Help us to Survive (2/17)

[solrosan]

Summary: 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

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-

Seeing the dead woman at the Rosewood Hotel had been like pushing a button, instantly triggering all of John’s worst habits. He watched and he counted – both calories, trips to the bathroom, and minutes in between. He did his damnedest not to, because it was counterproductive; he knew Sherlock would retaliate if he noticed, and he knew Sherlock used cases as type of food control even when he was at his best, but he couldn’t stop. Luckily, if that was a word he was allowed to use in this case, the serial killer who murdered seemingly random people at upscale hotels didn’t have a very long cooling off period and just five days after the suicide, a real body turned up.

The call from Lestrade had come at half past four in the morning. John was already up by then and, judging by the state of him, Sherlock probably hadn’t slept at all. They had still both been out the door within minutes, eager to get out of each other’s hair and away from what they weren’t talking about.

This time the victim, a middle aged man, had been found in the hotel’s car park, but there was no doubt that it was the same killer. John kept a safe distance from the crime scene itself where Sherlock argued with one of the forensic technicians in coveralls. From where he was standing, John couldn’t hear what they were arguing about, but based on body language and experience he’d say it was crime scene protocol and chain of evidence.

“Should we go over there?” Lestrade walked up to John, handing him a paper cup of questionable coffee.

“Ta,” John said, raising the cup. “No, this whole thing has had enough casualties without us trying to play heroes.”

Lestrade chuckled, covering it with a cough and quickly schooling his expression.

“Sherlock was right, by the way,” Lestrade said. “The girl at Rosewood, it was suicide according to the preliminary. Insulin overdose, apparently. I didn’t even know that was possible.”

John sipped his coffee much slower than necessary; the mere mention of the woman made a knot form in his stomach.

“It’s not a completely uncommon method in the diabetic or medical community,” he said with a grimace as he lowered his cup again. “I saw it once during my A&E rotation. It was a nurse from paediatrics, some of her colleagues brought her down and she was in a coma before we figured out what was going on. It wasn’t until someone noticed the missing insulin we made the connection, but it wasn’t too late. She woke up about two days later, no neurological damage at all.” He took another long, slow sip of coffee before sighing. “She jumped in front of a train six months later. I wasn’t there then, but I heard about it from a friend. I remember I got properly pissed that night.”

“Mm,” Lestrade mumbled. “I talked a bloke out of jumping once when I was still on the beat. He ended up shooting his pregnant girlfriend and her brother. Those times you really feel like you’re making a positive difference in this world, you know.”

John half-smiled. “Why don’t we ever talk about football, or something?”

“Because you haven’t watched a game from start to finish since you moved in with Sherlock.”

“Well, there’s that.”

They both turned their attention over to Sherlock for a moment. Sherlock was down on the ground now, examining god-knows-what while the forensic technician watched over him like a hawk.

From the corner of his eye John could see Lestrade squirming, as if building up for something uncomfortable. John squared his shoulders for what he expected would come. In his obsessive watching of Sherlock lately, John hadn’t been able to miss that Lestrade was watching him as well. Not with the usual ‘please-don’t-mess-up-the-evidence’ look, but a more attentive, suspicious look. John didn’t like it at all, because he knew what Lestrade was looking for. He was searching for an answer to why Sherlock had run out from the last crime scene.

John couldn’t very well blame Lestrade for worrying or watching, since he was doing the same thing. It still bothered him, because it was by doing exactly this that he had figured it out all those years ago. There was no doubt in John’s mind that Detective Inspector would do the same and, John had no idea how Sherlock would react to that. At the moment, John didn’t know if Sherlock even noticed. Perhaps John only saw it because he recognised himself in Lestrade’s actions. Either way, Lestrade seemed to have come to some sort of conclusion, or questions that he needed answered to move on with his investigation.

After a disturbingly long build up, Lestrade finally asked: “How are you two doing?”

“Fine.”

John felt the word tumble out almost before Lestrade had finished the question. He sighed as he turned to meet Lestrade’s sceptical look with a weary smile.

“Too fast?”

Lestrade nodded. “A bit.”

John tapped his finger against the coffee cup, weighing options he didn’t really have while Lestrade scrutinised him. He could keep insisting that everything was fine, even if Lestrade obviously didn’t believe that; he could tell another half-truth, admit that something was off but refuse to go into details, asking Lestrade to trust his judgement (that was how he had conducted his relationship with the DI for years now, after all); or he could tell the truth, betraying all of Sherlock’s trust with one sentence.

“John?”

“Yeah, sorry,” John mumbled, shaking his head to get back to here and now. He turned to Lestrade, putting on one of his default smiles – it had been a long time since he had needed to use one of them and he could feel something breaking inside him as he did. “We’re okay, don’t worry.”

“What happened at Rosewood?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m not an idiot, John.”

“I know,” said John, sighing. “I know. Just… don’t ask me about it, okay?”

“It’s not drugs, is it?”

“What? No, god no,” John said, smiling in relief. It felt wrong to be relieved that Lestrade suspected drugs instead of the truth, but there it was: undisguised relief. “It’s nothing illegal. I promise.”

Lestrade seemed quite relieved himself.

“He’s okay. We’re okay,” John said. After a moment of hesitation he added: “Thanks for asking, though.”

Lestrade looked confused at first, but as if something became obvious to him in that moment he then smiled. “Anytime.”

John nodded, surprised at how much he actually meant what he had said. It was strange balance between wanting people to notice and wanting them to stay as far away from it as possible. Not quite comfortable exploring that balance further, John turned his attention back to the crime scene. Sherlock had moved on from not just looking at the body to touching it and the forensic technician seemed close to frantic.

“I think I need to get over there before Sanders starts to cry,” Lestrade muttered.

“Good luck.”

“You’re more than free to join me.”

“Thanks, I’ll pass,” John said, gleefully.

Lestrade made a face. He emptied his coffee, taking a deep breath, before heading for Sherlock, Sanders and the dead body. With an amused smile John watched how Lestrade took control over the crime scene by more or less sending Sherlock and Sanders to different corners of the car park for a time out.

John followed Sherlock with his eyes as he stomped away, clearly overplaying his annoyance. With each step he took his façade cracked, and by the time he stopped the only thing left was pure exhaustion. John looked away, allowing Sherlock the moment of privacy he needed to pull himself together again. Soon enough Sherlock was on his way back to the scene, loudly arguing with Lestrade the entire way there.

John sighed, and started to walk over to the others to help Lestrade defuse the situation. Apparently there was no use wishing for this case to keep going, after all.

-x-

Sherlock was alone in the break room on the third floor of New Scotland Yard. It was late, and he couldn’t remember when he last slept, but they had been promised the surveillance footage from the car park and he’d be damned if he went home without watching it.

Mug, cheap horrible tea, hot water from the coffee maker.

He knew the cupboards of this break room almost as well as he knew the kitchen at Baker Street. Few people came here, because it was at the far end of the corridor, and he could take a little longer if he needed to. It was appreciated, even if the only thing he ever consumed in this building was tea and the occasional bag of crisps if his blood sugar was getting too low.

Today he was far below his recommended calorie intake (and he didn’t want to think about the week as a whole), but it was okay. He was okay. He was always about twenty percent short of his recommended calorie intake during cases and that was fine! Digestion slowed him down. The less he ate, the faster he would solve the case and the faster he would be able to go back to eating as he was supposed to.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, but followed through and put two teaspoons of sugar in his tea. Usually he didn’t take sugar in his tea when on a case, but he’d had disturbingly few calories today. It was hard to precise when he couldn’t weigh his food, and he hadn’t allowed himself to do that in over two decades, but he knew he’d had too little to eat.

He stirred the tea slowly. The solute dissolved quickly and, just like that, he couldn’t tell by looking that there were about thirty extra calories in the mug. A perfect homogeneous mixture, as expected. When he brought it to his mouth he would once again learn that there was sugar in there though, even if he couldn’t see it. He would notice how sweet the otherwise bitter beverage was. The physical attributes of the sugar might have been dramatically changed, but the taste remained nearly the same, indifferent to whether it was in crystallised form or dissolved. It seemed to remain sickeningly sweet no matter state.

He dropped the spoon in the sink, staring down into the mug. He could smell the sugar and his entire body seemed to revolt against the idea of drinking it. It was just thirty calories! It was nothing! It was 1.2 % of what he was supposed to have today. Even if he combined it with the cup he’d had this morning and the one he would be forced to have when he got home to put John at ease, it was still nothing – ninety calories was nothing. Sugar in the tea was nothing, and he had eaten too little for too long by now.

And he loved it.

And he hated that he loved it.

If he didn’t stop this soon they would notice. They would see that he was broken. That he was disgusting and— No! He slammed his hand down on the counter and summoned the memory of the woman at the Rosewood Hotel. Her tiny frame, the skin stretched over her cheekbones. The clear outline of her ribcage. Her frail hair. The nails John hadn’t been able to stop staring at. One of the constables had asked how long she had been dead, because he had thought she’d been mummified or decomposed or something equally stupid.

He would never end up like that.

He just wouldn’t.

However, he wouldn’t drink this tea either. His hand trembled when he poured out the sweetened mixture. He could have something when they got home tonight. A toast with beans didn’t sound too bad. At least in theory. He cleaned out the mug, put it and the spoon in the dishwasher and took a glass of water instead. It wasn’t any calories, but it would fill him up and, as John used to nag him, keep him hydrated.

Sherlock leaned back against the counter, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes. He needed to let it go. Sleep deprivation and low blood sugar were both things he was more than used to dealing with while on cases. He refused to accept why it was so hard. The anorexic woman had nothing to do with this case; he should be able to compartmentalise, but apparently he couldn’t.

He ran his hands through his hair, taking a couple of breath through his nose in preparation of going back to join the others. John’s eyes were on him as soon as he stepped into the room, but Sherlock pointedly ignored him. There was nothing wrong. He just needed to solve this case so that he could start eating, or at least sleeping, again.

That was all.

-x-

Chapter 3