Help us to Survive (5/17)
Dec. 29th, 2014 06:38 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![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
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.
-x-
Something was wrong.
John chewed on his thumbnail, rereading the forum entry a fourth time, because it couldn’t be right. The content was totally unambiguous though: ninja_rose’s sister had killed herself with insulin.
This was the fifteenth evening he had brought his laptop with him to bed. It had taken bubblenox eight days to get back to him and take him up on his offer. While he had waited, he had started to go through the other entries in the forum’s grief section to see if there were others with similar requests, and he had continued with it even after his correspondence with bubblenox ended.
It had become like being on a case – a morbid excuse to not having to deal with his feelings and personal chaos. It wasn’t very uplifting, but it was a way to channel his anxiety and it was far easier than to write an entry of his own. That was his real motivation, if he was completely honest. If he happened to bring comfort to someone, then that was just a bonus.
The day before bubblenox had written him back, he had found another girl who had died of an insulin overdose. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time, more than noting that it was a strange coincidence, but now suddenly there was a third one. Three women over the course of six months didn’t seem like an accident. Once is chance, twice is a coincidence, third time is a pattern. But a pattern of what? It didn’t make any sense. Most people didn’t even know that it was possible to kill yourself with insulin; even fewer should have both knowledge and means.
John wondered what Sherlock would say about it, but before he had even finished the thought he pushed it away. This had nothing to do with Sherlock. It wasn’t a case, it was just his macabre pastime, and an unhealthy way to deal with – or rather not deal with – this.
He should probably stop.
He definitely should stop.
He took a screenshot of ninja_rose’s post, not completely sure of his motives, and saved it. Then he went back and did the same for the other two. In bubblenox’s case he also took screenshots of their PM conversation. After that he cleared his browser history and put the laptop under his bed, as if he actually believed ‘Out of Sight, Out of Mind’ would work in this case.
Five.
Five women who had killed themselves with insulin.
John didn’t know what to think anymore. The last one, which theoretically was the first one since he had been working backwards, had killed herself eight months ago. Five women in eight months. One case during his almost twenty years as a doctor, and now five in less than a year. It couldn’t be a coincidence. It also couldn’t be a spontaneous trend, like all those kids jumping in front of the Tube some years ago, because where did they get the insulin? It really didn’t add up. John had spent a lot of time trying to discredit his hypothesis that this was, at best, medically assisted suicide or, at worst, murder. However, the only thing he had been able to establish was that none of the dead women had had easy access to insulin.
If this was what he thought it was, then it was a case worthy of Sherlock Holmes. On the other hand, he had worked so hard, for such a long time, to keep the forum’s existence from Sherlock. It was his safe space, the only place where he put himself first, and he was ashamed for needing it to stay that way as much as he did. He couldn’t keep ignoring what was happening, though, because something was clearly wrong in his community.
Now John was standing in the door to Sherlock’s bedroom, like something out of a horror movie. The room was dark, but John could make out the silhouette of Sherlock on the bed; he was asleep, curled up with his back to the door. John could imagine his hands folded in front of his face. Sherlock was there, he was healthy and he felt safe. As far as John could tell, he had stopped force feeding himself. He wasn’t back to the equilibrium and the balance he’d had before the Rosewood suicide five weeks ago, but he was clearly getting there. It felt insane to jeopardise it, even at the cost of other people’s lives.
There was no way he could risk Sherlock’s health or give up the forum. It had to be a mistake. No matter what he thought he saw, it must be a coincidence.
It had to be.
John stared at the forum. He had done little else since they had settled down in the sitting room for the evening. The once so comforting website just filled him with shame these days, but he kept staring at it in hope of getting an answer. Or a way out.
Every now and then he refreshed the page. Nothing happened, there hadn’t been an update since late last night. After each time he hit refresh he looked over at Sherlock who was working at the table, typing up some notes he had brought with him from Bart’s the other day. It was such an ordinary sight, so mundane, so… boring. It was routine. It was, as Mrs Hudson would put it, domestic. It wasn’t at all perfect, but it was peaceful.
Sherlock mumbled some numbers to himself, scratching something in his notebook. John looked at him yet again, thinking like so many times these last days, that he was one of the lucky ones to still have Sherlock. With that in mind, he closed his laptop before he could change his mind again.
“Sherlock?”
“Mm?” Sherlock didn’t bother looking up.
“Are you okay?”
The question gave him Sherlock’s full attention in a fraction of a second in a way that John interpreted as: ‘No, but you shouldn’t notice that’. He immediately regretted saying anything.
Sherlock studied him for a moment before saying: “Yes.”
“Are you really, though?”
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“John.” There was a sharpness in Sherlock’s voice, and he narrowed his eyes.
“All right, fine. Do you…” John hesitated one last time. “Do you remember the woman at the Rosewood Hotel?”
“Vividly,” Sherlock said dryly.
“See, I don’t think it was suicide.”
Sherlock frowned. “But it was. The insulin was self-administered and Lestrade’s lot found a note.”
“Yes, technically—“
“What other types of suicide are there?”
“Jeff Hope.”
Sherlock’s eyes grew wide, a hint of a smile suddenly appeared at the corner of his lips. John felt somewhat disturbed by how thrilling the idea of another serial suicide seemed to Sherlock.
“What’s your theory?” Sherlock asked.
“Aren’t you the one who’s always on about not theorising before knowing all the facts?”
“Yes, and that’s why I think you have most, if not all, of the facts before you decided to tell me. And what other reason would you have to bring her up?”
There was something in the way he said the last part that made John think that Sherlock wanted him to drop it. The hinted smile remained, though, coxing John to keep going.
“First, promise me you’re okay.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m okay, Dr Watson.”
“I’m serious, Sherlock,” said John, much harsher than he had intended. “If you’re not okay, this can wait.”
“You’re going to let a potential serial killer run around London because you don’t like my tone?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock sat up straighter, blinking. It made John smile, even if Sherlock’s surprise at what was the most natural thing in the world to him made his heart break a little.
“Of course I would,” John said. “You come first. Your recovery – your health – comes first. Always. If this is what I think it is, then it will still be around when you’re sure you’re okay. So I ask again: are you okay?”
Sherlock nodded. “Tell me your theory.”
“Right.” John wet his lips again. “You said yourself that the woman at Rosewood wasn’t diabetic. Judging by her age and… condition” – Sherlock made a face – “I doubt that she had a profession where she could get her hands on the amount of insulin that she had brought with her.”
“She could have obtained it from a friend or—“
“I know she didn’t,” John interrupted.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise. “How?”
“That’s… not the point right now,” John said, shaking his head. “The point is that I know of four other women with severe eating disorders who committed suicide in the same way during the last year and, as far as I can tell, none of them had any reason to have any insulin at all on hand.”
Sherlock had put his hands together in front of his mouth while John talked. There was poorly hidden excitement in his eyes that John pretended he didn’t see as he went on:
“I think this is an Angel of Death who targets women, or people, with eating disorders. I don’t know how or why, but I’m fairly certain someone’s doing it.”
“How do you know all this?”
John met his eyes; this was it. “Through an online support group for people who live with someone suffering from an eating disorder.”
Sherlock blinked; all the enthusiasm about the possible case disappeared. It was painful to watch, but John kept his gaze steady as Sherlock realised the implications of what John had just said.
“John,” Sherlock said, his voice strained. “Are you coming to me as a client?”
“Yes. In a way, I am.”
“You know these people.”
“Not the dead women, but…“
“But the people on the forum.”
John nodded.
Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes. When he looked back at John, his eyes were blank and his voice trembled slightly when he asked: “What have you told them?”
“A lot,” John said, but added quickly. “But they don’t know our names. They don’t know who you are or what you do.”
“You haven’t…”
“…talked to them about this?” John shook his head. “No.”
“I see,” Sherlock mumbled. The reassurance seemed to calm him, but John still waited for Sherlock to snap at him. It didn’t happen. Instead Sherlock just sat there, looking more and more like a confused and lost child for every second that passed.
“Sherlock?” John said after nearly two minutes of silence.
“I’m okay,” Sherlock said quietly, probably more to himself than to John. Then he cleared his throat and met John’s eyes. “I’m okay,” he said. “But I won’t take this case.”
John exhaled slowly, feeling both incredibly relieved and incredibly disappointed at the same time.
“Okay,” he said, making sure to put up a smile. “Good.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, studying him closely for a moment.
“Good,” he then said, not sounding entirely convinced, but went back to his notes anyway.
John closed his eyes as soon as Sherlock’s gaze was off him, curling his hands into fists in his lap. He hadn’t noticed before now how much they were shaking. Hopefully Sherlock hadn’t noticed it either.
-x-
Chapter 6
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.
-x-
Something was wrong.
John chewed on his thumbnail, rereading the forum entry a fourth time, because it couldn’t be right. The content was totally unambiguous though: ninja_rose’s sister had killed herself with insulin.
This was the fifteenth evening he had brought his laptop with him to bed. It had taken bubblenox eight days to get back to him and take him up on his offer. While he had waited, he had started to go through the other entries in the forum’s grief section to see if there were others with similar requests, and he had continued with it even after his correspondence with bubblenox ended.
It had become like being on a case – a morbid excuse to not having to deal with his feelings and personal chaos. It wasn’t very uplifting, but it was a way to channel his anxiety and it was far easier than to write an entry of his own. That was his real motivation, if he was completely honest. If he happened to bring comfort to someone, then that was just a bonus.
The day before bubblenox had written him back, he had found another girl who had died of an insulin overdose. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time, more than noting that it was a strange coincidence, but now suddenly there was a third one. Three women over the course of six months didn’t seem like an accident. Once is chance, twice is a coincidence, third time is a pattern. But a pattern of what? It didn’t make any sense. Most people didn’t even know that it was possible to kill yourself with insulin; even fewer should have both knowledge and means.
John wondered what Sherlock would say about it, but before he had even finished the thought he pushed it away. This had nothing to do with Sherlock. It wasn’t a case, it was just his macabre pastime, and an unhealthy way to deal with – or rather not deal with – this.
He should probably stop.
He definitely should stop.
He took a screenshot of ninja_rose’s post, not completely sure of his motives, and saved it. Then he went back and did the same for the other two. In bubblenox’s case he also took screenshots of their PM conversation. After that he cleared his browser history and put the laptop under his bed, as if he actually believed ‘Out of Sight, Out of Mind’ would work in this case.
Five.
Five women who had killed themselves with insulin.
John didn’t know what to think anymore. The last one, which theoretically was the first one since he had been working backwards, had killed herself eight months ago. Five women in eight months. One case during his almost twenty years as a doctor, and now five in less than a year. It couldn’t be a coincidence. It also couldn’t be a spontaneous trend, like all those kids jumping in front of the Tube some years ago, because where did they get the insulin? It really didn’t add up. John had spent a lot of time trying to discredit his hypothesis that this was, at best, medically assisted suicide or, at worst, murder. However, the only thing he had been able to establish was that none of the dead women had had easy access to insulin.
If this was what he thought it was, then it was a case worthy of Sherlock Holmes. On the other hand, he had worked so hard, for such a long time, to keep the forum’s existence from Sherlock. It was his safe space, the only place where he put himself first, and he was ashamed for needing it to stay that way as much as he did. He couldn’t keep ignoring what was happening, though, because something was clearly wrong in his community.
Now John was standing in the door to Sherlock’s bedroom, like something out of a horror movie. The room was dark, but John could make out the silhouette of Sherlock on the bed; he was asleep, curled up with his back to the door. John could imagine his hands folded in front of his face. Sherlock was there, he was healthy and he felt safe. As far as John could tell, he had stopped force feeding himself. He wasn’t back to the equilibrium and the balance he’d had before the Rosewood suicide five weeks ago, but he was clearly getting there. It felt insane to jeopardise it, even at the cost of other people’s lives.
There was no way he could risk Sherlock’s health or give up the forum. It had to be a mistake. No matter what he thought he saw, it must be a coincidence.
It had to be.
John stared at the forum. He had done little else since they had settled down in the sitting room for the evening. The once so comforting website just filled him with shame these days, but he kept staring at it in hope of getting an answer. Or a way out.
Every now and then he refreshed the page. Nothing happened, there hadn’t been an update since late last night. After each time he hit refresh he looked over at Sherlock who was working at the table, typing up some notes he had brought with him from Bart’s the other day. It was such an ordinary sight, so mundane, so… boring. It was routine. It was, as Mrs Hudson would put it, domestic. It wasn’t at all perfect, but it was peaceful.
Sherlock mumbled some numbers to himself, scratching something in his notebook. John looked at him yet again, thinking like so many times these last days, that he was one of the lucky ones to still have Sherlock. With that in mind, he closed his laptop before he could change his mind again.
“Sherlock?”
“Mm?” Sherlock didn’t bother looking up.
“Are you okay?”
The question gave him Sherlock’s full attention in a fraction of a second in a way that John interpreted as: ‘No, but you shouldn’t notice that’. He immediately regretted saying anything.
Sherlock studied him for a moment before saying: “Yes.”
“Are you really, though?”
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“John.” There was a sharpness in Sherlock’s voice, and he narrowed his eyes.
“All right, fine. Do you…” John hesitated one last time. “Do you remember the woman at the Rosewood Hotel?”
“Vividly,” Sherlock said dryly.
“See, I don’t think it was suicide.”
Sherlock frowned. “But it was. The insulin was self-administered and Lestrade’s lot found a note.”
“Yes, technically—“
“What other types of suicide are there?”
“Jeff Hope.”
Sherlock’s eyes grew wide, a hint of a smile suddenly appeared at the corner of his lips. John felt somewhat disturbed by how thrilling the idea of another serial suicide seemed to Sherlock.
“What’s your theory?” Sherlock asked.
“Aren’t you the one who’s always on about not theorising before knowing all the facts?”
“Yes, and that’s why I think you have most, if not all, of the facts before you decided to tell me. And what other reason would you have to bring her up?”
There was something in the way he said the last part that made John think that Sherlock wanted him to drop it. The hinted smile remained, though, coxing John to keep going.
“First, promise me you’re okay.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m okay, Dr Watson.”
“I’m serious, Sherlock,” said John, much harsher than he had intended. “If you’re not okay, this can wait.”
“You’re going to let a potential serial killer run around London because you don’t like my tone?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock sat up straighter, blinking. It made John smile, even if Sherlock’s surprise at what was the most natural thing in the world to him made his heart break a little.
“Of course I would,” John said. “You come first. Your recovery – your health – comes first. Always. If this is what I think it is, then it will still be around when you’re sure you’re okay. So I ask again: are you okay?”
Sherlock nodded. “Tell me your theory.”
“Right.” John wet his lips again. “You said yourself that the woman at Rosewood wasn’t diabetic. Judging by her age and… condition” – Sherlock made a face – “I doubt that she had a profession where she could get her hands on the amount of insulin that she had brought with her.”
“She could have obtained it from a friend or—“
“I know she didn’t,” John interrupted.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise. “How?”
“That’s… not the point right now,” John said, shaking his head. “The point is that I know of four other women with severe eating disorders who committed suicide in the same way during the last year and, as far as I can tell, none of them had any reason to have any insulin at all on hand.”
Sherlock had put his hands together in front of his mouth while John talked. There was poorly hidden excitement in his eyes that John pretended he didn’t see as he went on:
“I think this is an Angel of Death who targets women, or people, with eating disorders. I don’t know how or why, but I’m fairly certain someone’s doing it.”
“How do you know all this?”
John met his eyes; this was it. “Through an online support group for people who live with someone suffering from an eating disorder.”
Sherlock blinked; all the enthusiasm about the possible case disappeared. It was painful to watch, but John kept his gaze steady as Sherlock realised the implications of what John had just said.
“John,” Sherlock said, his voice strained. “Are you coming to me as a client?”
“Yes. In a way, I am.”
“You know these people.”
“Not the dead women, but…“
“But the people on the forum.”
John nodded.
Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes. When he looked back at John, his eyes were blank and his voice trembled slightly when he asked: “What have you told them?”
“A lot,” John said, but added quickly. “But they don’t know our names. They don’t know who you are or what you do.”
“You haven’t…”
“…talked to them about this?” John shook his head. “No.”
“I see,” Sherlock mumbled. The reassurance seemed to calm him, but John still waited for Sherlock to snap at him. It didn’t happen. Instead Sherlock just sat there, looking more and more like a confused and lost child for every second that passed.
“Sherlock?” John said after nearly two minutes of silence.
“I’m okay,” Sherlock said quietly, probably more to himself than to John. Then he cleared his throat and met John’s eyes. “I’m okay,” he said. “But I won’t take this case.”
John exhaled slowly, feeling both incredibly relieved and incredibly disappointed at the same time.
“Okay,” he said, making sure to put up a smile. “Good.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, studying him closely for a moment.
“Good,” he then said, not sounding entirely convinced, but went back to his notes anyway.
John closed his eyes as soon as Sherlock’s gaze was off him, curling his hands into fists in his lap. He hadn’t noticed before now how much they were shaking. Hopefully Sherlock hadn’t noticed it either.
-x-
Chapter 6
