Fighting for understanding and normality
Notes: It became two more parts (don’t know how that happened) so this is the second to last. I wanted to show a small glimpse of what their everyday life could look like, but it became a little bit more drama than I had expected.
All parts here.
Summary: John does something stupid while trying to understand what Sherlock is doing to himself.
***
It was hard to force yourself to throw up by putting two fingers down your throat John noticed while standing on his knees in front of the toilet. There was nothing wrong with the gag reflex, but keeping the fingers down there to continue to trigger it until it resulted in something else than dry heaving was something else entirely.
The seventh time he stuck his finger down his throat he got the result he wanted. Finally the dinner worked its way up through the oesophagus due to the repeated retching and his stomach content spilled over. After two waves of vomiting, he knew he could probably swallow down the nausea and be done, but instead he forced his fingers into his mouth again, until all his body could produce was gastric acid.
Gasping for air John spitted repeatedly and flushed the toilet with his clean hand, washing his vomit-covered hand with the flushing water in the process. He wiped his hand on his jeans and his mouth on the sleeve of his sweater before falling back against the wall.
That had been… disgustingly horrifying. Or horrifyingly disgusting? The determination it took to do that was…
Feeling a bit faint, he got on his feet and walked over to the sink. The bathroom mirror told him that he had grown rather pale beneath the flustered cheeks and the cold sweat had given him a very unattractive glow.
Stepping into the shower to cleanse himself form the terrible experience he wondered if it had done any good. As the steam from the shower filled the small room it became pretty obvious to him that what he’d just done had been completely idiotic.
Two wrongs never made a right and he still didn’t get it.
“I just conducted an experiment,” said John when he entered the kitchen in his bathrobe some thirty minutes later.
Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, conducting a more scientific experiment than the one John had just preformed. Sherlock didn’t look up, but he frowned disapprovingly.
“So I heard,” he muttered, disposing the pipette tip before replacing it with a new one. “Why?”
“Why do you think?” John asked, sighing, and put the kettle on; he needed to get a new taste in his mouth.
“Answering with a counter-question is not a very skilful rhetorical tactic.”
“So is being an arse,” John said. “Do you want tea?”
“No.” Sherlock took another tip and repeated his pipetting once again. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
Sherlock looked up at him and just glared; one of those honest, condescending glares that still hinted of normality. It almost made John smile.
“It’s hard,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter. “And rather messy. And completely disgusting.”
“Yes, I’ve come to the same conclusion, and even though I've noticed it follows a somewhat distinct learning curve, I still prefer the use of emetics.”
“Jesus, Sherlock…”
“Saltwater,” Sherlock went on, ignoring John’s weary sigh, and going back to his microtitre plate. “It’s cheap and discreet.”
John rubbed his face, feeling slightly nauseous again. Why did Sherlock tell him this? So he could stop him? So he would know he was outwitted? The experiment had partly been an attempt to open up a line of communication, to get a glimpse of how it was, but he had not planned to be discussing purging techniques.
He made his tea in silence, feeling how the all too familiar frustration crept up on him again; lately he had become very short tempered. For his sanity he decided to let it all go for now. Even the emetic part. He left for the sitting room and the telly, pretending very hard that he hadn’t forced himself to vomit less than one hour ago, and acting as if everything was normal and just bloody wonderful.
In the kitchen he could hear Sherlock starting to hum a tune he often played on the violin. John was curious to what he was doing since they had no equipment in the flat to perform an ELISA and just practicing pipetting felt redundant.
Two commercial breaks later, Sherlock came out to the sitting room carrying a box of crackers. He held it out to John.
“Take a cracker; it’ll make you feel better.”
“I highly doubt that,” John muttered, but he took the box from Sherlock anyway. He didn’t take any crackers, just held the box in his hands, waiting for Sherlock to leave, but Sherlock didn’t.
“Well?” Sherlock he asked instead.
“Well, what?” said John, actually smiling when he saw how the repeat of the conversation in the kitchen annoyed Sherlock.
“Your ‘experiment’, did you get any significant results?”
“Statistically significant? Not really, I just have one sample.”
“Anything to build a hypothesis on?”
“Yes, but no further research.”
“What’s the hypothesis?”
“That you’re determined and stubborn.” John nodded to underline his words.
“You needed to induce vomiting to figure that out?” Sherlock sounded very doubtful. “I’d hoped your observatory skills were better than that.”
John rolled his eyes, and opened the box of crackers to show that he ignored the last comment. After taking two, he offered the box to Sherlock. Sherlock took a cracker, and, to John’s surprise, he sat down on the coffee table.
Sherlock turned the cracker between his fingers, putting all his focus on it and not even glancing at John. John barely dared to breathe.
“I don’t enjoy it,” Sherlock finally said after having broken the cracker in two. “I find it absolutely disgusting. That’s why I haven’t done it before.”
“You mean before I started to meddle?”
Sherlock nodded and looked up to meet John’s eyes for a short moment before they both looked away. After a long silence Sherlock said: “It’s not your fault.”
John sighed. “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.”
“That’s a false dichotomy."
John chuckled quietly at that. It was a bit strange how comforting that was to hear, not to mention how wonderful it was to see Sherlock's frown turn into a smile.
“How did this start, Sherlock?” John asked when the short pleasure of the chuckle had disappeared. “Why do you do it?”
“It is said to be insanity to do the same thing over and over again and expect different results,” said Sherlock as if he was stating the obvious, but John really wanted call him on hiding his insecurity behind rudeness.
John shrugged. “You call me an idiot at least twice a week, so...”
“Has it occurred to you that I might not want you to know the reasons?”
“It has,” John admitted. “Is it so?”
Sherlock finished crumbling the cracker between his fingers, letting all the crumbs fall on the floor. John waited and waited and waited but there was no answer, which he took as a yes; Sherlock didn’t want him to know the reason this had started once upon a time. It hurt to not be trusted with the reasons they lived in this hell. He realised it was a petty feeling, but it didn’t help.
“I won’t ask again,” John sighed. “But can you at least promise me to stop using salt water? Because that’s just a whole different level of stupid.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Sherlock snapped. “Do you really think I would- Don’t you think I know that?”
“No! Because you’re obviously stupid enough to start in the first place.”
Sherlock pressed his lips together, and got up.
“Sherlock, I’m sorry!” John yelled after him. “Come back here!”
The only response he got what the bedroom door being slammed shut. John made a frustrated sound, turning up the volume on the telly. When had they turned into this? When had it been impossible for them to go an entire day without yelling at each other? At least today it had been about the thing that was actually tearing them apart and not… dirty dishes.
About an hour later, Sherlock came back out and curled up next to John on the sofa. John completely forgot about the movie he was watching and just stared at Sherlock. Sherlock promptly ignored John, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. John almost wished it was, or that it could be. To try it out, John took Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock didn’t protest.
“Don’t do that again,” Sherlock said after a while. “I promise to never use emetic again, if you promise to never do that again.”
“I promise,” John said without hesitation.
He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, and didn’t let go until the end of the movie.
***
Note: This chapter has been quite heavily edited 2016-02-21
Last part.
All parts here.
Summary: John does something stupid while trying to understand what Sherlock is doing to himself.
***
It was hard to force yourself to throw up by putting two fingers down your throat John noticed while standing on his knees in front of the toilet. There was nothing wrong with the gag reflex, but keeping the fingers down there to continue to trigger it until it resulted in something else than dry heaving was something else entirely.
The seventh time he stuck his finger down his throat he got the result he wanted. Finally the dinner worked its way up through the oesophagus due to the repeated retching and his stomach content spilled over. After two waves of vomiting, he knew he could probably swallow down the nausea and be done, but instead he forced his fingers into his mouth again, until all his body could produce was gastric acid.
Gasping for air John spitted repeatedly and flushed the toilet with his clean hand, washing his vomit-covered hand with the flushing water in the process. He wiped his hand on his jeans and his mouth on the sleeve of his sweater before falling back against the wall.
That had been… disgustingly horrifying. Or horrifyingly disgusting? The determination it took to do that was…
Feeling a bit faint, he got on his feet and walked over to the sink. The bathroom mirror told him that he had grown rather pale beneath the flustered cheeks and the cold sweat had given him a very unattractive glow.
Stepping into the shower to cleanse himself form the terrible experience he wondered if it had done any good. As the steam from the shower filled the small room it became pretty obvious to him that what he’d just done had been completely idiotic.
Two wrongs never made a right and he still didn’t get it.
“I just conducted an experiment,” said John when he entered the kitchen in his bathrobe some thirty minutes later.
Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, conducting a more scientific experiment than the one John had just preformed. Sherlock didn’t look up, but he frowned disapprovingly.
“So I heard,” he muttered, disposing the pipette tip before replacing it with a new one. “Why?”
“Why do you think?” John asked, sighing, and put the kettle on; he needed to get a new taste in his mouth.
“Answering with a counter-question is not a very skilful rhetorical tactic.”
“So is being an arse,” John said. “Do you want tea?”
“No.” Sherlock took another tip and repeated his pipetting once again. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
Sherlock looked up at him and just glared; one of those honest, condescending glares that still hinted of normality. It almost made John smile.
“It’s hard,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter. “And rather messy. And completely disgusting.”
“Yes, I’ve come to the same conclusion, and even though I've noticed it follows a somewhat distinct learning curve, I still prefer the use of emetics.”
“Jesus, Sherlock…”
“Saltwater,” Sherlock went on, ignoring John’s weary sigh, and going back to his microtitre plate. “It’s cheap and discreet.”
John rubbed his face, feeling slightly nauseous again. Why did Sherlock tell him this? So he could stop him? So he would know he was outwitted? The experiment had partly been an attempt to open up a line of communication, to get a glimpse of how it was, but he had not planned to be discussing purging techniques.
He made his tea in silence, feeling how the all too familiar frustration crept up on him again; lately he had become very short tempered. For his sanity he decided to let it all go for now. Even the emetic part. He left for the sitting room and the telly, pretending very hard that he hadn’t forced himself to vomit less than one hour ago, and acting as if everything was normal and just bloody wonderful.
In the kitchen he could hear Sherlock starting to hum a tune he often played on the violin. John was curious to what he was doing since they had no equipment in the flat to perform an ELISA and just practicing pipetting felt redundant.
Two commercial breaks later, Sherlock came out to the sitting room carrying a box of crackers. He held it out to John.
“Take a cracker; it’ll make you feel better.”
“I highly doubt that,” John muttered, but he took the box from Sherlock anyway. He didn’t take any crackers, just held the box in his hands, waiting for Sherlock to leave, but Sherlock didn’t.
“Well?” Sherlock he asked instead.
“Well, what?” said John, actually smiling when he saw how the repeat of the conversation in the kitchen annoyed Sherlock.
“Your ‘experiment’, did you get any significant results?”
“Statistically significant? Not really, I just have one sample.”
“Anything to build a hypothesis on?”
“Yes, but no further research.”
“What’s the hypothesis?”
“That you’re determined and stubborn.” John nodded to underline his words.
“You needed to induce vomiting to figure that out?” Sherlock sounded very doubtful. “I’d hoped your observatory skills were better than that.”
John rolled his eyes, and opened the box of crackers to show that he ignored the last comment. After taking two, he offered the box to Sherlock. Sherlock took a cracker, and, to John’s surprise, he sat down on the coffee table.
Sherlock turned the cracker between his fingers, putting all his focus on it and not even glancing at John. John barely dared to breathe.
“I don’t enjoy it,” Sherlock finally said after having broken the cracker in two. “I find it absolutely disgusting. That’s why I haven’t done it before.”
“You mean before I started to meddle?”
Sherlock nodded and looked up to meet John’s eyes for a short moment before they both looked away. After a long silence Sherlock said: “It’s not your fault.”
John sighed. “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.”
“That’s a false dichotomy."
John chuckled quietly at that. It was a bit strange how comforting that was to hear, not to mention how wonderful it was to see Sherlock's frown turn into a smile.
“How did this start, Sherlock?” John asked when the short pleasure of the chuckle had disappeared. “Why do you do it?”
“It is said to be insanity to do the same thing over and over again and expect different results,” said Sherlock as if he was stating the obvious, but John really wanted call him on hiding his insecurity behind rudeness.
John shrugged. “You call me an idiot at least twice a week, so...”
“Has it occurred to you that I might not want you to know the reasons?”
“It has,” John admitted. “Is it so?”
Sherlock finished crumbling the cracker between his fingers, letting all the crumbs fall on the floor. John waited and waited and waited but there was no answer, which he took as a yes; Sherlock didn’t want him to know the reason this had started once upon a time. It hurt to not be trusted with the reasons they lived in this hell. He realised it was a petty feeling, but it didn’t help.
“I won’t ask again,” John sighed. “But can you at least promise me to stop using salt water? Because that’s just a whole different level of stupid.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Sherlock snapped. “Do you really think I would- Don’t you think I know that?”
“No! Because you’re obviously stupid enough to start in the first place.”
Sherlock pressed his lips together, and got up.
“Sherlock, I’m sorry!” John yelled after him. “Come back here!”
The only response he got what the bedroom door being slammed shut. John made a frustrated sound, turning up the volume on the telly. When had they turned into this? When had it been impossible for them to go an entire day without yelling at each other? At least today it had been about the thing that was actually tearing them apart and not… dirty dishes.
About an hour later, Sherlock came back out and curled up next to John on the sofa. John completely forgot about the movie he was watching and just stared at Sherlock. Sherlock promptly ignored John, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. John almost wished it was, or that it could be. To try it out, John took Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock didn’t protest.
“Don’t do that again,” Sherlock said after a while. “I promise to never use emetic again, if you promise to never do that again.”
“I promise,” John said without hesitation.
He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, and didn’t let go until the end of the movie.
***
Note: This chapter has been quite heavily edited 2016-02-21
Last part.