Help us to Survive (1/17)
Dec. 2nd, 2014 08:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solrosanSummary: A crime scene involving a dead anorexic woman hits close to home for John and Sherlock, leading John to discover a disturbing pattern and Sherlock to face his eating disorder in new light.
Note: This is part of the Eating us Alive verse. The raw first draft of this story was written around the time I finished posting Eating us Alive again. At that time, its sole purpouse was to entertain a friend. It was never my intention to create actual plot and make it public, but with the help and inspiration of
Note: This is part of the Eating us Alive verse. The raw first draft of this story was written around the time I finished posting Eating us Alive again. At that time, its sole purpouse was to entertain a friend. It was never my intention to create actual plot and make it public, but with the help and inspiration of
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
willowmeg that happened anyway. I’m so grateful for the support throughout this, thank you.
I apoligise in advance for the severe hand waving I’ve occasionally done when it comes to medicine and to criminal law.
Warnings: Eating disorder (EDNOS, anorexia nervosa, bulimia nervosa), suicide, discussion of suicide, discussion of pro-ana.
-x-
For M
-x-The victim, a nineteen year old woman lying on her back on a bed at the Rosewood Hotel, looked like an Auschwitz prisoner. A well groomed Auschwitz prisoner in a pink bathrobe and perfect make up. The cleaning crew had found her. Apparently she had checked in yesterday, the Do Not Disturb sign was still hanging on the door handle. The room was neat; she hadn’t brought more than the large handbag on the bedside table.
John was standing next to the bed, his eyes fixed on her nails. They had absolutely nothing to do with the case – at least not as far as he could tell – but they were easier to look at than anything else, even if the signs of malnutrition were as obvious there as anywhere else on her body. It made him feel nauseated, because it wasn’t that long since Sherlock’s nails had looked the same way.
Sherlock had his hands deep in his coat pockets, standing next to John and peering at the dead woman. The only thing indicating that he probably was as disturbed by her appearance as John, was that he stood perfectly still at the side of the bed instead of leaning over the body in his usual manner.
John put his hands behind his back to stop himself from reaching out and touching Sherlock.
“Well?” Lestrade asked from the other side of the room.
“Sherlock?” said John quietly, tearing his eyes from the woman when Sherlock didn’t respond.
“It’s suicide,” Sherlock finally said, taking a hand out of his pocket to wave indecisively at the body. “She has… on her… It’s suicide. There has to be a note somewhere, most likely written before she got here. This isn’t related to the other murders.”
Lestrade frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, this was a complete waste of time,” said Sherlock, leaving the room abruptly before anyone could stop him.
“What was— Is he all right?” Lestrade sounded confused.
“I don’t really know,” John said, looking in the direction of the door.
Lestrade shook his head before turning to the dead woman again. “It’s sad, isn’t it, what we as a society do to young women? She must have been at this since she was just a kid.”
“That’s a too easy explanation,” John half-muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing, just…” said John, shrugging. “This isn’t dieting gone bad. If she’d wanted to look like a supermodel she would have stopped two stone ago.”
Lestrade raised his eyebrows.
“Never mind,” John said, pulling off the latex gloves he had put on when he entered the crime scene. “I should go and find Sherlock before he gets too far.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said, sounding suspicious.
“I suppose it would be out of line to ask to see the note when you find it?”
“A bit, yes. But I can tell you if Sherlock’s right or not.”
John nodded a ‘thank you’ before leaving. He imagined he'd lost his chance of catching up with Sherlock at this point so instead, preparing for the worst, he headed to Baker Street. To John’s incredible relief though, he found Sherlock sitting on the stairs outside 221B, smoking. Sherlock glared at him as he approached, telling him to shut up about the cigarette, but John had no intention of saying anything about it. Instead he sat down on the step next to Sherlock, looking straight ahead.
“Hypoglycaemia,” Sherlock said after a moment. “That’s how she died.”
John turned to him, surprised. “You said it was suicide.”
“Insulin.”
“Oh.”
Sherlock took a last drag of the cigarette before flinging the butt into the street. “She wasn’t diabetic though, the injection marks weren’t made by someone who was used to sticking herself with a needle of any kind. Her handbag was probably full of empty units, not even Lestrade can miss that.”
“And the note?”
“The notepad provided by the hotel was brand new, no one had used it. She had to have either brought something to write on or done it beforehand. The latter is more likely since no note was displayed at the scene.”
“How did you know she even wrote one?”
“Most people do, it’s a statistical—“
“Sherlock.”
“She planned her suicide; checked into a hotel, brought her own bathrobe, folded her clothes neatly. And she had ink on her hand.” Sherlock gave John a short glance. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice that, the way you were staring at her hands.”
“I… I wasn’t looking at her hands,” John said. “I was looking at her nails.”
At that, Sherlock looked down at his own hands; his left ring fingernail was turning blue after Molly had closed a body freezer on it two days ago, but otherwise all nails were just fine. “Did you see how they pitied her?” he asked, still focusing on his nails. “How disgusted they were by her?”
“It might come as a surprise to you, but most people are generally disgusted by dead bodies. Even people working homicides.”
“This was different, and you know it. You were disgusted by her.”
“No, I was scared by her.”
Sherlock looked so guilty at that confession, that John felt he had to force a reassuring smile.
“Don’t worry, I’ll survive,” he said. “But how are you? You ran out pretty fast.”
Sherlock turned away from him again. “I’m fine.”
John recognised the conversation-killing tone all too well, but remained on the stairs as Sherlock lit another cigarette. It was five months since they had last touched this topic at all and even then it had only been John wondering if they really needed all the beans that took up about half the pantry. They hadn’t actually talked about Sherlock’s eating disorder since they had gone back to permanently sleeping in separate beds fifteen months ago. John wasn’t going to press the issue right now, but a very unsettling feeling had started to brew in his gut and he knew he couldn’t ignore it forever.
“She…” Sherlock suddenly mumbled, but instead of continuing the sentence he shook his head and said: “Was I ever that bad?”
“No,” John said, just as quietly as Sherlock. ”At least not for as long as I’ve known you.”
“I don’t ever want them to look at me like that.”
“Sherlock, you don’t look anorexic.”
“Anymore.”
John cringed, staring down at the step below until he managed to present a neutral expression again. ‘Anymore’, that was the word. Sherlock didn’t look anorexic anymore. He hadn’t in years, actually, but in John’s nightmares he still did. John didn’t wake up screaming from those, as he did the ones about the war; instead he woke up feeling empty and disoriented, unable to separate the dream from reality. But Sherlock didn’t look anorexic anymore, and it was one of John’s greatest comforts.
Sherlock put out his cigarette more thoroughly than necessary, almost crushing the butt against the step, and stood up. “Let’s go.”
“What?”
“We still have a case.”
John sighed, but got up. “Sherlock…”
“Don’t,” Sherlock said, sharply. “Three people have been murdered. There’s a serial killer out there and Lestrade’s wasting his time trying to figure out the difference between a suicide and a homicide. This was an idiotic mistake, made by incompetent people, and I won’t stop doing my job because the woman in that room happens to have had an eat— Just, don’t. Okay?”
When the stream of words stopped washing over him, John nodded. “Yes, okay.”
“John, this is not—“
“I said okay,” John said, cutting him off. “And you’re right, we still have a case.”
Sherlock seemed surprised that it hadn’t turned into an argument, but he nodded and flagged down a cab to bring them back to Bart’s where they had been when Lestrade had called them about the new body. John swallowed a sigh as he followed Sherlock into the car. Yes, Sherlock was right – they still had a case – but this felt wrong. What felt even more wrong was that he felt relieved that there was something other than this dead woman for them to focus on. The serial murder case was another subject for them to talk about, but for the first time in years there was an awkward silence between them.
-x-
I apoligise in advance for the severe hand waving I’ve occasionally done when it comes to medicine and to criminal law.
Warnings: Eating disorder (EDNOS, anorexia nervosa, bulimia nervosa), suicide, discussion of suicide, discussion of pro-ana.
-x-
For M
-x-The victim, a nineteen year old woman lying on her back on a bed at the Rosewood Hotel, looked like an Auschwitz prisoner. A well groomed Auschwitz prisoner in a pink bathrobe and perfect make up. The cleaning crew had found her. Apparently she had checked in yesterday, the Do Not Disturb sign was still hanging on the door handle. The room was neat; she hadn’t brought more than the large handbag on the bedside table.
John was standing next to the bed, his eyes fixed on her nails. They had absolutely nothing to do with the case – at least not as far as he could tell – but they were easier to look at than anything else, even if the signs of malnutrition were as obvious there as anywhere else on her body. It made him feel nauseated, because it wasn’t that long since Sherlock’s nails had looked the same way.
Sherlock had his hands deep in his coat pockets, standing next to John and peering at the dead woman. The only thing indicating that he probably was as disturbed by her appearance as John, was that he stood perfectly still at the side of the bed instead of leaning over the body in his usual manner.
John put his hands behind his back to stop himself from reaching out and touching Sherlock.
“Well?” Lestrade asked from the other side of the room.
“Sherlock?” said John quietly, tearing his eyes from the woman when Sherlock didn’t respond.
“It’s suicide,” Sherlock finally said, taking a hand out of his pocket to wave indecisively at the body. “She has… on her… It’s suicide. There has to be a note somewhere, most likely written before she got here. This isn’t related to the other murders.”
Lestrade frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, this was a complete waste of time,” said Sherlock, leaving the room abruptly before anyone could stop him.
“What was— Is he all right?” Lestrade sounded confused.
“I don’t really know,” John said, looking in the direction of the door.
Lestrade shook his head before turning to the dead woman again. “It’s sad, isn’t it, what we as a society do to young women? She must have been at this since she was just a kid.”
“That’s a too easy explanation,” John half-muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing, just…” said John, shrugging. “This isn’t dieting gone bad. If she’d wanted to look like a supermodel she would have stopped two stone ago.”
Lestrade raised his eyebrows.
“Never mind,” John said, pulling off the latex gloves he had put on when he entered the crime scene. “I should go and find Sherlock before he gets too far.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said, sounding suspicious.
“I suppose it would be out of line to ask to see the note when you find it?”
“A bit, yes. But I can tell you if Sherlock’s right or not.”
John nodded a ‘thank you’ before leaving. He imagined he'd lost his chance of catching up with Sherlock at this point so instead, preparing for the worst, he headed to Baker Street. To John’s incredible relief though, he found Sherlock sitting on the stairs outside 221B, smoking. Sherlock glared at him as he approached, telling him to shut up about the cigarette, but John had no intention of saying anything about it. Instead he sat down on the step next to Sherlock, looking straight ahead.
“Hypoglycaemia,” Sherlock said after a moment. “That’s how she died.”
John turned to him, surprised. “You said it was suicide.”
“Insulin.”
“Oh.”
Sherlock took a last drag of the cigarette before flinging the butt into the street. “She wasn’t diabetic though, the injection marks weren’t made by someone who was used to sticking herself with a needle of any kind. Her handbag was probably full of empty units, not even Lestrade can miss that.”
“And the note?”
“The notepad provided by the hotel was brand new, no one had used it. She had to have either brought something to write on or done it beforehand. The latter is more likely since no note was displayed at the scene.”
“How did you know she even wrote one?”
“Most people do, it’s a statistical—“
“Sherlock.”
“She planned her suicide; checked into a hotel, brought her own bathrobe, folded her clothes neatly. And she had ink on her hand.” Sherlock gave John a short glance. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice that, the way you were staring at her hands.”
“I… I wasn’t looking at her hands,” John said. “I was looking at her nails.”
At that, Sherlock looked down at his own hands; his left ring fingernail was turning blue after Molly had closed a body freezer on it two days ago, but otherwise all nails were just fine. “Did you see how they pitied her?” he asked, still focusing on his nails. “How disgusted they were by her?”
“It might come as a surprise to you, but most people are generally disgusted by dead bodies. Even people working homicides.”
“This was different, and you know it. You were disgusted by her.”
“No, I was scared by her.”
Sherlock looked so guilty at that confession, that John felt he had to force a reassuring smile.
“Don’t worry, I’ll survive,” he said. “But how are you? You ran out pretty fast.”
Sherlock turned away from him again. “I’m fine.”
John recognised the conversation-killing tone all too well, but remained on the stairs as Sherlock lit another cigarette. It was five months since they had last touched this topic at all and even then it had only been John wondering if they really needed all the beans that took up about half the pantry. They hadn’t actually talked about Sherlock’s eating disorder since they had gone back to permanently sleeping in separate beds fifteen months ago. John wasn’t going to press the issue right now, but a very unsettling feeling had started to brew in his gut and he knew he couldn’t ignore it forever.
“She…” Sherlock suddenly mumbled, but instead of continuing the sentence he shook his head and said: “Was I ever that bad?”
“No,” John said, just as quietly as Sherlock. ”At least not for as long as I’ve known you.”
“I don’t ever want them to look at me like that.”
“Sherlock, you don’t look anorexic.”
“Anymore.”
John cringed, staring down at the step below until he managed to present a neutral expression again. ‘Anymore’, that was the word. Sherlock didn’t look anorexic anymore. He hadn’t in years, actually, but in John’s nightmares he still did. John didn’t wake up screaming from those, as he did the ones about the war; instead he woke up feeling empty and disoriented, unable to separate the dream from reality. But Sherlock didn’t look anorexic anymore, and it was one of John’s greatest comforts.
Sherlock put out his cigarette more thoroughly than necessary, almost crushing the butt against the step, and stood up. “Let’s go.”
“What?”
“We still have a case.”
John sighed, but got up. “Sherlock…”
“Don’t,” Sherlock said, sharply. “Three people have been murdered. There’s a serial killer out there and Lestrade’s wasting his time trying to figure out the difference between a suicide and a homicide. This was an idiotic mistake, made by incompetent people, and I won’t stop doing my job because the woman in that room happens to have had an eat— Just, don’t. Okay?”
When the stream of words stopped washing over him, John nodded. “Yes, okay.”
“John, this is not—“
“I said okay,” John said, cutting him off. “And you’re right, we still have a case.”
Sherlock seemed surprised that it hadn’t turned into an argument, but he nodded and flagged down a cab to bring them back to Bart’s where they had been when Lestrade had called them about the new body. John swallowed a sigh as he followed Sherlock into the car. Yes, Sherlock was right – they still had a case – but this felt wrong. What felt even more wrong was that he felt relieved that there was something other than this dead woman for them to focus on. The serial murder case was another subject for them to talk about, but for the first time in years there was an awkward silence between them.
-x-
