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Regression of health and trust
Summary: Sherlock’s eating disorder progresses and John tries to figure out why.
-x-
John fought tears outside the bathroom door, his forehead leaning against the wood and his fingers stroking the flat surface. On the other side of the door the shower was running, and the tap, but it couldn’t completely hide the sound of Sherlock throwing up.
“Sherlock open the door!” John demanded when the retching couldn’t be heard anymore, but when nothing happened he quickly changed to pleading, “Sherlock, please…. Just open the door. Please Sherlock, let me in.”
Still nothing happened and after a couple of minutes (each feeling like an eternity) John went to get Sherlock’s lock-picking set. Luckily the lock of the bathroom door wasn’t a proper lock which made it very easy to pick, even for a layman like John. John was determined and focused as he picked the lock because, quite frankly, the mental images of what waited him on the other side scared him.
It was hard to say if the reality that met him was worse than what he had feared, but just because it was the reality it became the most terrible thing ever.
The entire room was filled with steam from the shower and a lingering smell of sick. Sherlock sat on the floor opposite the toilet, curled up like a ball and with his forehead on his knees, his body trembling. Standing at the door, John couldn’t say if the trembles were from crying or from the strain of vomiting.
John’s first reaction was to yell, but since the sight stunned him he just stood there, watching the well dressed, trembling man on the poorly cleaned tile-floor. Sherlock’s knees were dusty and John couldn’t help thinking that if this was how it was going to be from now on, they needed to clean the floor better.
He flushed the toilet without looking down and he turned off the sink tap. Then he walked passed Sherlock to turn off the shower as well before he could gather enough self-control to deal with Sherlock. He squatted between Sherlock and the toilet and placed his hands on the dust marks on Sherlock’s trousers.
“Bloody hell, Sherlock….” John whispered and leaned forward to rest his head on Sherlock’s knees, “You promised to tell me.”
“Go away,” Sherlock mumbled.
“Never,” John kept whispering and moved his hands down Sherlock’s thighs. “This is not just your problem anymore.”
After a while Sherlock shifted and John raised his head, but since Sherlock still didn’t look up, John stroked his hair. He was still tearing up and hoped Sherlock wouldn’t look up until he had got this under control. It would help no one if he cried, but at least he was able to still Sherlock’s trembles by stroking the outside of his thighs and caressing his hair.
“Get me out of here,” Sherlock finally said and John nodded even though Sherlock didn’t see him.
John got to his feet – his bad leg had fallen asleep – and it made Sherlock look up at him. The detective looked…well John didn’t know how to describe it but it brought tears to his eyes again. Damn. He closed his eyes and pressed thumb and index finger against the root of his nose.
Three, two, one…. John opened his eyes and reached down with both his hands to pull Sherlock on his feet. Sherlock swayed when he stood up and if it hadn’t been Sherlock’s explicit request to be taken from the bathroom, John would had stopped and hugged him. Now, instead, he led him to his bedroom.
“Should I get your toothbrush?” John asked as Sherlock left his side and instead curled up on the bed without removing his clothes, making sure his back was towards John.
“No, just go away,” Sherlock begged.
“You got sick on your shirt,” John informed him, his voice a little bit higher than normal, and ignoring the request. “Please take it off.”
Sherlock did nothing, he was so still that for a moment John thought that he had stopped breathing. He felt so utterly helpless that he actually wanted to throw up too. Then he wanted to hit something – preferably Sherlock really – and after all that, crying himself to sleep sounded like a good alternative.
Without a word he removed his shoes and crawled up in bed behind Sherlock who visually tensed up. John didn’t care and lay down behind him, gently placing an arm around him, seeking for a hand to hold. He found both of them in front of Sherlock’s mouth and he took a very tentative hold of one of them. As a pleasant surprise – even if it made his chest hurt – Sherlock wrapped both his hands around his and held on as if his life depended on it. John felt Sherlock’s warm breath on his hand and breathed into Sherlock’s neck; the smell of the detective’s cologne mixed with sweat and the memory of vomit made him sad.
Slowly Sherlock’s body relaxed as their breathing synchronised and John rested his lips on the back of Sherlock’s neck as a never-ending kiss. With random frequency Sherlock squeezed John’s hand and John responded the same way, believing it was a way to ask if he had fallen asleep. Very slowly the anger and frustration John had felt, along with the tears building up in his chest, subsided and he was left feeling empty and drained.
“Please tell me the ‘why’ Sherlock,” John murmured into his neck after more than an hour of just lying on the bed. The only answer he got was a long, tight hand-squeeze and, honestly, something else would have surprised him, but he needed to know. He needed to know so badly what type of demons Sherlock was fighting; what they had been when this all started, what they were now…. All of it.
“Why won’t you give me the tools to help you?” John whispered and pressed an actual kiss on one of Sherlock’s cervical vertebrae before sighing deeply, “I can’t deduce the ‘why’. I’m not you.”
This time he got no response whatsoever so he squeezed Sherlock’s hand instead, earning him a light squeeze back. Good.
“You saved my life,” John twined Sherlock’s black curls with his free hand, still whispering the words into Sherlock’s neck. “I didn’t carry that gun to shoot random cabbies you know…. It just…. Life wasn’t…. I joined the army to get away from so many things and when I came back…they were all still here; Harry’s drinking, our bigoted parents, everything…. And on top of that were my shoulder and my leg and the nightmares…. I faced my mortality every single night…. It was – Sherlock, you’re really hurting my hand.”
During the time John had been talking Sherlock had squeezed his hand harder and harder. At his words, Sherlock let go of some pressure, but still he kept John’s hand tight in his. John took the time to place another kiss on the back of Sherlock’s neck.
“You saved my life,” he whispered again, “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. You saved me, please let me try to do the same.”
Silence fell and John focused to get his breathing down to the same rhythm as Sherlock again. Before he managed to do so, Sherlock turned to his back, forcing John to move away a bit. Sherlock kept John’s hands between his and stared up at the ceiling. John just watched his grave silhouette, awaiting something…anything.
“You don’t have to tell me,” John finally said when nothing seemed to happen, but he sat up because the position Sherlock’s movement had forced him into was uncomfortable. Sherlock let go of his hand and John let it slide down over grey shirt and stopped just above the waistband. The muscles in Sherlock’s stomach got tense and John removed his hand completely.
“Sorry,” he said, not really grasping what he was sorry about, and placed both hands in his lap instead. He looked down at them, not sure what he should do, what he could do, what Sherlock wanted or needed him to do.
“John?” Sherlock’s whisper rang loud as a scream and John looked up, startled. “I’m sorry.”
John reached out for Sherlock’s hand again and squeezed it lightly; if he’d had a response to that it got stuck in his throat. Sherlock squeezed back hard and John’s thumb started to move in small circles on top of Sherlock’s.
“I trust you with my life Sherlock,” John said and their eyes met again, “Can I trust you with your own?”
Sherlock nodded and John’s will to trust him was stronger than his good sense.
“Then I’ll do that,” John promised, “but in return, promise to tell me next time? Or if I’m doing something…please tell me. Okay?”
“Yes.”
John lay down next to Sherlock again and pulled him into a hug without so much as a wince in protest from the detective. He didn’t believe Sherlock’s promise for a second, but he had said he would trust him, so he was going to do just that. Even if he knew it was stupid, even if he now knew Sherlock had lied about ever inducing vomiting, even if he knew – all too well – the tricks and excuses of a self-harming addict. Still he was going to trust, because Sherlock had come through this before and hopefully he would do it again. Who knew, maybe what had happened today had scared Sherlock enough to actually seek help if he needed it.
“Don’t kill yourself John,” Sherlock whispered and John held him tighter.
“I won’t if you won’t.”
-x-
Next part.
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Happy that you read and appreciate it and find it realistic.