Help us to survive (14/17)
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 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-
It surprised John how fast things got done once objective people with proper resources were put on the case. The IT people traced the communication between the law student and the individual who had provided her with the insulin to five different IP-addresses, all open to the public. John and Sherlock, helpfully backed up by the Met, managed to both account for the insulin the law student and Micha had used and locate the pharmacies and care units to which those particular batches had been distributed. Meanwhile Donovan and Gartner, with their access to the police database, found twenty-nine reported insulin suicides linked to people with eating disorders over the last two years - only nine of them coincided with the ones John had found, making the possible body count staggeringly high.
The total number made John feel sick. It was however nothing compared to how it made him feel that three days after they brought the case to Lestrade, Donovan and Gartner arrested a suspect. He had been stalling for months, during which at least five women had been coached to kill themselves. Not to mention what Sherlock had gone through. It had taken only three days to get a suspect in custody. Three days. As he stood in the observation room, watching Donovan interrogate the man - a GP from Bromley - John had a hard time separating his disgust for the man from his own self-loathing. He had failed so many people.
“You look terrible,” Lestrade said by way of greeting, as he joined him in the small room.
“Thanks,” John said, putting on a fairly acceptable smile. “I feel like a proper idiot for not telling you about this shit sooner.”
“You should,” Lestrade said, turning off the sound from the interrogation room. “Don’t beat yourself up too much, though. Some thirty deaths, or whatever it ends on, and no one but you made the connection.”
“Thanks,” John said again, this time the smile came easier. “Do you think the case will hold?”
“Well, we can link him to both of the known insulin batches, and CCTV puts him in the library at the time their wifi was used to communicate with the latest victim. That’s all circumstantial, but I’m sure it’ll get us a warrant for his computer, his phone, and various records. If it is him, we’ll get enough technical evidence to bind it together. Then it’s up to the CPS to build the case.”
“If you don’t get enough to prove it’s him, though?”
“Sherlock’s sure it’s him, and I know better than to doubt him by now,” said Lestrade. Then he continued very carefully: “If you don’t have a reason why I should.”
“No.” John felt the colour drain from his face. “What-what reason should that be?”
“You tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” John said, actually smiling for real as Sherlock’s words fall out of his mouth. “Really.”
“You’re a terrible liar, John.”
John’s smile turned into a tired chuckle; it was an incredibly nice feeling. Lestrade had perhaps not intended the comment as a joke, but the fact that he cared enough to not take bullshit was appreciated. And that he genuinely wanted to help the victims made it easier to meet his eyes.
“You can trust Sherlock, I promise,” he said.
“There’s nothing going on that I should know about?”
“You can trust him.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
Lestrade shook his head, as if giving up. “Can I ask how you are, or is that classified too?”
“I’m fine,” John replied automatically, but as soon as he heard himself say it he sighed. “I don’t remember the last time I was this tired.”
“The offer to talk still stands, you know.”
John nodded.
“But you won’t take me up on it.”
“No, but thank you. It… it means a lot.”
“It’s the least I can do. Literally,” Lestrade said, turning on the sound from the interrogation room again just to hear Donovan cut off the interview for a break.
“I’m pretty sure Sherlock lifted your cigarettes from your coat pocket,” John said. “So maybe don’t trust him too much.”
-x-
Sherlock had fled up to the roof of Scotland Yard. Perhaps ‘fled’ was a strong word, but he had retreated there to get away for a while. Going through the stack of suicides that Donovan and Gartner had found had been more trying than he had expected.
Summer was coming, slowly but inevitably. Sherlock had an inherent dislike for the summer and the pressure to wear less clothes. The coat, the scarf, and the (sometimes) well-fitting suits were all part of his outer defences. It was hard for the average person to notice fluctuations in weight when you always wore the same type of clothes. Sadly, it was impossible to wear the coat and scarf during a London summer. Not that he didn’t try.
The insanity wasn’t always hard to admit to.
He had taken Lestrade’s cigarettes before getting up here. The package he had bought after leaving the crime scene at the Rosewood Hotel had lasted for five weeks. The next had only lasted two. Then he had gone through about a package a week for months. John must have noticed, but to his credit he hadn’t said a word about it. The smoking wasn’t even for the hunger suppressant; at least it hadn’t been at first and it wasn’t about that now. Perhaps at some point, some part of him had used it for that. He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to think about it, but he had decided to not buy any more cigarettes. It was for the best.
Nicking Lestrade’s didn’t count. It was more of a humanitarian act; he was looking after the DI’s health.
He put out the cigarette against the side of an air vent. His fingers itched to light another one, but the copious amounts of caffeine - he hadn’t used that as a hunger suppressant either, really - and the lack of salt already had his hand trembling and he was feeling queasy enough as it was. A smaller nicotine overdose wouldn’t improve anything. He just wasn’t ready to go down again yet.
The door to the roof opened. Sherlock turned around, half-expecting to see John, and frowned internally - and externally - when he saw that it was Lestrade.
“Thought I’d find you here,” Lestrade said, walking up to him.
“Perhaps we can make a proper detective out of you one day.”
Lestrade held out his hand. “Give me back my cigarettes and I’ll let that comment pass.”
Sherlock smirked, reaching into his pocket to follow orders. The smirk disappeared when he gave Lestrade the package and the lighter and noticed the intensity with which Lestrade watched the tremors in his hand. Sherlock made both his hands into fists and put them in his pockets.
“Sherlock, are- Is everything all right?” Lestrade said, putting away the cigarettes.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “You’re just a slightly better liar than John.”
Sherlock’s insides froze. “What’s he said?”
“That there’s nothing to tell, and you know as well as I do what it usually means when two people use the exact same wording in interrogation.”
“You’re interrogating us?”
Lestrade sighed. ”No, I’m asking. As a friend. Who has seen you like this before.”
The icy grip Sherlock’s nerves had on his intestines loosened. He could feel the tension leaving his body, he didn’t even care that his relief at Lestrade’s wrong assumption was probably visible from space.
“I’m not using,” he said, very calmly.
“I really want to believe that,” Lestrade said. “It’s just, I’ve seen this before and I can’t have you here if you’re using.”
“Believe it or not, Detective Inspector, but that’s the main reason I don’t.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Sherlock said. “Do you want me to pee in a cup? Or do you prefer blood or hair?”
“Urine will do fine,” Lestrade said, sounding disturbingly pleased that Sherlock hadn’t put up a fight.
“Have your pot maid find me before I leave,” Sherlock said, looking away and staring into the distance.
Lestrade muttered about going to set it up, and when Sherlock heard the door shut behind him, he closed his eyes. He really wished he hadn’t given Lestrade the cigarettes back.
-x-
Lestrade was his own pot maid.
Sherlock gave the cup a look, frowning, as Lestrade locked the toilet door behind them. This would have been deeply humiliating if not for the fact that in their early accountancy this had been a weekly occurrence. Now it was just slightly demeaning.
“I suppose privacy is still too much to ask for?” Sherlock asked, putting the cup on the sink, and started to unbuckle his belt.
“Yes.”
Lestrade’s face was as neutral as he seemed able to keep it, but his embarrassment over the situation was clear. Sherlock couldn’t help feeling gleeful about just how much worse he’d feel when it would be clear that he’d put them both through this for no good reason.
From his extensive experience in this situation he knew that Lestrade would keep his eyes straight ahead throughout, but it still took an act of stubborn willpower for Sherlock to manage to pull down his trousers and pants enough to be able to do this without getting stains on himself. He didn’t even get undressed around John.
In the back of his head there was also a small voice whispering about ketone levels. Not that that would show up on a regular drug test, and he highly doubted Lestrade would ask for anything other than that when he asked for baseless drug testing of his pseudo employees, but still. He almost certainly had normal ketone levels, too, because he was… okay.
Sherlock turned his back as much as he could remember being able getting away with, and filled the cup. He was careful putting the lid on - he didn’t want to have to do this again in a couple of hours - and zipped up his trousers before handing the cup over to Lestrade.
“Thank you,” Lestrade mumbled, putting the urine sample in a brown paper bag. “I won’t use your name for it.”
Sherlock shrugged, that really didn’t matter to him.
“I’m clean,” he said.
“I would love to believe you,” Lestrade said. “But if it’s one thing this job has taught me, it’s that everyone lies and addicts lie even more.”
Sherlock shrugged again, he couldn’t argue with that, but he demonstratively turned to wash his hands, opening the tap with such force that the water would drown out whatever else Lestrade might try to say. It frustrated him that his cheeks heated red, but there was nothing he could do about that other than ignore it. When he turned off the water, he gave Lestrade a short glare - why was he still there? - as he reached for the paper towels.
“I don’t expect an apology when you get the results back,” he said.
“Right,” Lestrade said, sighing. “Listen, Sherlock, whatever it is, I know something’s not right - no, don’t argue with me, something is - and I want to help, if I can.”
Sherlock took a deep breath to make sure to steady his voice. “The only thing wrong is that I’m having my integrity questioned and my privacy invaded by London’s finest.”
“Fine,” Lestrade said, clearly not convinced at all. “At least take John home before he falls over, would you?”
Sherlock inhaled, gearing up to argue - it was their case, John wasn’t tired, there was nothing wrong - but the look Lestrade was giving him made it clear that he couldn’t lie his way out of this. Leaving Scotland Yard under the cover of taking care of John was his best option right now.
He breathed out in a sigh. “I will.”
Lestrade stepped aside to let him out without a word. It felt as if he had admitted to something being wrong, but Lestrade had had him cornered and there had been no other way out. Going home to regroup would be good.
He was so close, he couldn’t fail now.
-x-
Chapter 15
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-
It surprised John how fast things got done once objective people with proper resources were put on the case. The IT people traced the communication between the law student and the individual who had provided her with the insulin to five different IP-addresses, all open to the public. John and Sherlock, helpfully backed up by the Met, managed to both account for the insulin the law student and Micha had used and locate the pharmacies and care units to which those particular batches had been distributed. Meanwhile Donovan and Gartner, with their access to the police database, found twenty-nine reported insulin suicides linked to people with eating disorders over the last two years - only nine of them coincided with the ones John had found, making the possible body count staggeringly high.
The total number made John feel sick. It was however nothing compared to how it made him feel that three days after they brought the case to Lestrade, Donovan and Gartner arrested a suspect. He had been stalling for months, during which at least five women had been coached to kill themselves. Not to mention what Sherlock had gone through. It had taken only three days to get a suspect in custody. Three days. As he stood in the observation room, watching Donovan interrogate the man - a GP from Bromley - John had a hard time separating his disgust for the man from his own self-loathing. He had failed so many people.
“You look terrible,” Lestrade said by way of greeting, as he joined him in the small room.
“Thanks,” John said, putting on a fairly acceptable smile. “I feel like a proper idiot for not telling you about this shit sooner.”
“You should,” Lestrade said, turning off the sound from the interrogation room. “Don’t beat yourself up too much, though. Some thirty deaths, or whatever it ends on, and no one but you made the connection.”
“Thanks,” John said again, this time the smile came easier. “Do you think the case will hold?”
“Well, we can link him to both of the known insulin batches, and CCTV puts him in the library at the time their wifi was used to communicate with the latest victim. That’s all circumstantial, but I’m sure it’ll get us a warrant for his computer, his phone, and various records. If it is him, we’ll get enough technical evidence to bind it together. Then it’s up to the CPS to build the case.”
“If you don’t get enough to prove it’s him, though?”
“Sherlock’s sure it’s him, and I know better than to doubt him by now,” said Lestrade. Then he continued very carefully: “If you don’t have a reason why I should.”
“No.” John felt the colour drain from his face. “What-what reason should that be?”
“You tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” John said, actually smiling for real as Sherlock’s words fall out of his mouth. “Really.”
“You’re a terrible liar, John.”
John’s smile turned into a tired chuckle; it was an incredibly nice feeling. Lestrade had perhaps not intended the comment as a joke, but the fact that he cared enough to not take bullshit was appreciated. And that he genuinely wanted to help the victims made it easier to meet his eyes.
“You can trust Sherlock, I promise,” he said.
“There’s nothing going on that I should know about?”
“You can trust him.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
Lestrade shook his head, as if giving up. “Can I ask how you are, or is that classified too?”
“I’m fine,” John replied automatically, but as soon as he heard himself say it he sighed. “I don’t remember the last time I was this tired.”
“The offer to talk still stands, you know.”
John nodded.
“But you won’t take me up on it.”
“No, but thank you. It… it means a lot.”
“It’s the least I can do. Literally,” Lestrade said, turning on the sound from the interrogation room again just to hear Donovan cut off the interview for a break.
“I’m pretty sure Sherlock lifted your cigarettes from your coat pocket,” John said. “So maybe don’t trust him too much.”
-x-
Sherlock had fled up to the roof of Scotland Yard. Perhaps ‘fled’ was a strong word, but he had retreated there to get away for a while. Going through the stack of suicides that Donovan and Gartner had found had been more trying than he had expected.
Summer was coming, slowly but inevitably. Sherlock had an inherent dislike for the summer and the pressure to wear less clothes. The coat, the scarf, and the (sometimes) well-fitting suits were all part of his outer defences. It was hard for the average person to notice fluctuations in weight when you always wore the same type of clothes. Sadly, it was impossible to wear the coat and scarf during a London summer. Not that he didn’t try.
The insanity wasn’t always hard to admit to.
He had taken Lestrade’s cigarettes before getting up here. The package he had bought after leaving the crime scene at the Rosewood Hotel had lasted for five weeks. The next had only lasted two. Then he had gone through about a package a week for months. John must have noticed, but to his credit he hadn’t said a word about it. The smoking wasn’t even for the hunger suppressant; at least it hadn’t been at first and it wasn’t about that now. Perhaps at some point, some part of him had used it for that. He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to think about it, but he had decided to not buy any more cigarettes. It was for the best.
Nicking Lestrade’s didn’t count. It was more of a humanitarian act; he was looking after the DI’s health.
He put out the cigarette against the side of an air vent. His fingers itched to light another one, but the copious amounts of caffeine - he hadn’t used that as a hunger suppressant either, really - and the lack of salt already had his hand trembling and he was feeling queasy enough as it was. A smaller nicotine overdose wouldn’t improve anything. He just wasn’t ready to go down again yet.
The door to the roof opened. Sherlock turned around, half-expecting to see John, and frowned internally - and externally - when he saw that it was Lestrade.
“Thought I’d find you here,” Lestrade said, walking up to him.
“Perhaps we can make a proper detective out of you one day.”
Lestrade held out his hand. “Give me back my cigarettes and I’ll let that comment pass.”
Sherlock smirked, reaching into his pocket to follow orders. The smirk disappeared when he gave Lestrade the package and the lighter and noticed the intensity with which Lestrade watched the tremors in his hand. Sherlock made both his hands into fists and put them in his pockets.
“Sherlock, are- Is everything all right?” Lestrade said, putting away the cigarettes.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “You’re just a slightly better liar than John.”
Sherlock’s insides froze. “What’s he said?”
“That there’s nothing to tell, and you know as well as I do what it usually means when two people use the exact same wording in interrogation.”
“You’re interrogating us?”
Lestrade sighed. ”No, I’m asking. As a friend. Who has seen you like this before.”
The icy grip Sherlock’s nerves had on his intestines loosened. He could feel the tension leaving his body, he didn’t even care that his relief at Lestrade’s wrong assumption was probably visible from space.
“I’m not using,” he said, very calmly.
“I really want to believe that,” Lestrade said. “It’s just, I’ve seen this before and I can’t have you here if you’re using.”
“Believe it or not, Detective Inspector, but that’s the main reason I don’t.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Sherlock said. “Do you want me to pee in a cup? Or do you prefer blood or hair?”
“Urine will do fine,” Lestrade said, sounding disturbingly pleased that Sherlock hadn’t put up a fight.
“Have your pot maid find me before I leave,” Sherlock said, looking away and staring into the distance.
Lestrade muttered about going to set it up, and when Sherlock heard the door shut behind him, he closed his eyes. He really wished he hadn’t given Lestrade the cigarettes back.
-x-
Lestrade was his own pot maid.
Sherlock gave the cup a look, frowning, as Lestrade locked the toilet door behind them. This would have been deeply humiliating if not for the fact that in their early accountancy this had been a weekly occurrence. Now it was just slightly demeaning.
“I suppose privacy is still too much to ask for?” Sherlock asked, putting the cup on the sink, and started to unbuckle his belt.
“Yes.”
Lestrade’s face was as neutral as he seemed able to keep it, but his embarrassment over the situation was clear. Sherlock couldn’t help feeling gleeful about just how much worse he’d feel when it would be clear that he’d put them both through this for no good reason.
From his extensive experience in this situation he knew that Lestrade would keep his eyes straight ahead throughout, but it still took an act of stubborn willpower for Sherlock to manage to pull down his trousers and pants enough to be able to do this without getting stains on himself. He didn’t even get undressed around John.
In the back of his head there was also a small voice whispering about ketone levels. Not that that would show up on a regular drug test, and he highly doubted Lestrade would ask for anything other than that when he asked for baseless drug testing of his pseudo employees, but still. He almost certainly had normal ketone levels, too, because he was… okay.
Sherlock turned his back as much as he could remember being able getting away with, and filled the cup. He was careful putting the lid on - he didn’t want to have to do this again in a couple of hours - and zipped up his trousers before handing the cup over to Lestrade.
“Thank you,” Lestrade mumbled, putting the urine sample in a brown paper bag. “I won’t use your name for it.”
Sherlock shrugged, that really didn’t matter to him.
“I’m clean,” he said.
“I would love to believe you,” Lestrade said. “But if it’s one thing this job has taught me, it’s that everyone lies and addicts lie even more.”
Sherlock shrugged again, he couldn’t argue with that, but he demonstratively turned to wash his hands, opening the tap with such force that the water would drown out whatever else Lestrade might try to say. It frustrated him that his cheeks heated red, but there was nothing he could do about that other than ignore it. When he turned off the water, he gave Lestrade a short glare - why was he still there? - as he reached for the paper towels.
“I don’t expect an apology when you get the results back,” he said.
“Right,” Lestrade said, sighing. “Listen, Sherlock, whatever it is, I know something’s not right - no, don’t argue with me, something is - and I want to help, if I can.”
Sherlock took a deep breath to make sure to steady his voice. “The only thing wrong is that I’m having my integrity questioned and my privacy invaded by London’s finest.”
“Fine,” Lestrade said, clearly not convinced at all. “At least take John home before he falls over, would you?”
Sherlock inhaled, gearing up to argue - it was their case, John wasn’t tired, there was nothing wrong - but the look Lestrade was giving him made it clear that he couldn’t lie his way out of this. Leaving Scotland Yard under the cover of taking care of John was his best option right now.
He breathed out in a sigh. “I will.”
Lestrade stepped aside to let him out without a word. It felt as if he had admitted to something being wrong, but Lestrade had had him cornered and there had been no other way out. Going home to regroup would be good.
He was so close, he couldn’t fail now.
-x-
Chapter 15