Help us to survive (17/17)
Mar. 23rd, 2015 07:08 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.
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 finally found his mobile – it was in his jacket, in the bedroom – after it had stopped ringing. When he saw Lestrade’s name on the caller ID, he sighed deeply as he pressed redial; Lestrade only called at this hour if something had happened.
Lestrade answered on the first ring. “John? Hi. Sorry, did I…”
“Hello. No, it’s fine, I just couldn’t find my phone.”
“Is Sherlock home?”
“No, I thought he was at—“ John turned around on the spot, looking to make sure Sherlock hadn’t somehow come home without him noticing. A terrible feeling crept up on him and his grip around the mobile tightened. “What’s happened?”
“He left here about fifteen minutes ago, I’m sure he’s still on his way,” Greg said, not sounding reassuring at all. “John… Why didn’t either of you bother telling me that he has an eating disorder?”
A breath got stuck in John’s throat. “He told you?”
“Yes.”
“He actually said he has an eating disorder?”
“Yes! Christ, John, that’s not something you forget or make up.”
“Sorry, I just…” John couldn’t help smiling. “I’ve never heard him say— He just calls it his ‘thing’ if he mentions it at all.”
“So it’s really, it’s… He does—”
“Yes.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“He didn’t want you to know.”
“Still, this case—”
“I know.”
Lestrade sighed deeply on the other end. “He’s been sitting with the suicides the entire day.”
“I’m sorry, Greg.” John said, taking the phone from his ear momentarily. “I think I hear someone at the door. I have to go and see.”
“Go.”
“Thanks. I promise to talk to you later.” John hung up before Lestrade had a chance to say anything more.
“Sherlock, is that you?” he called out, but got no reply.
Whatever sound he thought he’d heard was gone and everything was quiet again. When he stepped into the stairwell, he saw Sherlock sitting on the bottom step, slouched against the wall. Filled with relief to have him home, John walked down and sat next to him on the stairs.
“Lestrade called,” he said quietly when Sherlock did nothing to acknowledge his presence. “How do you feel?”
Sherlock pushed away from the wall and instead fell onto John’s shoulder. John wrapped an arm around him, kissing his hair.
“I have an eating disorder,” Sherlock whispered, the last two words barely making it out.
Something fluttered in John’s chest and he smiled, still with his face in Sherlock’s hair. “I know, and that’s all right.”
Sherlock shook his head.
John held him closer, rocking them slowly back and forth. John was completely calm. It felt like he shouldn’t be, it felt like he should be terrified about what would come, but he wasn’t. Not now, at least. Right now, sitting with Sherlock in his arms on the stairs, everything felt strangely hopeful, because whatever came now would be new.
After a long time in silence, John kissed Sherlock’s hair again and whispered: “You’re the strongest, bravest person I know.”
Sherlock didn’t respond, but at least he didn’t protest, and that had to be good.
They stayed on the stairs until John’s bad leg started to ache.
-x-
John called in sick to the surgery the next day to accompany Sherlock to Scotland Yard. When Sherlock had engrossed himself in the suicide files again, John slipped out of Tait’s office and walked over to Lestrade’s. He knocked on the open door. Lestrade looked as if he hadn’t got much sleep last night; John felt a wave of sympathy washing over him.
“Morning,” John said, closing the door behind him as he stepped inside. “Thank you for calling last night.”
“Yeah, I figured…” said Lestrade, waving his hand when he couldn’t find the end of the sentence. “I’m sorry.”
“God, don’t be. I appreciate it.”
“I wasn’t sure if— I didn’t know what to…”
“Yeah,” John said, nodding. “It’s a common feeling.”
They both pressed for half-smiles, before looking away from each other and letting the awkward silence stretch.
“How are you doing?” John finally asked.
Lestrade blinked. “Me? I don’t, I don’t know.”
John forced another smile. “When I found out, I freely sought out Harry’s company just to get other problems to think about.”
“Are you suggesting I’d call my ex-wife?”
John chuckled. “No.”
“Figured.” Lestrade sighed deeply. “I keep thinking about all these times when I have— How long have you known?”
“About ten years, but it’s been going on for much longer. I suspect since he was pre-pubescent.”
“Christ.” Lestrade rubbed his face. “And you never thought at the beginning of the case to slip me a note ‘FYI, Sherlock has anorexia’?”
“He doesn’t,” John said firmly. “He doesn’t have anorexia.”
“Yeah, he said something about that, but—“
“He doesn’t fit the diagnosis,” John said, cutting him off. “He might have, at some point, but he doesn’t now and for some reason that’s very important to him. So just… don’t ever call it that.”
Lestrade nodded, his expression that of someone who was taking in too much information and trying to make sense of it. “How is he?”
“After last night, or…?”
“Let’s start there.”
“I’m not sure,” said John, frowning slightly. “I think he managed to sleep more than you seem to have done, at least.”
“That’s not very hard,” Lestrade said. “This is why you didn’t come to me with the case sooner, isn’t it?”
John nodded.
“That’s something,” Lestrade muttered. “I had trouble believing that you would be stupid enough to keep it from us.”
“Thanks, I think,” John said with an almost genuine smile. “It’s been hard to know what’s up and down lately.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine.” Lestrade sighed. “This is it, though, right? This is the thing you haven’t told me?”
“Yes.”
Lestrade relaxed at the reassurance, but he hesitated before continuing. “He said he was all right, but is he?”
“He is,” John said. It was perhaps stretching reality, but he figured it would put Lestrade at ease and protect Sherlock’s privacy by not discussing him in too much detail. “This case has just been a little… trying, but he is okay.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Yeah,” John said, nodding. “Anyway, I should get back to Sherlock. I just wanted to check on you.”
Lestrade chuckled. “Thought I needed it, did you?”
“Yes, and I needed it.” John took a deep breath, licking his lips. “It’s meant a lot, you know, that you’ve asked. About Sherlock. About us. About… me. Even though I didn’t answer, I really appreciate you asking.”
“Anyone with eyes in their sockets could see something was off.”
“But only you asked.”
Lestrade tried to press for a smile, but failed terribly. John managed better. He wondered briefly if he’d appreciated someone else asking, and the answer was probably no.
He nodded once, turning to leave, but before he reached the door Lestrade blurted out:
“Why did he tell me?”
John stopped and looked back at him.
“Why did he tell me now when we’re done?” Lestrade asked again, making John believe that this was the one thing he had wanted to ask the entire time. “Have I made him worse, is that why?”
“No,” John said, shaking his head. “He told you because he trusts you.”
-x-
John took the detour to the break room to make tea before heading back to Tait’s office. As an afterthought he put sugar in Sherlock’s tea; it was a gamble he felt willing to take today.
Sherlock looked up when John opened the door to the office, his eyes stopping at the mugs before going back to work. “It didn’t take you twenty minutes to make tea.”
“I checked on Lestrade.” John put down the tea right under his nose.
Sherlock wrapped his hands around the mug, looking back up at John. “Mm?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
“I think his world is a bit lopsided at the moment, but he’ll bounce back,” John said. “I told him not to worry; that you’re okay.”
“Am I?”
“Are you?”
Sherlock shrugged. He brought the tea to his mouth, but put it down again with a frown. “There’s sugar in it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how you take your tea.”
Sherlock looked down, into the mug.
“I can go and make you another one,” John said.
“It’s all right,” said Sherlock, tasting it, just to put it as far away from him at the table as he could.
John smiled, sitting down to wait for Sherlock to go through the last suicide if that’s what he needed to do to mentally close this case. If he needed something else, John would make sure to stay with him for that too.
It was okay, or at least it would be.
John was sure of it.
-x-
Epilogue
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 finally found his mobile – it was in his jacket, in the bedroom – after it had stopped ringing. When he saw Lestrade’s name on the caller ID, he sighed deeply as he pressed redial; Lestrade only called at this hour if something had happened.
Lestrade answered on the first ring. “John? Hi. Sorry, did I…”
“Hello. No, it’s fine, I just couldn’t find my phone.”
“Is Sherlock home?”
“No, I thought he was at—“ John turned around on the spot, looking to make sure Sherlock hadn’t somehow come home without him noticing. A terrible feeling crept up on him and his grip around the mobile tightened. “What’s happened?”
“He left here about fifteen minutes ago, I’m sure he’s still on his way,” Greg said, not sounding reassuring at all. “John… Why didn’t either of you bother telling me that he has an eating disorder?”
A breath got stuck in John’s throat. “He told you?”
“Yes.”
“He actually said he has an eating disorder?”
“Yes! Christ, John, that’s not something you forget or make up.”
“Sorry, I just…” John couldn’t help smiling. “I’ve never heard him say— He just calls it his ‘thing’ if he mentions it at all.”
“So it’s really, it’s… He does—”
“Yes.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“He didn’t want you to know.”
“Still, this case—”
“I know.”
Lestrade sighed deeply on the other end. “He’s been sitting with the suicides the entire day.”
“I’m sorry, Greg.” John said, taking the phone from his ear momentarily. “I think I hear someone at the door. I have to go and see.”
“Go.”
“Thanks. I promise to talk to you later.” John hung up before Lestrade had a chance to say anything more.
“Sherlock, is that you?” he called out, but got no reply.
Whatever sound he thought he’d heard was gone and everything was quiet again. When he stepped into the stairwell, he saw Sherlock sitting on the bottom step, slouched against the wall. Filled with relief to have him home, John walked down and sat next to him on the stairs.
“Lestrade called,” he said quietly when Sherlock did nothing to acknowledge his presence. “How do you feel?”
Sherlock pushed away from the wall and instead fell onto John’s shoulder. John wrapped an arm around him, kissing his hair.
“I have an eating disorder,” Sherlock whispered, the last two words barely making it out.
Something fluttered in John’s chest and he smiled, still with his face in Sherlock’s hair. “I know, and that’s all right.”
Sherlock shook his head.
John held him closer, rocking them slowly back and forth. John was completely calm. It felt like he shouldn’t be, it felt like he should be terrified about what would come, but he wasn’t. Not now, at least. Right now, sitting with Sherlock in his arms on the stairs, everything felt strangely hopeful, because whatever came now would be new.
After a long time in silence, John kissed Sherlock’s hair again and whispered: “You’re the strongest, bravest person I know.”
Sherlock didn’t respond, but at least he didn’t protest, and that had to be good.
They stayed on the stairs until John’s bad leg started to ache.
-x-
John called in sick to the surgery the next day to accompany Sherlock to Scotland Yard. When Sherlock had engrossed himself in the suicide files again, John slipped out of Tait’s office and walked over to Lestrade’s. He knocked on the open door. Lestrade looked as if he hadn’t got much sleep last night; John felt a wave of sympathy washing over him.
“Morning,” John said, closing the door behind him as he stepped inside. “Thank you for calling last night.”
“Yeah, I figured…” said Lestrade, waving his hand when he couldn’t find the end of the sentence. “I’m sorry.”
“God, don’t be. I appreciate it.”
“I wasn’t sure if— I didn’t know what to…”
“Yeah,” John said, nodding. “It’s a common feeling.”
They both pressed for half-smiles, before looking away from each other and letting the awkward silence stretch.
“How are you doing?” John finally asked.
Lestrade blinked. “Me? I don’t, I don’t know.”
John forced another smile. “When I found out, I freely sought out Harry’s company just to get other problems to think about.”
“Are you suggesting I’d call my ex-wife?”
John chuckled. “No.”
“Figured.” Lestrade sighed deeply. “I keep thinking about all these times when I have— How long have you known?”
“About ten years, but it’s been going on for much longer. I suspect since he was pre-pubescent.”
“Christ.” Lestrade rubbed his face. “And you never thought at the beginning of the case to slip me a note ‘FYI, Sherlock has anorexia’?”
“He doesn’t,” John said firmly. “He doesn’t have anorexia.”
“Yeah, he said something about that, but—“
“He doesn’t fit the diagnosis,” John said, cutting him off. “He might have, at some point, but he doesn’t now and for some reason that’s very important to him. So just… don’t ever call it that.”
Lestrade nodded, his expression that of someone who was taking in too much information and trying to make sense of it. “How is he?”
“After last night, or…?”
“Let’s start there.”
“I’m not sure,” said John, frowning slightly. “I think he managed to sleep more than you seem to have done, at least.”
“That’s not very hard,” Lestrade said. “This is why you didn’t come to me with the case sooner, isn’t it?”
John nodded.
“That’s something,” Lestrade muttered. “I had trouble believing that you would be stupid enough to keep it from us.”
“Thanks, I think,” John said with an almost genuine smile. “It’s been hard to know what’s up and down lately.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine.” Lestrade sighed. “This is it, though, right? This is the thing you haven’t told me?”
“Yes.”
Lestrade relaxed at the reassurance, but he hesitated before continuing. “He said he was all right, but is he?”
“He is,” John said. It was perhaps stretching reality, but he figured it would put Lestrade at ease and protect Sherlock’s privacy by not discussing him in too much detail. “This case has just been a little… trying, but he is okay.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Yeah,” John said, nodding. “Anyway, I should get back to Sherlock. I just wanted to check on you.”
Lestrade chuckled. “Thought I needed it, did you?”
“Yes, and I needed it.” John took a deep breath, licking his lips. “It’s meant a lot, you know, that you’ve asked. About Sherlock. About us. About… me. Even though I didn’t answer, I really appreciate you asking.”
“Anyone with eyes in their sockets could see something was off.”
“But only you asked.”
Lestrade tried to press for a smile, but failed terribly. John managed better. He wondered briefly if he’d appreciated someone else asking, and the answer was probably no.
He nodded once, turning to leave, but before he reached the door Lestrade blurted out:
“Why did he tell me?”
John stopped and looked back at him.
“Why did he tell me now when we’re done?” Lestrade asked again, making John believe that this was the one thing he had wanted to ask the entire time. “Have I made him worse, is that why?”
“No,” John said, shaking his head. “He told you because he trusts you.”
-x-
John took the detour to the break room to make tea before heading back to Tait’s office. As an afterthought he put sugar in Sherlock’s tea; it was a gamble he felt willing to take today.
Sherlock looked up when John opened the door to the office, his eyes stopping at the mugs before going back to work. “It didn’t take you twenty minutes to make tea.”
“I checked on Lestrade.” John put down the tea right under his nose.
Sherlock wrapped his hands around the mug, looking back up at John. “Mm?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
“I think his world is a bit lopsided at the moment, but he’ll bounce back,” John said. “I told him not to worry; that you’re okay.”
“Am I?”
“Are you?”
Sherlock shrugged. He brought the tea to his mouth, but put it down again with a frown. “There’s sugar in it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how you take your tea.”
Sherlock looked down, into the mug.
“I can go and make you another one,” John said.
“It’s all right,” said Sherlock, tasting it, just to put it as far away from him at the table as he could.
John smiled, sitting down to wait for Sherlock to go through the last suicide if that’s what he needed to do to mentally close this case. If he needed something else, John would make sure to stay with him for that too.
It was okay, or at least it would be.
John was sure of it.
-x-
Epilogue
