Help us to survive (16/17)
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-
Two days later, Sherlock was back at Scotland Yard. John had reluctantly gone to his shift at the surgery, and this was the best Sherlock had come up with to escape the emptiness of the flat. DI Tait’s old office was still officially unoccupied, but since the police had started working on the Angel of Death case, it had been used by Sherlock in one capacity or another. Today he went through the files of all the assumed suicides who could have been the victim of the Angel of Death. Donovan and Gartner had been easier to persuade to give him access than he had expected, but then, this was grit work that they most likely would have outsourced anyway.
They had found forty-two recorded insulin suicides across the country during the last four years, thirty-nine of which had some kind of eating disorder. It was still early in the investigation to tell - there would have to be interviews with families and perhaps even exhumations of bodies to be sure - but it looked like none of the women in the files had a natural link to insulin, making them all likely victims. The records were all acceptable for suicides, but disturbingly inadequate for murders. The fact they all were technically suicides didn’t reduce Sherlock’s frustration, but it kept the worst of his annoyance at bay. He, too, had deemed it a suicide when he first stumbled on it. It would be a long process to gather the evidence needed to convict their suspect for all of these murders, but Sherlock was sure the right man had been arrested.
“When did you get here?” Lestrade said, popping his head in the door.
Sherlock looked at the clock on the opposite wall. “Ninety minutes ago.”
“John’s not here?”
“No,” Sherlock said, turning back to photos of a girl found in her school’s music room. “He had to do ‘real work’ today, as he put it.”
“Speaking of that,” Lestrade said, still standing in the doorway. “What are you doing here?”
“Your job.”
“We got the guy. You never care about the rest of it. Actual ‘police work’ isn’t your thing, we both know that.”
“He talked almost forty women into killing themselves,” Sherlock muttered. “It’s fascinating.”
“They weren’t the hardest to convince, though.”
That comment forced Sherlock to put down the photographs and look at Lestrade, eyes narrowed. “Did you need something?”
Lestrade stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Sherlock just raised a questioning eyebrow, but he felt trapped.
“I’m sorry about the drug test,” Lestrade said, after clearing his throat. He looked terribly guilty - which frankly served him right.
“I told you I was clean.”
“You can hardly blame me for not taking your word.”
Sherlock smiled, though only barely. “I suppose not.”
“No,” Lestrade mirrored the short smile. “What is it about this case, Sherlock?”
Sherlock tensed up. “I told you: it’s fascinating.”
“I’m sure it is.” Lestrade shrugged. “But I’ve seen enough coppers with personal interest in seemingly random cases to buy that this is just professional interest.”
“You were sure that I was using heroin; this conversation alone has proven that you can’t trust your observational skills.”
“Fine, be that way,” Lestrade said, sighing. “I should get back, anyway. Play nice with Donovan and Gartner, would you?”
“If they play nice with me,” Sherlock muttered, looking down on the photographs again. Lestrade seemed to get the hint, because shortly afterwards he left the room without another word.
Sherlock looked over his shoulder to make sure Lestrade had walked away. When he didn’t see anyone at all in the hallway outside the office, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face with one hand. He had no idea what had ever possessed him to come back here today.
-x-
In the early afternoon Lestrade had stopped by Tait’s office with a pre-packed sandwich and a small box orange juice that he’d left for Sherlock. Sherlock had done his best to tune him out completely, so even if Lestrade had stated his reasons for bringing him food, Sherlock had no idea what that reason was. He had just moved the offensive items to the edge of the table with a biro and then easily ignored them. He hadn’t been lying altogether when he’d told Lestrade that this was an interesting case, after all.
When his stomach grumbled for the first time today, Sherlock side eyed the sandwich as if it were at fault. He had eaten as much as he could possibly get down before leaving Baker Street - three eggs, and a toast with beans - as a precaution to not have to eat anything while here, but as the afternoon went on, it became harder to block out the sandwich’s existence.
Sherlock reached for it. Honey Roast Ham & Egg - that sounded absolutely revolting, but at least it wasn’t cheese. Formed ham on the other hand… And mayonnaise. 354 calories, not unbearable per se, but forcing himself to eat it would be a disaster. The juice box was even worse - not even counting the fact that he was supposed to drink it through a straw! He hadn’t had oranges of any kind for years, and he didn’t need them now. Not that this chemical and sugar stuffed excuse for orange juice was even comparable to the freshly pressed oranges that had practically kept him alive some years ago. Still, he didn’t need oranges, real or otherwise.
The number of times Lestrade had brought him food were blissfully few, so Sherlock imagined this to be a ‘I’m sorry for thinking you’re a junkie’ sandwich. A ridiculously bad peace offering. He put the sandwich down at the far end of the table again, glaring at both it and the juice box.
Perhaps he should fill up with some water, see if he could manage some crisps. Nick another cigarette from Lestrade.
Or he could eat the sandwich, because he wasn’t insane!
Sherlock sighed, reaching for the sandwich again. He opened the package; the smell alone made his stomach turn. This wasn’t going to work, he knew that before he took out the sandwich and bit into it, through stubbornness alone. The bread was mushy, the mayonnaise flavour overwhelming. The bite grew in his mouth, but he managed to swallow it down. The second bite was just as offensive, but easier to swallow. The third was impossible. It just kept growing and growing, his saliva making the bread soggier and soggier until it just felt like a big chunk of poorly metabolised food that had just gone down to come back up again.
He gagged, spitting it out in his hand. With his eyes tightly closed, he dry-swallowed repeatedly to make sure the first two bites he’d taken wouldn’t follow. When he was sure he would keep it down he opened his eyes, scraping the disgusting lump of bread off his hand and down into the bin under the table. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead and on the back of his neck. He looked out through the damned glass walls to the office to determine whether anyone might have seen him, but at least right now the corridor was empty. He threw away the rest of the sandwich as well and let the juice box follow. He felt sick, and kept swallowing hard for over a minute. When he finally dared to leave the room to wash his hand he wasn’t quite sure if he hated himself, Lestrade or the sandwich most at that moment. John could say whatever he wanted, this felt both insane and unstable on so many levels.
-x-
The afternoon passed slowly. The two bites of sandwich that he had swallowed continued to weigh heavily in his stomach, and it took hours for the nausea to leave.
Sherlock wouldn’t claim that each suicide was worse than the previous - because that was a ridiculous exaggeration - but at least to himself he could admit that it became more difficult to stay objective with each new set of crime scene photos. It was hard to shake the feeling that the walls seemed to close in on him, no matter how many times he took breaks to pace around the room. When Lestrade stopped by the office at a quarter past seven, the interruption was as welcomed as it was annoying.
“I’m off for the day,” Lestrade said. “Which means you’re off for the day, because I need to lock up.”
“No wonder you lot don’t get anything done,” Sherlock muttered. “I have one file left.”
Lestade narrowed his eyes for a moment. “Fine,” he then said. “Thirty more minutes, then I’m kicking you out.”
“I’ll be done in twenty-three.”
“Good. I’m getting a cuppa. Do you want?”
Sherlock stopped going through the file in front of him. Answering ‘no’ would be easy and not suspicious at all. It was tea, people turned down tea all the time. Especially the ghastly kind they provided here. He shook his head, starting to sort the file again, hoping that Lestrade hadn’t noticed the pause.
He didn’t seem to, because he said: “Come by my office, not a second later than a quarter to.” and left after Sherlock had hummed in agreement.
Sherlock got up to close the door Lestrade had left open, resting his forehead against it and not caring who might walk past and see him. Not that anyone would; most people were out of here at 17:00. 18:00 at the latest. So there was no point in closing the door either.
Sherlock felt a rush of anger. This was ridiculous, it was just tea and he shouldn’t react this way! He had almost made it through this case - admittedly, he hadn’t been the one solving it - without losing too much weight, without picking up too many old habits, and without falling too far behind on his calorie intake. He could do this for another couple of days, no matter what Lestrade threw his way or whatever landmine he stepped on - or however John had put it.
The thought of the soggy bread in his hand made him gag again, though, and the knowledge of how close he had been to vomiting inside Scotland Yard made his cheeks heat in shame, even if it hadn’t been on purpose. Through all the years during which he had occasionally purged, he had never done it in this building. He had, to his knowledge, never eaten anything in this building that had been worth bringing up.
Until today.
Sherlock pushed away from the door and walked back to the desk, but he didn’t sit down. He opened the last file. Lestrade had been right, there was nothing for him here. The puzzle was solved. The case had never been thrilling. Perhaps a little, at first (the idea of serial suicides was always alluring) but it had never been truly exciting. It had been something to prove, and he had been right. He had been able to do this, but for some reason it didn’t feel like a victory.
One more suicide and he’d be done, one more file and he’d be able to put it behind him. One more and he could take back the control of his life! One more and perhaps he would be able to sleep… Hopefully.
This victim was sixteen, according to the autopsy report. Sherlock closed his eyes. He too, had been suicidal at that age. He didn’t want to think about what he might have done if someone had offered him such a neat way out back then. Before he had clawed his way back up for the first time. Before the heroin. Before the work. Before John. He would have been grateful, back then, he realised, but by now it had been over two decades since he had honestly wanted to die.
The overdose had been accidental. It really had. No one would probably ever believe that.
He closed the file before opening his eyes. There was nothing to tell; there really, really wasn’t. Except… that he was going insane, because right now he wished he had taken heroin instead of eating that sandwich.
No wonder Lestrade believed he was using again.
...or that he thought the case was personal.
Sherlock looked down at his hand, at the small, white marks. His battle scars. They had faded, just like the needle marks on his arm had, but they were still clearly there for those who knew what to look for.
It was just a matter of time, he realised, before Lestrade would figure it out. He could still control parts of it, and he needed to be in control of this. He put on his coat and his scarf, his outer armour, and closed Tait’s office. He walked down the corridor, and with each step the tightness in his chest grew stronger until he thought he’d suffocate. Luckily, he had almost reached Lestrade’s office by then. He stopped, just out of sight from the open door, and practically forced air down his lungs.
He took the last two steps to Lestrade’s office before he lost his nerve.
“That was fast,” Lestrade said as Sherlock stepped into his office, but his grin disappeared when Sherlock closed the door. “Have you find something?”
“No, except for potentially tying him to the used insulin batches there’s little, if anything, in the files that would support murder. The way to connect him to the victims will be through their internet habits, if it will be at all possible.”
“What is it, then?”
Sherlock took a deep breath. “You can’t bring me food.”
“What are you talking about?” Lestrade looked confused.
“Food. Or tea. Or that ridiculous excuse for juice. Or anything like it.”
“I know what food is. I meant, why?”
“I have an eating disorder.”
It felt like he had screamed at the top of his lungs and that the words still echoed between the walls, but Sherlock was quite sure it hadn’t been much more than a whisper. At least Lestrade’s wide-eyed stare made it clear that he had heard it.
“What?” Lestrade stuttered.
“I have… an eating disorder,” Sherlock repeated, marginally louder. It was harder getting the words out the second time, but he was surprised how steady his voice was, because his legs could barely keep him upright.
Lestrade sank back into his chair, his mouth open in surprise and shock. “Like the women?”
Sherlock nodded.
“Like anorexia?”
“I don’t have-“ Sherlock snapped defensively, but then he paused and nodded instead. “Yes. I don’t meet all the criteria for a diagnosis, but my clinical picture is close to that of anorexia nervosa.”
While he talked Sherlock had to force himself to keep looking at Lestrade, and to not wrap his coat closer around himself when Lestrade’s eyes inevitably moved down over his torso. The silence that followed was excruciating, and Sherlock could feel himself being reduced from a human being to a medical disorder in Lestrade’s eyes. That was exactly what he had wanted to avoid; it was more than enough that John looked at him like that from time to time.
“I have it under control,” Sherlock finally said, hoping desperately that it was true. Either way, it made Lestrade look up again and when their eyes met Sherlock continued: “I have it under control, but it makes it hard to be around food I’m not prepared for.”
“Sherlock, I… This case...”
“The case has nothing to do with me.”
“But-“
“No.”
Lestrade rubbed his face with both hands. “How… are you?”
“I’m okay,” Sherlock said after a moment of hesitation. “I’m not fine, but… but I’m okay.”
“Okay.” Lestrade nodded. “Is there anything, I…”
Sherlock shook his head. “Just don’t bring me food unless I ask you to.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.” Sherlock said, clearing his throat to get the full sound of his voice back. “Thank you. You can lock up Tait’s office. I’ll come back tomorrow and look at the last file then.”
“You don’t have to-“
“Nothing’s changed,” Sherlock cut him off, already with his hand on the door handle. “I’ll come back tomorrow and look at the last file. I just, I needed you to know.”
“Okay.” Lestrade nodded again. “Thank you for… I’m glad you told me.”
He didn’t look glad at all. It looked like he had aged a decade in just a few minutes. Sherlock smiled joylessly, nodding once. He left the office without another word and headed straight for the lifts. His hand was trembling when he pressed the button, and as he waited for the lift to arrive most of his energy went into keep standing straight and not turning around to see if Lestrade came after him. As soon as he stepped inside the lift, he leaned heavily against the wall, forgetting for a long time to press the button to the entrance floor.
That had been… well, he had no idea what that had been, but somewhere underneath what could be called a panic attack, he felt relieved. Perhaps even glad.
-x-
Chapter 17
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-
Two days later, Sherlock was back at Scotland Yard. John had reluctantly gone to his shift at the surgery, and this was the best Sherlock had come up with to escape the emptiness of the flat. DI Tait’s old office was still officially unoccupied, but since the police had started working on the Angel of Death case, it had been used by Sherlock in one capacity or another. Today he went through the files of all the assumed suicides who could have been the victim of the Angel of Death. Donovan and Gartner had been easier to persuade to give him access than he had expected, but then, this was grit work that they most likely would have outsourced anyway.
They had found forty-two recorded insulin suicides across the country during the last four years, thirty-nine of which had some kind of eating disorder. It was still early in the investigation to tell - there would have to be interviews with families and perhaps even exhumations of bodies to be sure - but it looked like none of the women in the files had a natural link to insulin, making them all likely victims. The records were all acceptable for suicides, but disturbingly inadequate for murders. The fact they all were technically suicides didn’t reduce Sherlock’s frustration, but it kept the worst of his annoyance at bay. He, too, had deemed it a suicide when he first stumbled on it. It would be a long process to gather the evidence needed to convict their suspect for all of these murders, but Sherlock was sure the right man had been arrested.
“When did you get here?” Lestrade said, popping his head in the door.
Sherlock looked at the clock on the opposite wall. “Ninety minutes ago.”
“John’s not here?”
“No,” Sherlock said, turning back to photos of a girl found in her school’s music room. “He had to do ‘real work’ today, as he put it.”
“Speaking of that,” Lestrade said, still standing in the doorway. “What are you doing here?”
“Your job.”
“We got the guy. You never care about the rest of it. Actual ‘police work’ isn’t your thing, we both know that.”
“He talked almost forty women into killing themselves,” Sherlock muttered. “It’s fascinating.”
“They weren’t the hardest to convince, though.”
That comment forced Sherlock to put down the photographs and look at Lestrade, eyes narrowed. “Did you need something?”
Lestrade stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Sherlock just raised a questioning eyebrow, but he felt trapped.
“I’m sorry about the drug test,” Lestrade said, after clearing his throat. He looked terribly guilty - which frankly served him right.
“I told you I was clean.”
“You can hardly blame me for not taking your word.”
Sherlock smiled, though only barely. “I suppose not.”
“No,” Lestrade mirrored the short smile. “What is it about this case, Sherlock?”
Sherlock tensed up. “I told you: it’s fascinating.”
“I’m sure it is.” Lestrade shrugged. “But I’ve seen enough coppers with personal interest in seemingly random cases to buy that this is just professional interest.”
“You were sure that I was using heroin; this conversation alone has proven that you can’t trust your observational skills.”
“Fine, be that way,” Lestrade said, sighing. “I should get back, anyway. Play nice with Donovan and Gartner, would you?”
“If they play nice with me,” Sherlock muttered, looking down on the photographs again. Lestrade seemed to get the hint, because shortly afterwards he left the room without another word.
Sherlock looked over his shoulder to make sure Lestrade had walked away. When he didn’t see anyone at all in the hallway outside the office, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face with one hand. He had no idea what had ever possessed him to come back here today.
-x-
In the early afternoon Lestrade had stopped by Tait’s office with a pre-packed sandwich and a small box orange juice that he’d left for Sherlock. Sherlock had done his best to tune him out completely, so even if Lestrade had stated his reasons for bringing him food, Sherlock had no idea what that reason was. He had just moved the offensive items to the edge of the table with a biro and then easily ignored them. He hadn’t been lying altogether when he’d told Lestrade that this was an interesting case, after all.
When his stomach grumbled for the first time today, Sherlock side eyed the sandwich as if it were at fault. He had eaten as much as he could possibly get down before leaving Baker Street - three eggs, and a toast with beans - as a precaution to not have to eat anything while here, but as the afternoon went on, it became harder to block out the sandwich’s existence.
Sherlock reached for it. Honey Roast Ham & Egg - that sounded absolutely revolting, but at least it wasn’t cheese. Formed ham on the other hand… And mayonnaise. 354 calories, not unbearable per se, but forcing himself to eat it would be a disaster. The juice box was even worse - not even counting the fact that he was supposed to drink it through a straw! He hadn’t had oranges of any kind for years, and he didn’t need them now. Not that this chemical and sugar stuffed excuse for orange juice was even comparable to the freshly pressed oranges that had practically kept him alive some years ago. Still, he didn’t need oranges, real or otherwise.
The number of times Lestrade had brought him food were blissfully few, so Sherlock imagined this to be a ‘I’m sorry for thinking you’re a junkie’ sandwich. A ridiculously bad peace offering. He put the sandwich down at the far end of the table again, glaring at both it and the juice box.
Perhaps he should fill up with some water, see if he could manage some crisps. Nick another cigarette from Lestrade.
Or he could eat the sandwich, because he wasn’t insane!
Sherlock sighed, reaching for the sandwich again. He opened the package; the smell alone made his stomach turn. This wasn’t going to work, he knew that before he took out the sandwich and bit into it, through stubbornness alone. The bread was mushy, the mayonnaise flavour overwhelming. The bite grew in his mouth, but he managed to swallow it down. The second bite was just as offensive, but easier to swallow. The third was impossible. It just kept growing and growing, his saliva making the bread soggier and soggier until it just felt like a big chunk of poorly metabolised food that had just gone down to come back up again.
He gagged, spitting it out in his hand. With his eyes tightly closed, he dry-swallowed repeatedly to make sure the first two bites he’d taken wouldn’t follow. When he was sure he would keep it down he opened his eyes, scraping the disgusting lump of bread off his hand and down into the bin under the table. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead and on the back of his neck. He looked out through the damned glass walls to the office to determine whether anyone might have seen him, but at least right now the corridor was empty. He threw away the rest of the sandwich as well and let the juice box follow. He felt sick, and kept swallowing hard for over a minute. When he finally dared to leave the room to wash his hand he wasn’t quite sure if he hated himself, Lestrade or the sandwich most at that moment. John could say whatever he wanted, this felt both insane and unstable on so many levels.
-x-
The afternoon passed slowly. The two bites of sandwich that he had swallowed continued to weigh heavily in his stomach, and it took hours for the nausea to leave.
Sherlock wouldn’t claim that each suicide was worse than the previous - because that was a ridiculous exaggeration - but at least to himself he could admit that it became more difficult to stay objective with each new set of crime scene photos. It was hard to shake the feeling that the walls seemed to close in on him, no matter how many times he took breaks to pace around the room. When Lestrade stopped by the office at a quarter past seven, the interruption was as welcomed as it was annoying.
“I’m off for the day,” Lestrade said. “Which means you’re off for the day, because I need to lock up.”
“No wonder you lot don’t get anything done,” Sherlock muttered. “I have one file left.”
Lestade narrowed his eyes for a moment. “Fine,” he then said. “Thirty more minutes, then I’m kicking you out.”
“I’ll be done in twenty-three.”
“Good. I’m getting a cuppa. Do you want?”
Sherlock stopped going through the file in front of him. Answering ‘no’ would be easy and not suspicious at all. It was tea, people turned down tea all the time. Especially the ghastly kind they provided here. He shook his head, starting to sort the file again, hoping that Lestrade hadn’t noticed the pause.
He didn’t seem to, because he said: “Come by my office, not a second later than a quarter to.” and left after Sherlock had hummed in agreement.
Sherlock got up to close the door Lestrade had left open, resting his forehead against it and not caring who might walk past and see him. Not that anyone would; most people were out of here at 17:00. 18:00 at the latest. So there was no point in closing the door either.
Sherlock felt a rush of anger. This was ridiculous, it was just tea and he shouldn’t react this way! He had almost made it through this case - admittedly, he hadn’t been the one solving it - without losing too much weight, without picking up too many old habits, and without falling too far behind on his calorie intake. He could do this for another couple of days, no matter what Lestrade threw his way or whatever landmine he stepped on - or however John had put it.
The thought of the soggy bread in his hand made him gag again, though, and the knowledge of how close he had been to vomiting inside Scotland Yard made his cheeks heat in shame, even if it hadn’t been on purpose. Through all the years during which he had occasionally purged, he had never done it in this building. He had, to his knowledge, never eaten anything in this building that had been worth bringing up.
Until today.
Sherlock pushed away from the door and walked back to the desk, but he didn’t sit down. He opened the last file. Lestrade had been right, there was nothing for him here. The puzzle was solved. The case had never been thrilling. Perhaps a little, at first (the idea of serial suicides was always alluring) but it had never been truly exciting. It had been something to prove, and he had been right. He had been able to do this, but for some reason it didn’t feel like a victory.
One more suicide and he’d be done, one more file and he’d be able to put it behind him. One more and he could take back the control of his life! One more and perhaps he would be able to sleep… Hopefully.
This victim was sixteen, according to the autopsy report. Sherlock closed his eyes. He too, had been suicidal at that age. He didn’t want to think about what he might have done if someone had offered him such a neat way out back then. Before he had clawed his way back up for the first time. Before the heroin. Before the work. Before John. He would have been grateful, back then, he realised, but by now it had been over two decades since he had honestly wanted to die.
The overdose had been accidental. It really had. No one would probably ever believe that.
He closed the file before opening his eyes. There was nothing to tell; there really, really wasn’t. Except… that he was going insane, because right now he wished he had taken heroin instead of eating that sandwich.
No wonder Lestrade believed he was using again.
...or that he thought the case was personal.
Sherlock looked down at his hand, at the small, white marks. His battle scars. They had faded, just like the needle marks on his arm had, but they were still clearly there for those who knew what to look for.
It was just a matter of time, he realised, before Lestrade would figure it out. He could still control parts of it, and he needed to be in control of this. He put on his coat and his scarf, his outer armour, and closed Tait’s office. He walked down the corridor, and with each step the tightness in his chest grew stronger until he thought he’d suffocate. Luckily, he had almost reached Lestrade’s office by then. He stopped, just out of sight from the open door, and practically forced air down his lungs.
He took the last two steps to Lestrade’s office before he lost his nerve.
“That was fast,” Lestrade said as Sherlock stepped into his office, but his grin disappeared when Sherlock closed the door. “Have you find something?”
“No, except for potentially tying him to the used insulin batches there’s little, if anything, in the files that would support murder. The way to connect him to the victims will be through their internet habits, if it will be at all possible.”
“What is it, then?”
Sherlock took a deep breath. “You can’t bring me food.”
“What are you talking about?” Lestrade looked confused.
“Food. Or tea. Or that ridiculous excuse for juice. Or anything like it.”
“I know what food is. I meant, why?”
“I have an eating disorder.”
It felt like he had screamed at the top of his lungs and that the words still echoed between the walls, but Sherlock was quite sure it hadn’t been much more than a whisper. At least Lestrade’s wide-eyed stare made it clear that he had heard it.
“What?” Lestrade stuttered.
“I have… an eating disorder,” Sherlock repeated, marginally louder. It was harder getting the words out the second time, but he was surprised how steady his voice was, because his legs could barely keep him upright.
Lestrade sank back into his chair, his mouth open in surprise and shock. “Like the women?”
Sherlock nodded.
“Like anorexia?”
“I don’t have-“ Sherlock snapped defensively, but then he paused and nodded instead. “Yes. I don’t meet all the criteria for a diagnosis, but my clinical picture is close to that of anorexia nervosa.”
While he talked Sherlock had to force himself to keep looking at Lestrade, and to not wrap his coat closer around himself when Lestrade’s eyes inevitably moved down over his torso. The silence that followed was excruciating, and Sherlock could feel himself being reduced from a human being to a medical disorder in Lestrade’s eyes. That was exactly what he had wanted to avoid; it was more than enough that John looked at him like that from time to time.
“I have it under control,” Sherlock finally said, hoping desperately that it was true. Either way, it made Lestrade look up again and when their eyes met Sherlock continued: “I have it under control, but it makes it hard to be around food I’m not prepared for.”
“Sherlock, I… This case...”
“The case has nothing to do with me.”
“But-“
“No.”
Lestrade rubbed his face with both hands. “How… are you?”
“I’m okay,” Sherlock said after a moment of hesitation. “I’m not fine, but… but I’m okay.”
“Okay.” Lestrade nodded. “Is there anything, I…”
Sherlock shook his head. “Just don’t bring me food unless I ask you to.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.” Sherlock said, clearing his throat to get the full sound of his voice back. “Thank you. You can lock up Tait’s office. I’ll come back tomorrow and look at the last file then.”
“You don’t have to-“
“Nothing’s changed,” Sherlock cut him off, already with his hand on the door handle. “I’ll come back tomorrow and look at the last file. I just, I needed you to know.”
“Okay.” Lestrade nodded again. “Thank you for… I’m glad you told me.”
He didn’t look glad at all. It looked like he had aged a decade in just a few minutes. Sherlock smiled joylessly, nodding once. He left the office without another word and headed straight for the lifts. His hand was trembling when he pressed the button, and as he waited for the lift to arrive most of his energy went into keep standing straight and not turning around to see if Lestrade came after him. As soon as he stepped inside the lift, he leaned heavily against the wall, forgetting for a long time to press the button to the entrance floor.
That had been… well, he had no idea what that had been, but somewhere underneath what could be called a panic attack, he felt relieved. Perhaps even glad.
-x-
Chapter 17