One-Shot: A Mere Appendix
Title: A Mere Appendix
Author: Jaelijn
Rating: PG
Warnings: fluff
Disclaimer: The copyright for this incarnation of Sherlock Holmes lies with the BBC and Messrs Moffat and Gatiss. No infringement intended.
Prompt: hunger/starvation
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, DI Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson
Summary: Sherlock is rattling of deductions in his usual manner when something unexpected happens...
Author's Note: BBC!Sherlock. Minor spoilers for The Great Game. Also allusions to several original canon stories. That's also where the title comes from.
Written for my hc_bingo card square of “hunger/starvation”. Obviously, a more liberal approach. I didn't want to torture Holmes yet again. Also, this is the scene I mentioned in A Favour of which kradie and englishmann wanted to see a fic.
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"But why not eat?"
"Because the faculties become refined when you starve them. Why, surely, as a doctor, my dear Watson, you must admit that what your digestion gains in the way of blood supply is so much lost to the brain. I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix. Therefore, it is the brain I must consider."
- ACD's “The Mazarin Stone”
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Sherlock crossed the room, growing increasingly impatient. “How could you not see this? This drawstring has been cut, not torn. Surely, if you were to tear down a string like that, you would expect it to break at the top, where it is attached to the curtains, not two inches from the top!”
“So you are saying the thief turned murdered shimmied up a wall, just like that?”
“No, of course not!” Sherlock had raised his voice in agitation. “Do you ever use your tiny brains? He had a ladder, obviously, or someone to give him a leg-up - oh!”
“Sherlock? What is it?” With the time, John had learned to read Sherlock's expressions, and he knew that this wide-eyed look meant Sherlock had had an idea, discovering a new line of thought to follow.
Sherlock ignored him, bending over the body once more. “Oh, this is glorious. This is unique!”
“Sherlock! What have you seen?” Lestrade clearly didn't have the patience for this. John felt with him - the DI had had a long day, and a murder at the end of it wasn't very helpful.
Sherlock turned to him and John, beaming. “This was not a murder.”
“Not a murder? But there is the victim with his head smashed in right before you!”
“Anderson!” Lestrade waved his forensics expert to silence. “Allow him to explain!”
John nodded his thanks to Lestrade. He had a curious feeling as he was watching his flatmate. Something was wrong, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was definitely something medical if his instincts screamed alarm.
“The head was not smashed in. The bone cracked at the impact - the man fell against a sharp edged object that was already lying there by chance. It has now been removed. This 'murder' was an accident.”
“Then why make it appear like murder?” Lestrade asked, arms crossed in front of him. He looked both doubtful and intrigued.
“There was a third person present, the signs are everywhere, too clear for even you to miss.” Sherlock gestured towards the muddy footprints leading from the great French windows into the room and back again. Quite probably, there was no time to remove them before the butler broke down the door. This third person, a strong man, large by his footprints, probable well trained if he could lift a woman so easily, a worker, then, not a businessman, had a motive. If he were to be found at the scene of the accident, he would surely be accused of murdering your victim, even if he simply walked in on an accident. So he and his accomplice - the woman you so gallantly wanted to rescue, Lestrade - piece together a plan. He lifts her up, she cuts the drawstring, frays the ending. He ties her to the chair, gathers some jewels and the coin collection, removes the deadly object, and departs. He knows there is little chance we will find him, possibly because he will leave the country. He wants to make sure no suspicion falls on her, maybe he suspects she tripped her husband - that I don't know. The butler breaks down the door, finds his employer tied to a chair and apparently under shock, her husband dead. He calls the police, and here we are. She sold her story quite nicely, don't you think? That blow that knocked her out - obviously her husbands.”
“And you say this because...?”
“The drawstring, Lestrade! It was cut, not torn, ergo, someone had to get up there - none of these chairs could support the weight of the man able to deal such a blow, if it had been a blow, without leaving a mark on the surface, which I would have detected. There is no ladder on the property. So, this third person had an accomplice whom he lifted up to cut the rope. There was no fourth person here, and it was certainly not the dead man, so it must have been his wife. If they had not forgotten to fray the upper end of the drawstring, I would never have... expected...”
John was already at Sherlock's side when the consulting detective trailed of, swaying.
“John, I think I...” With that, Sherlock's eyes reeled back into his head and he collapsed, falling against his flatmate.
John lowered him to the ground - for someone so slim, Sherlock was surprisingly heavy - pillowing Sherlock's head in his lap. His eyes were closed and he was unnaturally pale, his pulse fluttering away under John's probing fingers.
Lestrade was bending over them. “What is it?” He looked and sounded slightly worried - of course he depended on Sherlock to solve the case for him. The consulting detective had clearly seen more than any of them.
“I think he just fainted. He probably denied himself food. He does that during cases. Helps him think. And this one's the fifth in a row.”
Donovan snorted in the background. “Right. Freak's trying to kill himself.”
“It's how he works! If you would do your work right for a change, he wouldn't have to ruin is health for you!” John regretted his words as soon as he had said them. He usually wasn't so... harsh, so unfriendly. It just wasn't his style. It only reminded him of Afghanistan, and he didn't want that.
But this situation was just too similar to all those he had experienced before, holding on to the prone figure of a fellow soldier as he died - luckily, Sherlock was not dying, not if John managed to get some food into him.
John recalled the horror he had felt at hearing of the explosion in Baker Street. It was curious how much he had come to worry and care about his infuriating flatmate in the year they were now living together.
Sherlock stirred in his lap, sitting up. “I'm fine.”
John shot him a look of which he hoped it communicated a 'No, you're not.'
Sherlock locked his penetrating gaze with John's for a moment, then he looked at Lestrade with more dignity than John would have thought it possible for someone sitting cross-legged on a dirty floor, clothes slightly in disarray from the fall, dark hair tussled. “Are there any more points I have to clear up for you, Lestrade?”
The DI cleared his throat uncomfortably. “No, I think we are all settled. And... thank you.”
Sherlock blinked. “Beg you pardon?”
“Thank you,” Lestrade repeated, solemnly. “We appreciate what you do, you know, helping us with the cases and so on. We are not jealous of you or anything, we're proud. If there ever was a model detective, it's you.”
John doubted if he would ever have the pleasure of seeing Sherlock Holmes speechless again. Sherlock would certainly blame it on his exhaustion later.
Now, the consulting detective cleared his throat and stood, straightening his shirt. He took the hand Lestrade had offered him and shook it briefly. “Thank you, I think.”
“Most welcome.”
The glare Sherlock gave Donovan and Anderson on his way out wasn't half as harsh as it could have been.
Lestrade and John trailed behind him.
“You didn't say this only because I exploded, did you?” John asked, whispering. He could almost see Sherlock straining to understand what he said, even though his flatmate had had a good head start.
“No,” Lestrade answered, equally low. “I meant it. It had to be said one time.”
“I'm sure he appreciates it, even if he doesn't show it.”
“I know, Dr Watson. Good luck with him.”
“Good day to you.” John quickened his pace to catch up with Sherlock, who had already reached the main road and was waving a cab. “Don't you think, Sherlock, you should get something to eat and sleep, for a change? I know you'll probably say it's boring, but this really is not healthy. Food is required for brainwork, too, you know?”
To John's surprise, Sherlock merely pierced him with a gaze and climb into the cab without a word.
John followed, bewildered. “What is it?”
“Would you care to explain what just happened?”
John stared at him, taken aback. Why would Sherlock ask him to explain anything? “You... fainted. Which is hardly a surprise if you insist on starving yourself. You will have something to eat once we're back in the flat!”
“Yes. And?”
“And? Well, you were unconscious, and I snapped at Donovan, and then you woke up and Lestrade thanked you.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yes, why, John. It really doesn't answer the question if you just repeat what I have said in a more quizzical tone.” Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then went back to staring out of the window, apparently lost in thought. John knew very well that he was listening intently nevertheless.
“Sorry, what? Why did Lestrade thank you?”
“No. Why did you tell Donovan she wasn't doing her work properly?”
“You do that all the time! Wait, you heard?”
“Of course I heard! Why did you do it? And I am not ill. I just forgot breakfast.”
“Yes, of course. Sherlock, look, you are driving yourself too hard. You think - no, actually, I have no idea what you think, but I imagined you were thinking that if you solve five cases in three days, forgetting to eat because you are stressed and overworked, will bring you the praise and recognition you need - and don't tell me you don't, I know you are susceptible to flattery. The thing is, you don't need to. What you do will not be less amazing if you admit that you are human, from time to time, Sherlock. Look, if you can't do it for yourself, do it for my nerves, yes? I was horribly worried back then when you collapsed - you can't let it go that far. One dies without eating, you know. What if we had been surrounded by criminals?”
“You watch too much James Bond, John.”
“But you get my point.”
Sherlock sighed and sat a little less slumped in his seat. “Yes, I get your point. I'm sorry. However, I fear that we have to prevail upon Mrs Hudson for food.”
John groaned. “What did you do? I was shopping only yesterday!”
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