Help us to survive (6/17)
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.
Note: This is part of the Eating us Alive verse. 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-
Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table the next morning when John got up, using John’s computer. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, which meant that he probably hadn’t even tried to sleep. John didn’t comment, on that or on the computer, but he suddenly felt extremely guilty for fleeing the sitting room last night after their conversation.
“Do you want toast and tea?” he asked as he popped bread in the toaster.
“’I found a toothbrush at the back of the pantry yesterday.’”
John froze momentarily, before turning around. “What?”
Sherlock didn’t look up; instead, he kept on reading from the screen: “’It’s mine. I had forgotten that I kept it there, but there it still was. It’s red.’”
John’s heart sank to his stomach when he recognised what Sherlock was reading, and figured out what was going on. Sherlock was reading aloud from an entry John had posted on LovED Ones about three years ago.
“’I started to keep a toothbrush in the kitchen around the time I discovered that he sometimes used toothbrushes to purge. I don’t think he ever used mine’ - I didn’t, by the way,” Sherlock added, pausing just long enough to give John a dark glare before he went back to reading. “‘It was more about not having to go into the bathroom, because some days I couldn’t bring myself to set my foot in there. Anyway, my first instinct when I found the toothbrush was to throw it away, because we don’t really have a bathroom problem these days’-”
“Sherlock…”
“-‘but I didn’t. I couldn’t make myself get rid of it. I know it’s ridiculous, but I just couldn’t. We’ve reached this point before, more than once, and then something happens and we’re back at square -5 again. For example, two weeks ago he began a new breakfast routine that I still don’t follow, and can’t seem to break. So who knows how long it’ll stay this way? (I’m really starting to believe that full recovery is this mystical creature that lives in Narnia.)’”
“Please, stop reading.”
“No, this is the best part,” Sherlock said, looking up and nailing John down with his eyes, reciting the rest of the entry from memory. “’I don’t trust him. So I’m keeping a toothbrush in the pantry, even though all I really want to do is scream at him to just eat breakfast like a normal human being.’”
“Are you done?”
Sherlock’s gaze was absolutely crushing. “You’ve written 194 entries, and I’ve only been at this since this morning, what do you think?”
“That’s not…” John closed his eyes, flexing his fingers, and took a deep breath in an attempt to stay calm. “Do you want to… talk about it?”
“About what? That you don’t trust me or the fact that you have told these people everything but my shoe size?” At the end Sherlock was practically yelling.
“I haven’t-“
Sherlock turned back to the computer to read aloud again. “’It was as if he had scooped the water right out of the Dead Sea. He’s making it completely inedible. I don’t see the point of it. Does he think I don’t notice? I’m trying to eat it too!’”
“Stop it.”
“What about this, then: ’He’s a former addict (I use the term “former” very loosely) and I suspect the drug use and the ED comes from the same place.’”
“Sherlock!”
“I really like this one: ‘We were working on a project earlier this week that really took its toll. I made the decision to ask this client, one of his regulars, to not call S’-“
“Shut up!”
“You were the one who took the work from me!” Sherlock slammed his hands down on either side of the computer, making everything on the table jump.
“You took it from you.”
“You talked to Lestrade!”
“Of course I did! You collapsed during that case, Sherlock.”
“You had no right-“
“I had every right!” John yelled. “You should never have taken the case to begin with, let alone kept at it after that!”
“It was fine.”
“I found you unconscious on the bloody floor! Literally! Do you have any idea what that was like?”
“No, but luckily, I’ve read up on it.”
John’s entire body trembled under the strain of trying to keep at least some of his composure. “You don’t get to be upset here.”
“I don’t?” Sherlock looked highly insulted.
“No.”
“You’ve told people what I eat.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve told people what I eat!”
“Yes! And I won’t apologise for it, because it’s the only thing that has stopped me from going crazy!”
“But you’ve told people what I eat…”
“They don’t care!” John screamed, his voice starting to go hoarse.
“Then why did you tell them?” yelled Sherlock.
“Because I care!”
“You still can’t tell people this!”
John pointed at his computer, shaking now. “That’s my life, Sherlock. That’s what you’ve made my life. It’s all I know, and I have the right to talk about it!”
“No one asked you to stay.”
“I can’t leave! I don’t want to leave! I just want you to get over yourself and eat like a sane person!”
Sherlock blinked once, and time seemed to come to a sudden halt. The kitchen was completely quiet, saved their winded breathing. They stared at each other, the anger slowly draining away until nothing of it was left in either of them.
“The kettle has boiled,” said John after a far too long silence. “Do you want some tea?”
“No,” Sherlock mumbled, getting up from the table. “Give it to a sane person.”
“Sherlock, please don’t…” John said, but Sherlock was already on his way down the stairs.
John closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. A part of him wanted to run after Sherlock while another part - the bigger part, actually - never wanted to see him again. He turned around to make his own tea and saw that his toast had popped up. With anger boiling up in him again, he took the now cold toast and threw it across the kitchen, screaming wordlessly in frustration.
This was so not good.
It was Vivaldi.
Maybe.
John was almost sure of it. It was a long time since he had been woken in the middle of the night by Sherlock playing. Right now he couldn’t even remember the last time. He wished he could say that it was tonight, but he hadn’t been able to fall asleep at all. In recent years Sherlock had solved his insomnia by coming to John’s bed instead. It wasn’t surprising that he opted for something else tonight and, truth be told, John wasn’t sure he would let him come here right now.
It didn’t make any it easier to listen to.
It was definitely probably Vivaldi. John tried to remember the name of the melody, but it was over before he had a chance. The silence lasted for as long as it took to take a breath. It was a different melody, same tempo. John thought that it was still Vivaldi, but he had to admit that at this point he was just guessing.
They had made a splendid job avoiding each other the entire day; John at work, and Sherlock… somewhere. John didn’t even know when Sherlock had come back home. If he hadn’t still been upset, if he had trusted either of them to not pick up the argument again, he would have gone downstairs. Now he turned on his side, pressing one of his pillows against his ear to keep the sound out.
After what felt like an eternity - though the alarm clock told him it was just close to a half hour - he removed the pillow. The flat was once again quiet. John rolled over on his back and closed his eyes, guilt tearing through every fibre of his being, making him nauseous.
When the alarm rang four hours later he hadn’t slept at all.
-x-
Chapter 7
Note: This is part of the Eating us Alive verse. 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-
Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table the next morning when John got up, using John’s computer. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, which meant that he probably hadn’t even tried to sleep. John didn’t comment, on that or on the computer, but he suddenly felt extremely guilty for fleeing the sitting room last night after their conversation.
“Do you want toast and tea?” he asked as he popped bread in the toaster.
“’I found a toothbrush at the back of the pantry yesterday.’”
John froze momentarily, before turning around. “What?”
Sherlock didn’t look up; instead, he kept on reading from the screen: “’It’s mine. I had forgotten that I kept it there, but there it still was. It’s red.’”
John’s heart sank to his stomach when he recognised what Sherlock was reading, and figured out what was going on. Sherlock was reading aloud from an entry John had posted on LovED Ones about three years ago.
“’I started to keep a toothbrush in the kitchen around the time I discovered that he sometimes used toothbrushes to purge. I don’t think he ever used mine’ - I didn’t, by the way,” Sherlock added, pausing just long enough to give John a dark glare before he went back to reading. “‘It was more about not having to go into the bathroom, because some days I couldn’t bring myself to set my foot in there. Anyway, my first instinct when I found the toothbrush was to throw it away, because we don’t really have a bathroom problem these days’-”
“Sherlock…”
“-‘but I didn’t. I couldn’t make myself get rid of it. I know it’s ridiculous, but I just couldn’t. We’ve reached this point before, more than once, and then something happens and we’re back at square -5 again. For example, two weeks ago he began a new breakfast routine that I still don’t follow, and can’t seem to break. So who knows how long it’ll stay this way? (I’m really starting to believe that full recovery is this mystical creature that lives in Narnia.)’”
“Please, stop reading.”
“No, this is the best part,” Sherlock said, looking up and nailing John down with his eyes, reciting the rest of the entry from memory. “’I don’t trust him. So I’m keeping a toothbrush in the pantry, even though all I really want to do is scream at him to just eat breakfast like a normal human being.’”
“Are you done?”
Sherlock’s gaze was absolutely crushing. “You’ve written 194 entries, and I’ve only been at this since this morning, what do you think?”
“That’s not…” John closed his eyes, flexing his fingers, and took a deep breath in an attempt to stay calm. “Do you want to… talk about it?”
“About what? That you don’t trust me or the fact that you have told these people everything but my shoe size?” At the end Sherlock was practically yelling.
“I haven’t-“
Sherlock turned back to the computer to read aloud again. “’It was as if he had scooped the water right out of the Dead Sea. He’s making it completely inedible. I don’t see the point of it. Does he think I don’t notice? I’m trying to eat it too!’”
“Stop it.”
“What about this, then: ’He’s a former addict (I use the term “former” very loosely) and I suspect the drug use and the ED comes from the same place.’”
“Sherlock!”
“I really like this one: ‘We were working on a project earlier this week that really took its toll. I made the decision to ask this client, one of his regulars, to not call S’-“
“Shut up!”
“You were the one who took the work from me!” Sherlock slammed his hands down on either side of the computer, making everything on the table jump.
“You took it from you.”
“You talked to Lestrade!”
“Of course I did! You collapsed during that case, Sherlock.”
“You had no right-“
“I had every right!” John yelled. “You should never have taken the case to begin with, let alone kept at it after that!”
“It was fine.”
“I found you unconscious on the bloody floor! Literally! Do you have any idea what that was like?”
“No, but luckily, I’ve read up on it.”
John’s entire body trembled under the strain of trying to keep at least some of his composure. “You don’t get to be upset here.”
“I don’t?” Sherlock looked highly insulted.
“No.”
“You’ve told people what I eat.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve told people what I eat!”
“Yes! And I won’t apologise for it, because it’s the only thing that has stopped me from going crazy!”
“But you’ve told people what I eat…”
“They don’t care!” John screamed, his voice starting to go hoarse.
“Then why did you tell them?” yelled Sherlock.
“Because I care!”
“You still can’t tell people this!”
John pointed at his computer, shaking now. “That’s my life, Sherlock. That’s what you’ve made my life. It’s all I know, and I have the right to talk about it!”
“No one asked you to stay.”
“I can’t leave! I don’t want to leave! I just want you to get over yourself and eat like a sane person!”
Sherlock blinked once, and time seemed to come to a sudden halt. The kitchen was completely quiet, saved their winded breathing. They stared at each other, the anger slowly draining away until nothing of it was left in either of them.
“The kettle has boiled,” said John after a far too long silence. “Do you want some tea?”
“No,” Sherlock mumbled, getting up from the table. “Give it to a sane person.”
“Sherlock, please don’t…” John said, but Sherlock was already on his way down the stairs.
John closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. A part of him wanted to run after Sherlock while another part - the bigger part, actually - never wanted to see him again. He turned around to make his own tea and saw that his toast had popped up. With anger boiling up in him again, he took the now cold toast and threw it across the kitchen, screaming wordlessly in frustration.
This was so not good.
It was Vivaldi.
Maybe.
John was almost sure of it. It was a long time since he had been woken in the middle of the night by Sherlock playing. Right now he couldn’t even remember the last time. He wished he could say that it was tonight, but he hadn’t been able to fall asleep at all. In recent years Sherlock had solved his insomnia by coming to John’s bed instead. It wasn’t surprising that he opted for something else tonight and, truth be told, John wasn’t sure he would let him come here right now.
It didn’t make any it easier to listen to.
It was definitely probably Vivaldi. John tried to remember the name of the melody, but it was over before he had a chance. The silence lasted for as long as it took to take a breath. It was a different melody, same tempo. John thought that it was still Vivaldi, but he had to admit that at this point he was just guessing.
They had made a splendid job avoiding each other the entire day; John at work, and Sherlock… somewhere. John didn’t even know when Sherlock had come back home. If he hadn’t still been upset, if he had trusted either of them to not pick up the argument again, he would have gone downstairs. Now he turned on his side, pressing one of his pillows against his ear to keep the sound out.
After what felt like an eternity - though the alarm clock told him it was just close to a half hour - he removed the pillow. The flat was once again quiet. John rolled over on his back and closed his eyes, guilt tearing through every fibre of his being, making him nauseous.
When the alarm rang four hours later he hadn’t slept at all.
-x-
Chapter 7