John Watson

A damp November fog shrouded the street. John walked leisurely along the sidewalk, leaning heavily on his worn cane—the old joint was aching especially badly after yesterday's storm. A chance encounter on the street corner had been unexpected and pleasant, and after a brief exchange of news, they decided to walk home together.
But an unpleasant surprise awaited them at the entrance: a sign announced that the elevator was out of service for repairs, and they were to live at the very top.
Seven long flights became an endless ordeal for John. On the third floor, his lower back began to ache, but on the fourth—which became the fifth—a sharp, stabbing pain erupted in his chest, his breathing became ragged, and his legs instantly felt like jelly. His cane fell from his weakened fingers with a thud, the world around him swayed and swam in gray circles, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He slumped heavily on the steps, gasping for air.
“Nothing... old age...” he squeezed out with a pale smile, pressing his hand to his chest.