Christmas Dinner
Dec. 26th, 2013 01:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solrosanSummary: Sherlock has been doing well for some time, but sitting down to eat Christmas dinner still isn't as easy as he thought it would be.
Note: This is part of thenever ending Eating us Alive verse and is far more graphic in its description of eating disorders than the other parts are. A warm thank you to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kidloki for the readthrough she did.
“Are you sure?”
Sherlock sighed, glaring at John through the mirror as he was tying his tie. “If you ask me that one more time I’m going to hit you with a blunt object.”
“I’m sorry.” John held up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “I just…”
“Don’t.”
“If you—“
“John.”
“Fine.”
Sherlock put on his suit jacket and turned around in one smooth motion. John smiled slightly, still not convinced by Sherlock’s confidence, and followed Sherlock downstairs to Mrs Hudson’s where they had been invited to Christmas dinner. The scent of the food had filled the stairway from early morning, creating a hard knot of worry in John’s stomach, but he couldn’t deny that it smelled delicious.
“Boys, you’re early!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed, greeting them at the door, her cheeks flushed and her apron properly tied around her red Christmas dress.
“We just wanted to come down and see if you needed any help,” John said, putting on a perfectly acceptable smile.
“That’s very kind of you, John, you really don’t have to,” Mrs Hudson said. “Go into the dining room and pour yourselves a brandy, the rest will be here in about fifteen minutes I’m sure.”
“It smells lovely, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, grinning at her. “I’ve been longing for your trifle since last Christmas.”
“That’s nice, dear, but you’re trying too hard,” Mrs Hudson patted him on the cheek. “You don’t have to do that.”
Sherlock blinked, most of his colour disappearing.
“I’ve boiled some eggs and potatoes. I’ve made sure there are a lot of non-roasted vegetables, grapes and oranges, salmon, shrimps and I’ll make fresh toast when the others arrive,” Mrs Hudson went on, counting the food items on her fingers. “I’m sure you’ll find something.”
Sherlock found himself enough to nod. “Yes, thank you.”
Mrs Hudson smiled motherly, patting John on the shoulder and hurried away to the kitchen with a comment about forgetting something in the oven.
“Don’t look at me like that,” John mumbled, shaking his head at Sherlock, as Mrs Hudson disappeared out of earshot.
“You told her.”
John shook his head again, looking up to meet Sherlock’s accusing eyes. “Give her some credit, she figured it out years ago. She more or less lives with you too, you know.”
“And the food?”
“She asked if there was anything you were more comfortable eating.” John sighed. “What was I supposed to do?”
“You should have told me.”
John nodded. “Yes, perhaps I should have.”
They half-glared at each other for a moment before Sherlock sighed and lowered his head. John reached out and put a gentle hand on his arm.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly. “No one else is here and Mrs Hudson will understand.”
“Stop trying to make me—“ Sherlock cut himself off with an annoyed sound, moving away from John’s touch. He took a deep breath and pulled slightly at his sleeves. “I’m okay, John,” he said calmly. “Don’t have me question that.”
John smiled, pressing past his default smile to an actual one, and nodded. “Let’s go and have that brandy Mrs Hudson talked about.”
Sherlock smiled as well, but didn’t quite manage it, as he showed John to lead the way to the dining room.
In the dining room the table was laid for eight people – Mrs Hudson, Mrs Turner, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade and Molly with their respective partners – and almost caving in under the weight of all the food. Both John and Sherlock were startled by the sight but pretended they didn’t notice it at all. John poured them each a brandy, discreetly watching Sherlock as he studied everything on the table.
“Hey,” he said quietly, handing Sherlock one of the snifters.
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
Sherlock nodded, emptying half his snifter in one go.
“I’m okay,” he whispered under his breath. John ignored it because it was obviously not meant for him this time, but his mouth felt very dry suddenly.
“I’m writing up the Morse case,” John said, clearing his throat. “But there are some details I can’t seem to remember.”
Sherlock frowned, but turned to look at him nonetheless. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“So?” When Sherlock didn’t answer, John continued. “When we first arrived at the scene Claudia was face down on the bed, right?”
“Yes.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.
John didn’t care, instead he kept asking obvious question after obvious question – he even remember things incorrectly on purpose just to have Sherlock correct him – and the deeper into the case they got, the more Sherlock seemed to relax.
They had almost reached the end when the doorbell rang and they heard Lestrade and his wife being greeted by Mrs Hudson. John and Sherlock straightened up, exchanging one last look before they were joined by the Lestrades, shortly followed by Molly and her boyfriend. Sherlock and John ended up on opposite sides of the table. John tried to get Mrs Lestrade to switch places with him, but since he didn’t have any good reason he cared to mention he gave up after Sherlock had given him a stern look.
Sherlock took two small potatoes, a piece of salmon and, in a moment of inspiration, he took both some roasted vegetable and turkey. The turkey was lovely, but after just one piece of the roasted vegetable he moved them to the side of the plate with a frown and he wiped his fork and knife on the napkin before he cut the potatoes into small pieces.
A piece of potato, a small piece of salmon.
Some turkey and a sip of red wine.
Another piece of potato and some cranberry sauce which he had forgotten.
It tasted sweeter than he had expected.
He met John’s eyes, raising his eyebrows to tell him to look at his own damn plate instead of his. It was almost comical how John probably was having more trouble enjoying the food than he was as John was actively trying (and constantly failing) to not look at Sherlock’s plate. It was first after a whole glass of wine and a completely inappropriate joke by Mrs Turner that John started to relax.
By that time, however, Sherlock found it hard and hard to bring the fork to his mouth. He cut the food in smaller pieces, but they still seemed to grow in his mouth and it was only with great determination he managed to swallow down each bite.
Bread sauce that Mrs Lestrade had insisted he’d try.
Half an egg since Mrs Hudson had gone through the trouble to make it for his sake.
Salmon that had been too close to the roasted vegetables.
The last bite felt like it got stuck in his throat, but he forced it down with a large sip of wine. He looked at his plate, pushing at the potatoes to get it as far away from both the bread sauce (he had to admit that it tasted very well) and the roasted vegetable. Then he poked at the cranberry sauce, trying to deduce the amount of sugar Mrs Hudson had put in it. Surely more than necessary.
He shook his head to get rid of that thought, pushing the cranberry sauce to the side as well. He wasn’t going to start bothering with that now, he really wasn’t. He looked up and glared at John who was talking to Molly, because everything had been just fine until John had started to question him about tonight.
Another bite of potatoes.
Two grapes.
A sip of wine.
Some turkey.
The turkey grew larger and larger in his mouth, reaching a point where he knew he wouldn’t be able to swallow it without gaging. He stopped chewing, a bitter taste creeping up in the back of his throat as he contemplated if he’d be able to spit it out in his napkin without anyone noticing. Probably not. He took a deep breath through his nose and swallowed. Sure enough he gaged, but by emptying his wine glass he managed to keep it all down.
Cold sweat was starting to break out on his forehead and he could feel his hands trembling. His mouth was suddenly completely dry and the bitter taste in the back of his throat grew stronger. He shifted uncomfortably, the nausea suddenly washing over him with full power.
Someone put a hand on his back. Sherlock almost jumped out of his seat.
“Let go of the fork,” John muttered in his ear as he filled the empty wine glass with water.
Sherlock put down his fork, not realising before how convulsively he had been holding it.
“Do you want us to leave?” John said quietly, still with his hand on Sherlock’s back.
Sherlock glared at him. “Don’t be absurd, John. We haven’t had trifle yet.”
John smiled faintly, patting his shoulder before walking round to sit down again, but he kept a disturbingly close look at Sherlock after that. As soon as he found an opening he made sure to excuse them both from the dinner.
“Everything was lovely,” Sherlock told Mrs Hudson at the door.
Mrs Hudson squeezed his hand. “Thank you, dear.”
John smiled and mouthed ‘thank you’ to her.
When they stepped inside their sitting room, before John had even closed the door, Sherlock threw off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. Then he sat down heavily on the sofa, covering his face in his arms against the armrest.
“How do you feel?” John asked quietly, touching Sherlock’s hair gently.
Sherlock groaned in physical pain.
“Do you want me to get anything? Water? Peppermint tea?”
Sherlock shook his head. “I’m never eating anything ever again.”
“Yeah,” John whispered. He wondered if Sherlock was in most physical or psychological pain at the moment, after probably eating more in one sitting than he had this entire week. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything for the nausea?”
Sherlock nodded.
“It’ll be all right, Sherlock,” John said, knowing how empty the words were, but Sherlock nodded again in response.
John nodded too, keeping the sigh at bay. He wondered how much Sherlock had actually wanted to eat and how much he had forced himself to eat to make him and Mrs Hudson happy. Seeing the agony Sherlock was in right now made him wish desperately that not a single bite had been for his sake.
“Don’t tell Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock mumbled.
“I won’t,” John said. “I’m going to bed, are you staying here?”
Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he took a couple of deep breaths, clearly focusing on slowly breathing in and out through his nose, but he burped and had to swallow repeatedly.
“Do you need a bin?” John asked.
“I won’t be sick in a bin.”
“But do you think you need to be sick?”
Sherlock nodded, panting heavily between each attempt to swallow the nausea.
“It’s okay,” John said, still stroking Sherlock’s hair. “Do you think you can move to the bathroom?”
Sherlock nodded again, slowly pushing away from the sofa. He looked absolutely dreadful, but managed to get up from the sofa and into the bathroom on his own accord. He knelt down in front of the already open toilet, on routine putting up the ring as well.
“I’m never eating again,” he whispered, putting his arms over the open toilet. He rested his forehead against his arms, making his face disappear completely into the toilet bowl.
John sat down next to Sherlock, rubbing his back in an attempt to calm him because nothing would probably ease the nausea at this point. Sherlock burped loudly, retching once, but nothing happen.
“It’s okay,” John murmured again. “It’s okay, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s breathing shifted, becoming far more shallow now when he wasn’t trying to keep anything down, and just seconds later he burped again and this time Mrs Hudson’s trifle came up, quickly followed by the bread sauce and the potatoes, the salmon and the turkey. When it seemed to calm down he spit a couple of times, deeply panting.
“Okay?” John whispered, his hand now still on Sherlock’s back. In response Sherlock’s body cramped under John’s hand as more of the dinner came up. When it stopped Sherlock waited with his head in the toilet for a long time before pulling back and sitting on his heels, his body trembling.
“Feeling better?” John asked.
Sherlock shook his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He gaged, leaning forward to spit whatever might come up. It wasn’t much, but he started to pant heavily again. He gave John a quick glance, as if contemplating whether or not he wanted to do this with John there, before closing his eyes and putting two fingers deep down his throat. His body made a terrible noise, but up came more. This time mostly fluids by the sound of it. John closed his eyes tightly and turned away. It was one thing to know Sherlock did this, another to see it and be present when he did.
“John,” Sherlock finally said, his voice hoarse, when there didn’t seem to be anything but air and bile left in him. He was pale, his face glossy in sweat and he was still resting with his arms against the toilet. “Don’t tell Mrs Hudson.”
“I won’t,” John said, reaching out and moving a lock of sweaty hair from Sherlock’s forehead. “I won’t.”
“I thought I was okay,” Sherlock whispered.
John smiled faintly. “It’s Christmas. I can assure you, you’re not the only one who ate too much and have their head in the toilet tonight.”
Sherlock just sighed. He sat up, reaching out to flush without looking down at the disposed dinner before he got up. John stayed on the floor, feeling extremely tired and oddly calm. He hadn’t realised just how tense he apparently had been since they had received the invitation.
“How are you feeling? he said, as Sherlock turned on the tap to wash his hand.
“Don’t,” Sherlock said sternly, picking up the nailbrush to make sure he got everything from under his nails.
“Sherlock.”
“Please, John.”
“Are you—“
“Shut up!” Sherlock yelled, throwing down the nailbrush in the sink.
John blinked. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock shook his head as he picked up the nailbrush again and started to scrub frenetically. John got up off the floor. He put his hand on Sherlock’s lower back and took the nailbrush from him.
“That’s enough,” John said. “You’re clean.”
Sherlock didn’t look at him, his cheeks blushing with shame. They were silent for a long time until Sherlock mumbled: “I really thought I was okay.”
“You were,” John said quietly. “This happens and it’s all right.”
Sherlock shook his head.
“Yes, Sherlock, it is.” John waited a moment for the words to sink in before he continued. “This, tonight, happens. You know it does. Recovery is messy.”
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Are you done?”
“Almost,” John said, smiling slightly. “I’m proud of you.”
That surprised Sherlock enough to look at John. John nodded to confirm what he had said, hoping beyond hope that he didn’t look quite as beaten up as he felt.
“Tonight was a setback, not a complete loss,” he said. “Cleanse your mouth and then let’s go to bed. We’ll take tomorrow tomorrow.”
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, rubbing his red eyes with his left hand. “I can take that tea now.”
“Okay,” John said. “I’ll take it up to the bedroom. Don’t be too long.”
“I won’t,” Sherlock promised, taking the nailbrush and starting to scrub his right hand again.
John wanted to take the nailbrush off him again, but the calm and meticulousness by which Sherlock cleaned his right hand this time made him not do it. Instead he stroked Sherlock’s back a last time before leaving.
“John,” Sherlock said, making John turn in the doorway. “I really do like her trifle.”
John smiled, nodding, as his chest filled with that disturbing thing called ‘Hope’ as he realised that he had been right: tonight wasn’t a complete loss and tomorrow would be a new day.
Note: This is part of the
kidloki for the readthrough she did.This part is dedicated to all of you who struggled with food this holiday season, no matter if it was first or second hand.
Be incredibly good to one another and treat yourself like you would treat a friend.
Be incredibly good to one another and treat yourself like you would treat a friend.
“Are you sure?”
Sherlock sighed, glaring at John through the mirror as he was tying his tie. “If you ask me that one more time I’m going to hit you with a blunt object.”
“I’m sorry.” John held up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “I just…”
“Don’t.”
“If you—“
“John.”
“Fine.”
Sherlock put on his suit jacket and turned around in one smooth motion. John smiled slightly, still not convinced by Sherlock’s confidence, and followed Sherlock downstairs to Mrs Hudson’s where they had been invited to Christmas dinner. The scent of the food had filled the stairway from early morning, creating a hard knot of worry in John’s stomach, but he couldn’t deny that it smelled delicious.
“Boys, you’re early!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed, greeting them at the door, her cheeks flushed and her apron properly tied around her red Christmas dress.
“We just wanted to come down and see if you needed any help,” John said, putting on a perfectly acceptable smile.
“That’s very kind of you, John, you really don’t have to,” Mrs Hudson said. “Go into the dining room and pour yourselves a brandy, the rest will be here in about fifteen minutes I’m sure.”
“It smells lovely, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, grinning at her. “I’ve been longing for your trifle since last Christmas.”
“That’s nice, dear, but you’re trying too hard,” Mrs Hudson patted him on the cheek. “You don’t have to do that.”
Sherlock blinked, most of his colour disappearing.
“I’ve boiled some eggs and potatoes. I’ve made sure there are a lot of non-roasted vegetables, grapes and oranges, salmon, shrimps and I’ll make fresh toast when the others arrive,” Mrs Hudson went on, counting the food items on her fingers. “I’m sure you’ll find something.”
Sherlock found himself enough to nod. “Yes, thank you.”
Mrs Hudson smiled motherly, patting John on the shoulder and hurried away to the kitchen with a comment about forgetting something in the oven.
“Don’t look at me like that,” John mumbled, shaking his head at Sherlock, as Mrs Hudson disappeared out of earshot.
“You told her.”
John shook his head again, looking up to meet Sherlock’s accusing eyes. “Give her some credit, she figured it out years ago. She more or less lives with you too, you know.”
“And the food?”
“She asked if there was anything you were more comfortable eating.” John sighed. “What was I supposed to do?”
“You should have told me.”
John nodded. “Yes, perhaps I should have.”
They half-glared at each other for a moment before Sherlock sighed and lowered his head. John reached out and put a gentle hand on his arm.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly. “No one else is here and Mrs Hudson will understand.”
“Stop trying to make me—“ Sherlock cut himself off with an annoyed sound, moving away from John’s touch. He took a deep breath and pulled slightly at his sleeves. “I’m okay, John,” he said calmly. “Don’t have me question that.”
John smiled, pressing past his default smile to an actual one, and nodded. “Let’s go and have that brandy Mrs Hudson talked about.”
Sherlock smiled as well, but didn’t quite manage it, as he showed John to lead the way to the dining room.
In the dining room the table was laid for eight people – Mrs Hudson, Mrs Turner, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade and Molly with their respective partners – and almost caving in under the weight of all the food. Both John and Sherlock were startled by the sight but pretended they didn’t notice it at all. John poured them each a brandy, discreetly watching Sherlock as he studied everything on the table.
“Hey,” he said quietly, handing Sherlock one of the snifters.
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
Sherlock nodded, emptying half his snifter in one go.
“I’m okay,” he whispered under his breath. John ignored it because it was obviously not meant for him this time, but his mouth felt very dry suddenly.
“I’m writing up the Morse case,” John said, clearing his throat. “But there are some details I can’t seem to remember.”
Sherlock frowned, but turned to look at him nonetheless. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“So?” When Sherlock didn’t answer, John continued. “When we first arrived at the scene Claudia was face down on the bed, right?”
“Yes.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.
John didn’t care, instead he kept asking obvious question after obvious question – he even remember things incorrectly on purpose just to have Sherlock correct him – and the deeper into the case they got, the more Sherlock seemed to relax.
They had almost reached the end when the doorbell rang and they heard Lestrade and his wife being greeted by Mrs Hudson. John and Sherlock straightened up, exchanging one last look before they were joined by the Lestrades, shortly followed by Molly and her boyfriend. Sherlock and John ended up on opposite sides of the table. John tried to get Mrs Lestrade to switch places with him, but since he didn’t have any good reason he cared to mention he gave up after Sherlock had given him a stern look.
Sherlock took two small potatoes, a piece of salmon and, in a moment of inspiration, he took both some roasted vegetable and turkey. The turkey was lovely, but after just one piece of the roasted vegetable he moved them to the side of the plate with a frown and he wiped his fork and knife on the napkin before he cut the potatoes into small pieces.
A piece of potato, a small piece of salmon.
Some turkey and a sip of red wine.
Another piece of potato and some cranberry sauce which he had forgotten.
It tasted sweeter than he had expected.
He met John’s eyes, raising his eyebrows to tell him to look at his own damn plate instead of his. It was almost comical how John probably was having more trouble enjoying the food than he was as John was actively trying (and constantly failing) to not look at Sherlock’s plate. It was first after a whole glass of wine and a completely inappropriate joke by Mrs Turner that John started to relax.
By that time, however, Sherlock found it hard and hard to bring the fork to his mouth. He cut the food in smaller pieces, but they still seemed to grow in his mouth and it was only with great determination he managed to swallow down each bite.
Bread sauce that Mrs Lestrade had insisted he’d try.
Half an egg since Mrs Hudson had gone through the trouble to make it for his sake.
Salmon that had been too close to the roasted vegetables.
The last bite felt like it got stuck in his throat, but he forced it down with a large sip of wine. He looked at his plate, pushing at the potatoes to get it as far away from both the bread sauce (he had to admit that it tasted very well) and the roasted vegetable. Then he poked at the cranberry sauce, trying to deduce the amount of sugar Mrs Hudson had put in it. Surely more than necessary.
He shook his head to get rid of that thought, pushing the cranberry sauce to the side as well. He wasn’t going to start bothering with that now, he really wasn’t. He looked up and glared at John who was talking to Molly, because everything had been just fine until John had started to question him about tonight.
Another bite of potatoes.
Two grapes.
A sip of wine.
Some turkey.
The turkey grew larger and larger in his mouth, reaching a point where he knew he wouldn’t be able to swallow it without gaging. He stopped chewing, a bitter taste creeping up in the back of his throat as he contemplated if he’d be able to spit it out in his napkin without anyone noticing. Probably not. He took a deep breath through his nose and swallowed. Sure enough he gaged, but by emptying his wine glass he managed to keep it all down.
Cold sweat was starting to break out on his forehead and he could feel his hands trembling. His mouth was suddenly completely dry and the bitter taste in the back of his throat grew stronger. He shifted uncomfortably, the nausea suddenly washing over him with full power.
Someone put a hand on his back. Sherlock almost jumped out of his seat.
“Let go of the fork,” John muttered in his ear as he filled the empty wine glass with water.
Sherlock put down his fork, not realising before how convulsively he had been holding it.
“Do you want us to leave?” John said quietly, still with his hand on Sherlock’s back.
Sherlock glared at him. “Don’t be absurd, John. We haven’t had trifle yet.”
John smiled faintly, patting his shoulder before walking round to sit down again, but he kept a disturbingly close look at Sherlock after that. As soon as he found an opening he made sure to excuse them both from the dinner.
“Everything was lovely,” Sherlock told Mrs Hudson at the door.
Mrs Hudson squeezed his hand. “Thank you, dear.”
John smiled and mouthed ‘thank you’ to her.
When they stepped inside their sitting room, before John had even closed the door, Sherlock threw off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. Then he sat down heavily on the sofa, covering his face in his arms against the armrest.
“How do you feel?” John asked quietly, touching Sherlock’s hair gently.
Sherlock groaned in physical pain.
“Do you want me to get anything? Water? Peppermint tea?”
Sherlock shook his head. “I’m never eating anything ever again.”
“Yeah,” John whispered. He wondered if Sherlock was in most physical or psychological pain at the moment, after probably eating more in one sitting than he had this entire week. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything for the nausea?”
Sherlock nodded.
“It’ll be all right, Sherlock,” John said, knowing how empty the words were, but Sherlock nodded again in response.
John nodded too, keeping the sigh at bay. He wondered how much Sherlock had actually wanted to eat and how much he had forced himself to eat to make him and Mrs Hudson happy. Seeing the agony Sherlock was in right now made him wish desperately that not a single bite had been for his sake.
“Don’t tell Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock mumbled.
“I won’t,” John said. “I’m going to bed, are you staying here?”
Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he took a couple of deep breaths, clearly focusing on slowly breathing in and out through his nose, but he burped and had to swallow repeatedly.
“Do you need a bin?” John asked.
“I won’t be sick in a bin.”
“But do you think you need to be sick?”
Sherlock nodded, panting heavily between each attempt to swallow the nausea.
“It’s okay,” John said, still stroking Sherlock’s hair. “Do you think you can move to the bathroom?”
Sherlock nodded again, slowly pushing away from the sofa. He looked absolutely dreadful, but managed to get up from the sofa and into the bathroom on his own accord. He knelt down in front of the already open toilet, on routine putting up the ring as well.
“I’m never eating again,” he whispered, putting his arms over the open toilet. He rested his forehead against his arms, making his face disappear completely into the toilet bowl.
John sat down next to Sherlock, rubbing his back in an attempt to calm him because nothing would probably ease the nausea at this point. Sherlock burped loudly, retching once, but nothing happen.
“It’s okay,” John murmured again. “It’s okay, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s breathing shifted, becoming far more shallow now when he wasn’t trying to keep anything down, and just seconds later he burped again and this time Mrs Hudson’s trifle came up, quickly followed by the bread sauce and the potatoes, the salmon and the turkey. When it seemed to calm down he spit a couple of times, deeply panting.
“Okay?” John whispered, his hand now still on Sherlock’s back. In response Sherlock’s body cramped under John’s hand as more of the dinner came up. When it stopped Sherlock waited with his head in the toilet for a long time before pulling back and sitting on his heels, his body trembling.
“Feeling better?” John asked.
Sherlock shook his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He gaged, leaning forward to spit whatever might come up. It wasn’t much, but he started to pant heavily again. He gave John a quick glance, as if contemplating whether or not he wanted to do this with John there, before closing his eyes and putting two fingers deep down his throat. His body made a terrible noise, but up came more. This time mostly fluids by the sound of it. John closed his eyes tightly and turned away. It was one thing to know Sherlock did this, another to see it and be present when he did.
“John,” Sherlock finally said, his voice hoarse, when there didn’t seem to be anything but air and bile left in him. He was pale, his face glossy in sweat and he was still resting with his arms against the toilet. “Don’t tell Mrs Hudson.”
“I won’t,” John said, reaching out and moving a lock of sweaty hair from Sherlock’s forehead. “I won’t.”
“I thought I was okay,” Sherlock whispered.
John smiled faintly. “It’s Christmas. I can assure you, you’re not the only one who ate too much and have their head in the toilet tonight.”
Sherlock just sighed. He sat up, reaching out to flush without looking down at the disposed dinner before he got up. John stayed on the floor, feeling extremely tired and oddly calm. He hadn’t realised just how tense he apparently had been since they had received the invitation.
“How are you feeling? he said, as Sherlock turned on the tap to wash his hand.
“Don’t,” Sherlock said sternly, picking up the nailbrush to make sure he got everything from under his nails.
“Sherlock.”
“Please, John.”
“Are you—“
“Shut up!” Sherlock yelled, throwing down the nailbrush in the sink.
John blinked. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock shook his head as he picked up the nailbrush again and started to scrub frenetically. John got up off the floor. He put his hand on Sherlock’s lower back and took the nailbrush from him.
“That’s enough,” John said. “You’re clean.”
Sherlock didn’t look at him, his cheeks blushing with shame. They were silent for a long time until Sherlock mumbled: “I really thought I was okay.”
“You were,” John said quietly. “This happens and it’s all right.”
Sherlock shook his head.
“Yes, Sherlock, it is.” John waited a moment for the words to sink in before he continued. “This, tonight, happens. You know it does. Recovery is messy.”
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Are you done?”
“Almost,” John said, smiling slightly. “I’m proud of you.”
That surprised Sherlock enough to look at John. John nodded to confirm what he had said, hoping beyond hope that he didn’t look quite as beaten up as he felt.
“Tonight was a setback, not a complete loss,” he said. “Cleanse your mouth and then let’s go to bed. We’ll take tomorrow tomorrow.”
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, rubbing his red eyes with his left hand. “I can take that tea now.”
“Okay,” John said. “I’ll take it up to the bedroom. Don’t be too long.”
“I won’t,” Sherlock promised, taking the nailbrush and starting to scrub his right hand again.
John wanted to take the nailbrush off him again, but the calm and meticulousness by which Sherlock cleaned his right hand this time made him not do it. Instead he stroked Sherlock’s back a last time before leaving.
“John,” Sherlock said, making John turn in the doorway. “I really do like her trifle.”
John smiled, nodding, as his chest filled with that disturbing thing called ‘Hope’ as he realised that he had been right: tonight wasn’t a complete loss and tomorrow would be a new day.
