![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Help us to survive (11/17)
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.
Notes: This is part of the Eating us Alive verse and will make more sense if you have read at least Eating us Alive and Eating us Alive, again, first. 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 spent the day giving a lecture to, as Mike Stamford had once put it, bright young things like they used to be. John hated them too, but he actually enjoyed the once-a-semester inspirational lectures that Mike had talked him into giving, about what it had been like working as an army doctor a decade ago. Today especially, because after the incident yesterday, and being woken up by the shower running this morning it had been a goddamn blessing to leave Sherlock behind and spend a day in a world that was mostly his own.
The first thing he saw when he stepped into the flat was Sherlock’s coat hanging over the sofa’s armrest. It was a hard jerk back to reality. Something was wrong, because Sherlock was supposed to be at Scotland Yard the entire day. John swallowed the bad taste in his mouth, along with a sigh. Life didn’t come with breaks, apparently.
“Sherlock?” he called out, hanging up both his jacket and Sherlock’s coat behind the door.
“You’re home early,” Sherlock called back from the direction of his bedroom.
…and bathroom, John’s mind unhelpfully supplied.
“I could say the same about you,” said John, walking through the kitchen.
He relaxed when he saw Sherlock in front of the mirror in the bedroom, still in the suit he had put on this morning. Sherlock hadn’t worn a suit in two weeks, and John must say that it did amazing things for his bearing and demeanour. It almost made him look as if he was fine, but the dark marks under his eyes still told another story.
John leaned against the doorframe. “I thought you were going to be bugging Lestrade all day.”
“He was being annoying.”
“I’m sure that’s mutual,” John said with a smile.
Sherlock snorted, turning to inspect himself from the side. He sucked in his stomach as much as he could, slowly letting it out again as he exhaled, carefully watching what he was doing in the mirror.
“Is it visible to normal people that I’ve lost about four pounds?” he asked, pressing with his fingers just above the waistband of his trousers.
“I’m not doing this, Sherlock.”
Sherlock looked up at him. “Do what?”
“Answering questions with only wrong answers.”
“Then perhaps you can leave me alone?” Sherlock muttered, turning back to what he was doing. “Or did you want something?”
“No, not really,” John said, feeling his ears turning red. “Just seeing if— ehm, where you were.”
Sherlock sighed, looking down at his fingers which now dug fairly deep into his stomach. Very slowly he removed his hands before turning his back to the mirror. John thought he looked even more tired now than he had this morning, more adrift.
“I’m not purging,” Sherlock said, buttoning up his suit jacket and pulling at its sleeves. “Trust me on that, at least.”
John flinched. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Sherlock said, meeting his eyes. “’Trust them when they are trustworthy’, isn’t that what you say?”
John nodded, unable to keep a neutral face when Sherlock quoted from LovED Ones. The last of the positive energy that he had brought with him from Bart’s slipped away. He hated not trusting Sherlock. A lot of the time, that actually was the worst feeling, the most consuming one. The sorrow and the pain, the fear, he had got quite used to living with those. It was the distrust and the doubts that ate away at him.
“When I told you,” Sherlock suddenly said, just as John was about to leave. “What did you…”
“Told me what?”
“Never mind. Forget it,” Sherlock mumbled quickly, shaking his head as to snap out of whatever strange mood he was currently in. He waved a hand in the direction of the bed. “I had Lestrade print out the file on Micha.”
“What?”
“The Rosewood suicide,” Sherlock said. “It’s on the bed.”
John blinked, tearing his eyes from Sherlock to the bed where saw a beige Scotland Yard folder. An all too familiar feeling of despair washed over him. ’Trust them when they are trustworthy’, and Sherlock clearly wasn’t.
“H-how?” He stuttered.
Sherlock sighed. “As I said, Lestrade printed—“
“Sherlock.” John opened his arms despondently.
“I told him you were being unreasonable, and if he didn’t give me something interesting I would never leave his office.”
“Well, that would do it,” John muttered, walking over to the bed to pick up the folder. Opening it, he felt a very similar discomfort when he saw the photographs as when he had been standing next to the bed at the hotel. The shock was missing, but the unease was the same. “You promised you wouldn’t—“
“I promised to not go on the forums, and I haven’t.”
John sighed, putting the folder away. “Hair splitting. You knew perfectly well what I meant.”
“We needed the information,” Sherlock said. “I saw an opportunity, and I took it.”
“Did you talk to Lestrade?”
“It was inevitable.”
“Sherlock.”
“There’s nothing to—“
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock looked away, wrapping his arms around himself. He shook his head.
John didn’t take his eyes off Sherlock, waiting for him to speak. He didn’t know what to expect and his gut twisted into a harder and harder knot for every second that passed in silence.
“Sherlock,” John said, gently, when it became evident that Sherlock wasn’t going to start talking. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s ‘happened’,” Sherlock mumbled. “I told you, I haven’t— I’m not… doing anything.”
“I’m not accusing you of that, either,” said John. “I believe you when you say you haven’t purged. I don’t trust you to never do it again – quite frankly, I don’t expect you to never do it again – but I believe you.”
It was a relief to say it and realise that it was true; he did believe Sherlock when he said he hadn’t purged yet. As he had talked, though, Sherlock had closed his eyes, pressing his arms harder against his body. To John it looked like he was in physical pain, which was why he said:
“If you tell me that nothing’s happened, that what I’m seeing right now is the same thing that had you ruin dinner yesterday” – Sherlock’s tightly shut lips twisted at the mention – “then I’m going to believe that too, but the case? It’s off until you find your balance again. I’m not going to work it, you’re definitely not going to work it. In any way. I don’t care how long it takes or how many people he ends up killing. Your health has to come first.”
Sherlock swallowed, looking somewhere between desperate and grateful when he met John’s eyes. “Nothing’s happened,” he whispered. “Nothing’s happened.”
“Okay,” John said, smiling softly. “Have you eaten anything today?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“Should we do something about that?” John asked. “I can make some breakfast.”
Sherlock frowned. “It’s almost six o’clock.”
“So?” John shrugged, making sure to pick up the Rosewood suicide folder again. “Do you want some eggs and beans? I think we even have tomatoes, and I could do with some sausage.”
“Boiled eggs and toast,” Sherlock said after some consideration. “And non-fried tomatoes.”
“Okay,” said John, smiling honestly and unguarded in relief. “Okay. Egg, toast and fresh tomatoes. That’s good.”
Sherlock looked at him, his eyes wide, but still with his arms protectively around his torso. “John, it was one dinner. I’m not that bad. I eat.”
“I know,” John said, letting go of a deep breath. He put his hand on Sherlock’s crossed arms. “I know, I know. Sometimes I’m just, I feel like… Never mind. My issues. I'm sorry.”
Sherlock moved to take John’s hand, and John found himself, for the second time in a very short while, waiting for Sherlock to build up the strength or courage to say something. John squeezed his hand, watching Sherlock’s face. Sherlock, on the other hand, was looking down at their hands.
“I really thought I could do it,” he said, quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” John squeezed his hand harder, shaking his head. “You’re not failing. You know the safety announcement on aeroplanes? First put on your own oxygen mask, before you help others. You need to put on your oxygen mask.”
“That a ridiculous metaphor.”
“Maybe,” John said. “But you need to focus on your own breathing right now.”
Sherlock nodded.
John nodded as well, kissing Sherlock’s hand gently before letting go. He went to his bedroom to put away the Rosewood suicide folder before he started making their evening-breakfast. About thirty minutes later they both sat down at the sitting room table to eat. They didn’t talk, but after an hour, Sherlock had finished everything he had put on his plate. And he had taken a sausage.
-x-
Chapter 12
Notes: This is part of the Eating us Alive verse and will make more sense if you have read at least Eating us Alive and Eating us Alive, again, first. 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 spent the day giving a lecture to, as Mike Stamford had once put it, bright young things like they used to be. John hated them too, but he actually enjoyed the once-a-semester inspirational lectures that Mike had talked him into giving, about what it had been like working as an army doctor a decade ago. Today especially, because after the incident yesterday, and being woken up by the shower running this morning it had been a goddamn blessing to leave Sherlock behind and spend a day in a world that was mostly his own.
The first thing he saw when he stepped into the flat was Sherlock’s coat hanging over the sofa’s armrest. It was a hard jerk back to reality. Something was wrong, because Sherlock was supposed to be at Scotland Yard the entire day. John swallowed the bad taste in his mouth, along with a sigh. Life didn’t come with breaks, apparently.
“Sherlock?” he called out, hanging up both his jacket and Sherlock’s coat behind the door.
“You’re home early,” Sherlock called back from the direction of his bedroom.
…and bathroom, John’s mind unhelpfully supplied.
“I could say the same about you,” said John, walking through the kitchen.
He relaxed when he saw Sherlock in front of the mirror in the bedroom, still in the suit he had put on this morning. Sherlock hadn’t worn a suit in two weeks, and John must say that it did amazing things for his bearing and demeanour. It almost made him look as if he was fine, but the dark marks under his eyes still told another story.
John leaned against the doorframe. “I thought you were going to be bugging Lestrade all day.”
“He was being annoying.”
“I’m sure that’s mutual,” John said with a smile.
Sherlock snorted, turning to inspect himself from the side. He sucked in his stomach as much as he could, slowly letting it out again as he exhaled, carefully watching what he was doing in the mirror.
“Is it visible to normal people that I’ve lost about four pounds?” he asked, pressing with his fingers just above the waistband of his trousers.
“I’m not doing this, Sherlock.”
Sherlock looked up at him. “Do what?”
“Answering questions with only wrong answers.”
“Then perhaps you can leave me alone?” Sherlock muttered, turning back to what he was doing. “Or did you want something?”
“No, not really,” John said, feeling his ears turning red. “Just seeing if— ehm, where you were.”
Sherlock sighed, looking down at his fingers which now dug fairly deep into his stomach. Very slowly he removed his hands before turning his back to the mirror. John thought he looked even more tired now than he had this morning, more adrift.
“I’m not purging,” Sherlock said, buttoning up his suit jacket and pulling at its sleeves. “Trust me on that, at least.”
John flinched. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Sherlock said, meeting his eyes. “’Trust them when they are trustworthy’, isn’t that what you say?”
John nodded, unable to keep a neutral face when Sherlock quoted from LovED Ones. The last of the positive energy that he had brought with him from Bart’s slipped away. He hated not trusting Sherlock. A lot of the time, that actually was the worst feeling, the most consuming one. The sorrow and the pain, the fear, he had got quite used to living with those. It was the distrust and the doubts that ate away at him.
“When I told you,” Sherlock suddenly said, just as John was about to leave. “What did you…”
“Told me what?”
“Never mind. Forget it,” Sherlock mumbled quickly, shaking his head as to snap out of whatever strange mood he was currently in. He waved a hand in the direction of the bed. “I had Lestrade print out the file on Micha.”
“What?”
“The Rosewood suicide,” Sherlock said. “It’s on the bed.”
John blinked, tearing his eyes from Sherlock to the bed where saw a beige Scotland Yard folder. An all too familiar feeling of despair washed over him. ’Trust them when they are trustworthy’, and Sherlock clearly wasn’t.
“H-how?” He stuttered.
Sherlock sighed. “As I said, Lestrade printed—“
“Sherlock.” John opened his arms despondently.
“I told him you were being unreasonable, and if he didn’t give me something interesting I would never leave his office.”
“Well, that would do it,” John muttered, walking over to the bed to pick up the folder. Opening it, he felt a very similar discomfort when he saw the photographs as when he had been standing next to the bed at the hotel. The shock was missing, but the unease was the same. “You promised you wouldn’t—“
“I promised to not go on the forums, and I haven’t.”
John sighed, putting the folder away. “Hair splitting. You knew perfectly well what I meant.”
“We needed the information,” Sherlock said. “I saw an opportunity, and I took it.”
“Did you talk to Lestrade?”
“It was inevitable.”
“Sherlock.”
“There’s nothing to—“
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock looked away, wrapping his arms around himself. He shook his head.
John didn’t take his eyes off Sherlock, waiting for him to speak. He didn’t know what to expect and his gut twisted into a harder and harder knot for every second that passed in silence.
“Sherlock,” John said, gently, when it became evident that Sherlock wasn’t going to start talking. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s ‘happened’,” Sherlock mumbled. “I told you, I haven’t— I’m not… doing anything.”
“I’m not accusing you of that, either,” said John. “I believe you when you say you haven’t purged. I don’t trust you to never do it again – quite frankly, I don’t expect you to never do it again – but I believe you.”
It was a relief to say it and realise that it was true; he did believe Sherlock when he said he hadn’t purged yet. As he had talked, though, Sherlock had closed his eyes, pressing his arms harder against his body. To John it looked like he was in physical pain, which was why he said:
“If you tell me that nothing’s happened, that what I’m seeing right now is the same thing that had you ruin dinner yesterday” – Sherlock’s tightly shut lips twisted at the mention – “then I’m going to believe that too, but the case? It’s off until you find your balance again. I’m not going to work it, you’re definitely not going to work it. In any way. I don’t care how long it takes or how many people he ends up killing. Your health has to come first.”
Sherlock swallowed, looking somewhere between desperate and grateful when he met John’s eyes. “Nothing’s happened,” he whispered. “Nothing’s happened.”
“Okay,” John said, smiling softly. “Have you eaten anything today?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“Should we do something about that?” John asked. “I can make some breakfast.”
Sherlock frowned. “It’s almost six o’clock.”
“So?” John shrugged, making sure to pick up the Rosewood suicide folder again. “Do you want some eggs and beans? I think we even have tomatoes, and I could do with some sausage.”
“Boiled eggs and toast,” Sherlock said after some consideration. “And non-fried tomatoes.”
“Okay,” said John, smiling honestly and unguarded in relief. “Okay. Egg, toast and fresh tomatoes. That’s good.”
Sherlock looked at him, his eyes wide, but still with his arms protectively around his torso. “John, it was one dinner. I’m not that bad. I eat.”
“I know,” John said, letting go of a deep breath. He put his hand on Sherlock’s crossed arms. “I know, I know. Sometimes I’m just, I feel like… Never mind. My issues. I'm sorry.”
Sherlock moved to take John’s hand, and John found himself, for the second time in a very short while, waiting for Sherlock to build up the strength or courage to say something. John squeezed his hand, watching Sherlock’s face. Sherlock, on the other hand, was looking down at their hands.
“I really thought I could do it,” he said, quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” John squeezed his hand harder, shaking his head. “You’re not failing. You know the safety announcement on aeroplanes? First put on your own oxygen mask, before you help others. You need to put on your oxygen mask.”
“That a ridiculous metaphor.”
“Maybe,” John said. “But you need to focus on your own breathing right now.”
Sherlock nodded.
John nodded as well, kissing Sherlock’s hand gently before letting go. He went to his bedroom to put away the Rosewood suicide folder before he started making their evening-breakfast. About thirty minutes later they both sat down at the sitting room table to eat. They didn’t talk, but after an hour, Sherlock had finished everything he had put on his plate. And he had taken a sausage.
-x-
Chapter 12