Glass house
Notes: Seventh part of Eating us alive, again. I re-wrote this yesterday for reasons yet unknown. I was quite happy with it before so I have no idea why I made all these changes. I can’t help hearing The Ark’s Disease when I read this chapter.
Summary: No one had ever told John that eating disorders were contagious.
-x-
This could be the most disgusting thing in the world. No, really, it was even worse than the canned food he’d sometimes been forced to eat in the army. Nothing tasted good anymore. Every bite seemed to grow in his mouth and made him nauseous.
John made a face and let the food slide off the fork and down on the plate.
No one had ever told him about this side effect of eating disorders. Nobody had mentioned that he would start picking low-fat products in the hopes of Sherlock eating something, that he would smuggle food into his room so that Sherlock wouldn’t see him eat, that he would feel guilty every time he enjoyed a meal and that he’d end up loathing the human need for food.
No one had ever told John that eating disorders were contagious.
”Is it cold in here?” Sherlock muttered as he came out from his bedroom.
“No.” John looked up with a poorly concealed frown; Sherlock was still in his dressing gown; he hadn’t changed out of it for two weeks. Even though John wasn’t thrilled by the idea of having him run around London right now, the man needed something to do. A reason to dress and shave.
“It’s freezing,” Sherlock muttered and pulled the dressing gown closer, “What are you doing?”
“Eating,” John mumbled and put more of the disgusting food on the fork just to be able to drop it again with a sickened frown.
“No, you’re not.”
“How can you tell?” John wondered, staring at his food. “Not like you have practiced it a lot lately.”
“Fairly sure the procedure hasn’t changed to…that,” Sherlock waved his hand and walked around the table to put on a kettle.
“Well…. I’ll show you the memo later.” John shrugged and pushed away the plate.
“We need a case,” Sherlock stated as he made tea.
“No, but you need to get dressed.”
“I’ll get dressed when we have a case,” Sherlock explained very soberly, with just a pinch of irritation, and turned to face John again.
“You’re in no condition to pursue a case.”
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “I didn’t know I had an appointment with Dr Watson today.”
“Would that convince you get dressed?”
“No, I don’t like him.”
“You’re not exactly his favourite patient either,” John muttered and they glared at each other. To be perfectly honest, John really thought they needed a case. Something that got them out of this nasty routine they had settled into. He didn’t think Sherlock should chase after criminals, but a slower, more indoory case could do them both good. Or, it would do Sherlock good and, at the moment, what was good for Sherlock did wonders for John.
“Are you all right?” Sherlock suddenly asked, tapping insecurely with his fingers on the mug. John blinked, completely surprised by the question. To explain what he was referring to, Sherlock looked at the food John had pushed away.
“I’m just brilliant,” John lied and didn’t even put in the effort to make it sound believable. He knew Sherlock was convinced - quite correctly - of the opposite already.
“You’ve lost almost five pounds this month.”
“Don’t turn me into a case because you’re under-stimulated,” John begged with a sigh, not doubting that Sherlock knew what he was talking about.
“I’m not. You’d be a terribly boring case, not worth my time.” Sherlock snorted, but hesitated before continuing: “John, I forbid you to do this.”
“You forbid…?” John almost sounded amused, “Stones in glass houses, Sherlock!”
“Well, it’s my glass house, isn’t it? And I see no reason why we both should live there.”
“I see no reason for either of us to live there,” John said in a low voice. They looked at each other with weak smiles; John’s sad and Sherlock’s guilty. John was just about to assure Sherlock that everything was okay when Sherlock frowned and broke their eye-contact.
“Headache?” John tried to not sound worried, but Sherlock’s hesitancy to meet his eyes again told him he had failed.
“It’s-“
“Don’t say it’s fine if it’s not,” John interrupted. Just like John should know better than trying to hide things from Sherlock, Sherlock should have learned by now that the doctor in John had been very quick to pick up on all tics that testified to Sherlock’s non-wellbeing.
“It’s…. It comes and goes,” Sherlock admitted with a sigh and tried to relieve the pain by pressing two fingers against the root of his nose.
“Headaches tend to do that. Have you been drinking enough?”
“Yes, Dr Watson.”
John swallowed a sigh, he hated when Sherlock called him Dr Watson in that tone of voice. Sherlock was far too good at pressing his buttons and he was not going to bite. This time.
“Fine. Fine,” John muttered and held up his hands in a small, surrendering gesture. “Sorry I care.”
“My brain is rotting of boredom, that’s why I have a headache,” Sherlock huffed, “Not because of an electrolyte disturbance, I promise.”
Just as Sherlock knew the buttons to push to make him angry, he also knew the ways to make John smile again and John almost believed his insane self-diagnosis. John shook his head at the absurdity and Sherlock forced a smile as he took a sip of the tea.
“You know, a rotting brain isn’t all that healthy either. In my professional opinion I’d say that a rotting brain is worse than a salt imbalance.”
“Possibly, yes,” Sherlock smirked and finally sat down at the table, “Is it my fault you’re not eating properly?”
“It’s not not your fault,” John said with a small frown.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” John shook his head and looked at the discarded plate, “I mean…it’s…. Well, just don’t be.”
“I’m sure you were more articulate before,” Sherlock tried to smirk again and John almost reached out to take his hand. Instead he just smiled wearily; Sherlock was right, it was hard to find the words these days. There weren’t any that would express all the thoughts and feelings, but at the same time John wasn’t sure they needed to actually say anything. They both knew. They had both tried, and failed, to verbalise it all before.
“Perhaps my brain is rotting as well.” John suggested.
Sherlock snorted, but he smiled before he put down the mug. Then, without warning, he jumped up from the table and left the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” John yelled after him.
“To find a case!” Sherlock answered, “We need a case!”
“Drink something!”
The door to Sherlock’s bedroom was slammed shut and John shook his head as he got up from the table - well, at least Sherlock would get dressed and that was good. Clothes were good and hopefully the case he’d find would be a light one and they would both be distracted for a while.
He threw away the food with a grimace; he couldn’t continue like this, he had to stop. It didn’t help anyone if he wasn’t eating properly, especially if it gave Sherlock a guilty conscience. John sighed as he filled the sink to do the dishes; he could never have imagined that food would become such a huge problem in his life.
-x-
Part VIII: Silent night.
Summary: No one had ever told John that eating disorders were contagious.
-x-
This could be the most disgusting thing in the world. No, really, it was even worse than the canned food he’d sometimes been forced to eat in the army. Nothing tasted good anymore. Every bite seemed to grow in his mouth and made him nauseous.
John made a face and let the food slide off the fork and down on the plate.
No one had ever told him about this side effect of eating disorders. Nobody had mentioned that he would start picking low-fat products in the hopes of Sherlock eating something, that he would smuggle food into his room so that Sherlock wouldn’t see him eat, that he would feel guilty every time he enjoyed a meal and that he’d end up loathing the human need for food.
No one had ever told John that eating disorders were contagious.
”Is it cold in here?” Sherlock muttered as he came out from his bedroom.
“No.” John looked up with a poorly concealed frown; Sherlock was still in his dressing gown; he hadn’t changed out of it for two weeks. Even though John wasn’t thrilled by the idea of having him run around London right now, the man needed something to do. A reason to dress and shave.
“It’s freezing,” Sherlock muttered and pulled the dressing gown closer, “What are you doing?”
“Eating,” John mumbled and put more of the disgusting food on the fork just to be able to drop it again with a sickened frown.
“No, you’re not.”
“How can you tell?” John wondered, staring at his food. “Not like you have practiced it a lot lately.”
“Fairly sure the procedure hasn’t changed to…that,” Sherlock waved his hand and walked around the table to put on a kettle.
“Well…. I’ll show you the memo later.” John shrugged and pushed away the plate.
“We need a case,” Sherlock stated as he made tea.
“No, but you need to get dressed.”
“I’ll get dressed when we have a case,” Sherlock explained very soberly, with just a pinch of irritation, and turned to face John again.
“You’re in no condition to pursue a case.”
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “I didn’t know I had an appointment with Dr Watson today.”
“Would that convince you get dressed?”
“No, I don’t like him.”
“You’re not exactly his favourite patient either,” John muttered and they glared at each other. To be perfectly honest, John really thought they needed a case. Something that got them out of this nasty routine they had settled into. He didn’t think Sherlock should chase after criminals, but a slower, more indoory case could do them both good. Or, it would do Sherlock good and, at the moment, what was good for Sherlock did wonders for John.
“Are you all right?” Sherlock suddenly asked, tapping insecurely with his fingers on the mug. John blinked, completely surprised by the question. To explain what he was referring to, Sherlock looked at the food John had pushed away.
“I’m just brilliant,” John lied and didn’t even put in the effort to make it sound believable. He knew Sherlock was convinced - quite correctly - of the opposite already.
“You’ve lost almost five pounds this month.”
“Don’t turn me into a case because you’re under-stimulated,” John begged with a sigh, not doubting that Sherlock knew what he was talking about.
“I’m not. You’d be a terribly boring case, not worth my time.” Sherlock snorted, but hesitated before continuing: “John, I forbid you to do this.”
“You forbid…?” John almost sounded amused, “Stones in glass houses, Sherlock!”
“Well, it’s my glass house, isn’t it? And I see no reason why we both should live there.”
“I see no reason for either of us to live there,” John said in a low voice. They looked at each other with weak smiles; John’s sad and Sherlock’s guilty. John was just about to assure Sherlock that everything was okay when Sherlock frowned and broke their eye-contact.
“Headache?” John tried to not sound worried, but Sherlock’s hesitancy to meet his eyes again told him he had failed.
“It’s-“
“Don’t say it’s fine if it’s not,” John interrupted. Just like John should know better than trying to hide things from Sherlock, Sherlock should have learned by now that the doctor in John had been very quick to pick up on all tics that testified to Sherlock’s non-wellbeing.
“It’s…. It comes and goes,” Sherlock admitted with a sigh and tried to relieve the pain by pressing two fingers against the root of his nose.
“Headaches tend to do that. Have you been drinking enough?”
“Yes, Dr Watson.”
John swallowed a sigh, he hated when Sherlock called him Dr Watson in that tone of voice. Sherlock was far too good at pressing his buttons and he was not going to bite. This time.
“Fine. Fine,” John muttered and held up his hands in a small, surrendering gesture. “Sorry I care.”
“My brain is rotting of boredom, that’s why I have a headache,” Sherlock huffed, “Not because of an electrolyte disturbance, I promise.”
Just as Sherlock knew the buttons to push to make him angry, he also knew the ways to make John smile again and John almost believed his insane self-diagnosis. John shook his head at the absurdity and Sherlock forced a smile as he took a sip of the tea.
“You know, a rotting brain isn’t all that healthy either. In my professional opinion I’d say that a rotting brain is worse than a salt imbalance.”
“Possibly, yes,” Sherlock smirked and finally sat down at the table, “Is it my fault you’re not eating properly?”
“It’s not not your fault,” John said with a small frown.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” John shook his head and looked at the discarded plate, “I mean…it’s…. Well, just don’t be.”
“I’m sure you were more articulate before,” Sherlock tried to smirk again and John almost reached out to take his hand. Instead he just smiled wearily; Sherlock was right, it was hard to find the words these days. There weren’t any that would express all the thoughts and feelings, but at the same time John wasn’t sure they needed to actually say anything. They both knew. They had both tried, and failed, to verbalise it all before.
“Perhaps my brain is rotting as well.” John suggested.
Sherlock snorted, but he smiled before he put down the mug. Then, without warning, he jumped up from the table and left the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” John yelled after him.
“To find a case!” Sherlock answered, “We need a case!”
“Drink something!”
The door to Sherlock’s bedroom was slammed shut and John shook his head as he got up from the table - well, at least Sherlock would get dressed and that was good. Clothes were good and hopefully the case he’d find would be a light one and they would both be distracted for a while.
He threw away the food with a grimace; he couldn’t continue like this, he had to stop. It didn’t help anyone if he wasn’t eating properly, especially if it gave Sherlock a guilty conscience. John sighed as he filled the sink to do the dishes; he could never have imagined that food would become such a huge problem in his life.
-x-
Part VIII: Silent night.