The headaches began last month. Ever since I was a boy I'd had migraines and I thought these were nothing but another bout so I ignored them. But this time they did not go away. I even tried to maintain a normal sleep schedule and ate regularly but that seemed to make them worse. Soon I could hardly think through the discomfort. There was a white noise that ran through my synapses that was impossible to penetrate.

But still I kept working. Two weeks ago I tripped in my bedroom as I dressed for the day. My feet gave out under me and I lost my balance. It came so suddenly that I was sure that I'd tripped on something but there was nothing on the floor.

Again I ignored it.

John was the one that began to notice a change in my speech. What used to come so easily began to be hard to grasp. Words used to string together seamlessly and now there were gaps where the correct term was simply missing.

He thought the migraines were the cause of the balance and speech problems but I knew he was wrong. The small percentage that he had seen was not representative of the scale of which the illness had progressed. When the doctor told us the diagnosis I was not surprised. I had figured as much.

A month.

He said that I had one month, at best.

John was shocked. His face turned white and I was afraid he might cry. His fingers gripped the chair and he seemed to want to fight the tests but I didn't say a word. There was no reason to do anything but leave and plan for tomorrow.

The ride back was silent. I knew that he wanted to talk, I could see it in the nervous fidgets of his hands. For a doctor he was handling this all poorly. It was my brain that they were talking about, not his. This was not his problem to worry about.

"Sherlock," he said finally.

We were six blocks from the flat and stopped at a red light. He would not tolerate holding the conversation until we were home but sometimes he surprised me. "Not now," I said.

His face tightened. Angry. "No. You haven't said a word."

What was the point in talking? "There's nothing to say."

His nostrils flared. Pupils contracted. Still anger. "Unbelievable."

His outrage was ludicrous. What was there to say at the news that a tumor was eating your brain and, in a month's time, you would be no longer. There is no response. "I intend in working John. Nothing has changed."

Clenched jaw. Still frustrated. "Working? You cannot work."

"Of course I will work. That is, until I can no longer work efficiently."

"And then what?"

I didn't have an answer at that point but the decision did not come with any difficulty.

I went back to work on the Cordalia case and John went to his bedroom. He didn't check in on me which was either still a remnant of his anger at the diagnosis or his denial of the news. I had no intention in discussing my feelings on the issue so his distance was more than welcome.

The microscope had become harder to work with as the headaches grew more severe. Staring so intently became nearly impossible so I could only examine the dirt taken from the victim's shoes for a few seconds at a time.

As I focused in on a reddish speck, a feeling like a wooden board to the back of the head struck me and my knees buckled underneath me. The wave of dizziness was overwhelming and I gripped the counter to keep from falling. I debated calling for John to assist me to the chair a few feet away but I didn't want to begin a precedent of helplessness. Inch by inch, I slid my fingers down the counter until I reached the chair that I'd left by the case files Lestrade had left last night. Letting one hand go, I made a quick swipe for the chair behind me. The first try resulted in a handful of air. The second the same. I desperately did not want to collapse on the floor of our kitchen. The third attempt was successful. My fingers wrapped around the arm of the chair and I was able to slide onto seat. Even seated the room still wobbled back and forth.

Jesus.

I could barely move without fearing that I'd fall from the chair.

Even closing my eyes did nothing to stop the whirling feeling. I felt sick, like I was going to vomit from the sheer speed of the room. For the first time since the doctor spoke to us, the reality set in. These were not migraines. A pill and a good night's sleep were not going to stop this.

This was the end game. It was only going to get worse from here. The dizziness, the nausea, the speech was only going to deteriorate. There was nothing they could do. John could get pain medications to dull this experience but not release me from it.

I was not going to be like my father. I was not going to let this destroy me until I was nothing a withered shell of a person. There was so little of this illness that I could control, but I had power to choose how it ended.

I would end this on my own terms.

I can already tell this is going to break my goddamn heart. I know that the original was all done in one segment but I like doing things in chapters so that's how this one will be released. Stay tuned!