Help us to survive (9/17)
Jan. 26th, 2015 06:59 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-
John had been waiting for something ever since Sherlock had said that he would take the case. He didn’t know what that something would be or how it would present itself, but he had been anticipating… something. Especially since he found the cheese in the bin, and their work of going through the seemingly never ending forums advising and encouraging weight loss and starvation had stretched into its second week, without generating much other than more victims.
So when there was a huge crash in the kitchen, John was up from the sofa and heading over there quickly enough to have beaten most Olympic runners up from the starting blocks. He stopped in the doorway. Sherlock was standing next to the stove where he had cooked their dinner, staring blankly at the mess of broken plates, tomato sauce, and pasta that were spread over the kitchen floor.
“What happened?” John asked.
Sherlock looked up, his face grey as ash.
“It’s okay,” said John softly.
Sherlock shook his head, backing away from the mess he’d made and gracelessly falling down on a chair. He covered his face in his trembling hands.
John looked between the broken kitchenware on the floor, and the quite broken detective on the chair. He felt a surprising relief now that the unknown thing he had been dreading appeared to have happened, and that it wasn’t worse than two broken plates. He got down on the floor and started picking up the shards.
When he had got rid of the bigger pieces he sat back on his heels.
“Sherlock,” he said, placing a hand on Sherlock’s knee to make him look up from his hands. “A little help?”
Sherlock swallowed, but nodded, and got up to fetch a dish cloth to wipe up the tomato sauce that was splattered all over kitchen. They did the rest of the cleaning up in silence, hardly even looking at each other. As John finally stood up again, Sherlock sat down on the floor, leaning against the cupboard. John smiled briefly, reaching down to help him up, but Sherlock just took his hand, remaining firmly where he was.
“What happened?” John asked again, squeezing Sherlock’s hand.
“I don’t know.”
John recognised the answer as ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ but he chose to ignore it. “You okay?”
“I thought I was,” Sherlock said, letting go of John.
“Sherlock—“
“No, we’re not going to talk about it now.”
“Are we ever?”
“Probably not,” Sherlock half-mumbled, pushing himself up off the floor.
“Sherlock...”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sherlock turned around, halfway out of the room already, sighing with clearly acted annoyance. “I dropped some plates, what is there to talk about?”
“You know exactly what,” John muttered. He took out new plates and started to put up spaghetti on them. “Do you want food?”
Sherlock didn’t answer, which wasn’t that shocking, but he didn’t leave the kitchen either. That caught John’s attention enough for him to turn around. Sherlock looked incredibly guilty, and the colour that had returned to his cheeks during the cleaning up slowly disappeared again.
“What?” asked John suspiciously, and closed his eyes when Sherlock only answer was to shake his head. “Sherlock, what did you do?”
“I over-salted the pasta water.”
John dropped the pasta spoon into the pot as if it had burned him, and stepped back from the stove. Sherlock hadn't intentionally ruined food for years. The harmless ‘something’ had suddenly become very much not so.
“We’re dropping the case,” he said, turning to Sherlock. “Right now.”
“You’re overreacting. It’s not that—“
“No, Sherlock, this is not a discussion. The case is off.”
“Fifteen dead women,” said Sherlock soberly.
“I don’t care!”
“Yes, you do.”
John deflated, letting out a frustrated sound. Sherlock was right, there were at least fifteen dead women out there and it would be impossible to walk away from that. But he couldn’t walk away from this either. He couldn’t pretend that this hadn’t happened.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Tomorrow we’re handing it over to Lestrade.”
“No.”
“We have enough to prove that there is something to investigate and—“
“It’s my case.”
“If anything it’s my case, and it’s not like we were going to be able to make the arrest ourselves, anyway, if we ever got to that point.”
“I don’t need him!” Sherlock yelled at the top of his lungs. “He needs me!”
“Sherlock?” John held up both his hands, taking a small step forward. “Calm down.”
Sherlock went instantly still.
“You, you can’t tell him,” he said. “John, please.”
John stared at him, his hands fell down; Sherlock was, he was… begging. He was scared and he was begging. John felt completely frozen to the ground.
“He won’t make the connection,” John stuttered. “I won’t say anything—“
“How would you explain how we found the case in the first place?”
“I…” John shook his head, completely at a loss. “I’ll figure something out.”
“John.”
“Yeah, all right,” John mumbled. “I, I won’t take it to him. I promise.”
He sat down on the chair Sherlock had been on earlier, reaching out a hand for Sherlock. “Come.”
Sherlock obeyed, taking John’s hand, but staying at arm’s distance from him. It felt like a stab in the gut to John. All he wanted to do right now was to wrap his arms around Sherlock and hold him close until the feeling of having him slowly slip through his fingers disappeared. Holding on to his hand, squeezing so hard that pain was visible on Sherlock’s face wasn’t even remotely enough, but it made John able to at least force a weary smile.
“You’re going to take other cases,” John said, meeting Sherlock’s eyes to make it clear that it wasn’t negotiable. “I’m going to continue to go through the forums, but you’re not going back on them. Can you promise me that?”
Sherlock averted his eyes.
John tugged his hand gently to make him look back. “I promised to not take it to Lestrade. Now, you promise me. Please?”
“Fine,” Sherlock muttered, wiggling his hand out of John’s. “It’s not necessary, but if it—“
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock sighed. He rubbed his face, stopping with his hands over his eyes. “I really thought I was okay,” he mumbled.
John stood and stepped up to him, gently pulling Sherlock's arms down.
“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” John whispered. “I never should have—“
“Don’t,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “If you hadn’t seen the pattern, then it might have taken another sixty victims before anyone put it together. Harold Shipman murdered over two hundred people before anyone noticed.”
“Yeah, well, none of them would have been you.”
Sherlock frowned. “I’m not dead now, either.”
“You’re right, you’re not.” John nodded to make himself listen to that, stroking Sherlock’s arms. “Is there anything I can do right now?”
“You should eat something.”
John half-chuckled. “You too, you know.”
“I will.”
“Good,” said John softly. “Do you want me to make you anything?”
Sherlock shook his head. “I’ll make some egg and toast when you’re done.”
“Okay,” John said, stroking Sherlock’s arms again. “I’ll go and get some takeaway, and stay out of the kitchen for a bit.”
Sherlock let go of a shaky breath. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t mean for this, Sherlock, I’m sorry.”
Sherlock shrugged, failing to smile. “You’re an idiot.”
That was the final straw. John moved closer, slipping his arms around Sherlock without even thinking about it, and buried his face against Sherlock’s chest. It felt so familiar, frighteningly so, and still he couldn’t remember the last time he had hugged Sherlock. When Sherlock didn’t move away, but rather hugged back, John held him closer.
“I love you, too,” he whispered into his shirt.
-x-
Chapter 10
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-
John had been waiting for something ever since Sherlock had said that he would take the case. He didn’t know what that something would be or how it would present itself, but he had been anticipating… something. Especially since he found the cheese in the bin, and their work of going through the seemingly never ending forums advising and encouraging weight loss and starvation had stretched into its second week, without generating much other than more victims.
So when there was a huge crash in the kitchen, John was up from the sofa and heading over there quickly enough to have beaten most Olympic runners up from the starting blocks. He stopped in the doorway. Sherlock was standing next to the stove where he had cooked their dinner, staring blankly at the mess of broken plates, tomato sauce, and pasta that were spread over the kitchen floor.
“What happened?” John asked.
Sherlock looked up, his face grey as ash.
“It’s okay,” said John softly.
Sherlock shook his head, backing away from the mess he’d made and gracelessly falling down on a chair. He covered his face in his trembling hands.
John looked between the broken kitchenware on the floor, and the quite broken detective on the chair. He felt a surprising relief now that the unknown thing he had been dreading appeared to have happened, and that it wasn’t worse than two broken plates. He got down on the floor and started picking up the shards.
When he had got rid of the bigger pieces he sat back on his heels.
“Sherlock,” he said, placing a hand on Sherlock’s knee to make him look up from his hands. “A little help?”
Sherlock swallowed, but nodded, and got up to fetch a dish cloth to wipe up the tomato sauce that was splattered all over kitchen. They did the rest of the cleaning up in silence, hardly even looking at each other. As John finally stood up again, Sherlock sat down on the floor, leaning against the cupboard. John smiled briefly, reaching down to help him up, but Sherlock just took his hand, remaining firmly where he was.
“What happened?” John asked again, squeezing Sherlock’s hand.
“I don’t know.”
John recognised the answer as ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ but he chose to ignore it. “You okay?”
“I thought I was,” Sherlock said, letting go of John.
“Sherlock—“
“No, we’re not going to talk about it now.”
“Are we ever?”
“Probably not,” Sherlock half-mumbled, pushing himself up off the floor.
“Sherlock...”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sherlock turned around, halfway out of the room already, sighing with clearly acted annoyance. “I dropped some plates, what is there to talk about?”
“You know exactly what,” John muttered. He took out new plates and started to put up spaghetti on them. “Do you want food?”
Sherlock didn’t answer, which wasn’t that shocking, but he didn’t leave the kitchen either. That caught John’s attention enough for him to turn around. Sherlock looked incredibly guilty, and the colour that had returned to his cheeks during the cleaning up slowly disappeared again.
“What?” asked John suspiciously, and closed his eyes when Sherlock only answer was to shake his head. “Sherlock, what did you do?”
“I over-salted the pasta water.”
John dropped the pasta spoon into the pot as if it had burned him, and stepped back from the stove. Sherlock hadn't intentionally ruined food for years. The harmless ‘something’ had suddenly become very much not so.
“We’re dropping the case,” he said, turning to Sherlock. “Right now.”
“You’re overreacting. It’s not that—“
“No, Sherlock, this is not a discussion. The case is off.”
“Fifteen dead women,” said Sherlock soberly.
“I don’t care!”
“Yes, you do.”
John deflated, letting out a frustrated sound. Sherlock was right, there were at least fifteen dead women out there and it would be impossible to walk away from that. But he couldn’t walk away from this either. He couldn’t pretend that this hadn’t happened.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Tomorrow we’re handing it over to Lestrade.”
“No.”
“We have enough to prove that there is something to investigate and—“
“It’s my case.”
“If anything it’s my case, and it’s not like we were going to be able to make the arrest ourselves, anyway, if we ever got to that point.”
“I don’t need him!” Sherlock yelled at the top of his lungs. “He needs me!”
“Sherlock?” John held up both his hands, taking a small step forward. “Calm down.”
Sherlock went instantly still.
“You, you can’t tell him,” he said. “John, please.”
John stared at him, his hands fell down; Sherlock was, he was… begging. He was scared and he was begging. John felt completely frozen to the ground.
“He won’t make the connection,” John stuttered. “I won’t say anything—“
“How would you explain how we found the case in the first place?”
“I…” John shook his head, completely at a loss. “I’ll figure something out.”
“John.”
“Yeah, all right,” John mumbled. “I, I won’t take it to him. I promise.”
He sat down on the chair Sherlock had been on earlier, reaching out a hand for Sherlock. “Come.”
Sherlock obeyed, taking John’s hand, but staying at arm’s distance from him. It felt like a stab in the gut to John. All he wanted to do right now was to wrap his arms around Sherlock and hold him close until the feeling of having him slowly slip through his fingers disappeared. Holding on to his hand, squeezing so hard that pain was visible on Sherlock’s face wasn’t even remotely enough, but it made John able to at least force a weary smile.
“You’re going to take other cases,” John said, meeting Sherlock’s eyes to make it clear that it wasn’t negotiable. “I’m going to continue to go through the forums, but you’re not going back on them. Can you promise me that?”
Sherlock averted his eyes.
John tugged his hand gently to make him look back. “I promised to not take it to Lestrade. Now, you promise me. Please?”
“Fine,” Sherlock muttered, wiggling his hand out of John’s. “It’s not necessary, but if it—“
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock sighed. He rubbed his face, stopping with his hands over his eyes. “I really thought I was okay,” he mumbled.
John stood and stepped up to him, gently pulling Sherlock's arms down.
“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” John whispered. “I never should have—“
“Don’t,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “If you hadn’t seen the pattern, then it might have taken another sixty victims before anyone put it together. Harold Shipman murdered over two hundred people before anyone noticed.”
“Yeah, well, none of them would have been you.”
Sherlock frowned. “I’m not dead now, either.”
“You’re right, you’re not.” John nodded to make himself listen to that, stroking Sherlock’s arms. “Is there anything I can do right now?”
“You should eat something.”
John half-chuckled. “You too, you know.”
“I will.”
“Good,” said John softly. “Do you want me to make you anything?”
Sherlock shook his head. “I’ll make some egg and toast when you’re done.”
“Okay,” John said, stroking Sherlock’s arms again. “I’ll go and get some takeaway, and stay out of the kitchen for a bit.”
Sherlock let go of a shaky breath. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t mean for this, Sherlock, I’m sorry.”
Sherlock shrugged, failing to smile. “You’re an idiot.”
That was the final straw. John moved closer, slipping his arms around Sherlock without even thinking about it, and buried his face against Sherlock’s chest. It felt so familiar, frighteningly so, and still he couldn’t remember the last time he had hugged Sherlock. When Sherlock didn’t move away, but rather hugged back, John held him closer.
“I love you, too,” he whispered into his shirt.
-x-
Chapter 10
