarah smooths the hair back from my temple. "I'm so sorry, John."

"It isn't fair. Why him"

"Why anyone"

"But he's – we need him. People don't know what he does, how muchhe does." I scrub at my face with the damp cloth and let my head fall back to the couch. "I've got to get back. I need time off work. He shouldn't be alone. He may need medical help at any time."

She shakes her head. "Of course. But that isn't why." I just look at her. "It's okay to admit it."

"What"

"That you want to spend as much time with him as possible before the end."

My lip trembles again. The end. The end of him. God, it can't be true."I thought there was all the time in the world."

Sarah hugs me again and I cry some more. I feel silly but it's best to get it out now. I can't do this in front of Sherlock.

And she's right. As soon as I'm back home, I won't be leaving his side again.

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He works. I don't go to the surgery. We take case after case. He doesn't sleep, so neither do I. I catch quick naps when he's taking a bath, or when he's busy with something I can't help him with.

I take Lestrade aside and quietly explain the situation. He looks stricken, but he pulls it together quickly. I promise to let him know when the decision is made. I do the same for Angelo. I know that he'll spread the word.

Sherlock is adamant that we not tell Mrs. Hudson. For once, I agree. If we do, we'll never keep her out from underfoot. We'll wait until it can't be put off any longer.

Sarah brings me the pills. Two pills, white and smooth. I keep them on me at all times. He will not take them without my assistance, and it'd be like him to grow frustrated and just say to hell with it, swallow them down in a fit of pique, and the notion of coming back from the shops and finding him – well. I keep the pills on my person.

For a few days he seems no worse. Then, that tightness in his face that signals a headache stops going away with the painkillers I give him. He stumbles now and then. I stand closer to him when we're out at crime scenes.

One week after his diagnosis, I find him throwing up in the bathroom. He is pale and sweaty. I give him some compazine and it seems to help.

That day he has his first significant aphasia episode. He stands there ready to lay it out, and suddenly the words won't come. I see his jaw working, his eyes, his mind ready to show us how the clues fit together, and words won't come to him. He looks up at me with panic behind his eyes, just barely visible behind the veil that always cloaks Sherlock's emotional state, the veil that normally only I see behind, and then only rarely. "John," he stammers.

"What's that" I say, pointing to something, anything not related to what he was about to say.

He looks away. "It's a late-model Citroen." And he takes a deep breath, comes back and is able to lay out his deduction for us. Sally is frowning. Lestrade sighs and we exchange a quick glance.

It's starting.

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I'm coming home from the shops and I meet Mycroft coming down. He looks pale and worn. "Oh, John," he says, mildly. "Sorry I missed you."

"Then you shouldn't have waited until I went out to come by," I say, irritable. If Mycroft thinks I'm that stupid then he hasn't been paying attention.

"Sherlock had some business matters to discuss with me."

I nod. "I'd better get upstairs." I don't have time for him right now.

Sherlock is sitting in the leather chair, his legs folded under him. He motions me into the other chair. "Sit down, John. There's business. I dislike wasting time on such things, but it seems to be necessary."

I sit down. "What is it"

He holds out some paperwork. I recognize it. It's a durable power of attorney agreement. "In the event that our plans go awry," he said. "Should I collapse or have a dramatic downturn,you'll be empowered to make medical decisions for me."

I would have thought that I'd have some feeling about this, but I don't. It's as he says. Just business. The business of dying. I sign the papers. "There."

He's frowning. "I didn't expect you to be so – equitable."

"We won't need it. You'll do this on your terms."

"I hope you're right." He clears his throat. "I've updated my will. You get everything, except a few items of family sentiment that will go to Mycroft. Feel free to distribute anything of mine to any acquaintances as you see fit."

I sigh. "I don't want what was yours, Sherlock."

"Then burn it all," he says, an edge coming into his voice. "What difference does it make Everything of mine is yours anyway, none of it matters, and I won't know what's done with my possessions either way, so take what you like of me and put out the rest for the dustmen."

I just look at him. He looks back. I am deafened by the noise of all that we're not saying.

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Two days later Sherlock stumbles twice and nearly falls. The second time I guide him to a nearby bench and sit him down. He has been very quiet this day.

"I can't see out of my right eye, John," he whispers. I can hear a tremor in his voice. "It went away about half an hour ago."

I just nod. "We should go home."

"This case is almost done. Let's finish it." He looks at me, pleading.

"I wish I could stop this," I whisper.