Help us to survive (7/17)
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.
“Oh, dear! You’re soaking wet,” Mrs Hudson said as she opened the front door after John had banged at it for about a minute. “Why didn’t you let yourself in?”
“I left my keys at work,” John muttered, stepping in from the pouring rain. He took off his jacket while still downstairs to not drag too much water into the flat. Just as he was about to hang it on the hook, he saw that Sherlock’s coat was hanging there as well.
“Sherlock’s home?” he asked.
“I think so.”
John sighed, his intestines twisting into a knot as he glanced up the stairs. They had kept avoiding each other; they hadn’t said a word to each other in three days. John had even picked up an extra shift, and worked overtime just to not have to be in the flat. Sherlock seemed to have had similar ideas, because they had been pretty good at missing each other.
Until now.
There was always the chance that Sherlock had locked himself in his room, but seeing how John’s day was coming along he wouldn’t bet on it.
“John.” Mrs Hudson put a hand on his arm, ever so lightly. “I heard you the other day. How are… things?”
He smiled ruefully. Her intonation made it obvious what she was referring to, and he was genuinely grateful both that she knew and that she cared enough to ask.
“I don’t know,” he said. “He’s not- It’s not good, but it’s not bad either.”
She patted his arm. “Don’t forget your keys tomorrow.”
“I won’t,” he said. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”
She smiled sympathetically, before going back to her flat. John squared his shoulders, heading up the stairs as he prepared to face Sherlock. He had been absolutely miserable the last three days, regretting every word he’d said in anger, but he wasn’t over how violated he felt that Sherlock had gone through the forum. The mere thought of it still made him tense.
Sherlock was lying on the sofa, perfectly still, with his computer open on the coffee table, almost tauntingly showing John’s profile on LovED Ones. If it was meant as a provocation it was definitely working. John felt his pulse rise, and he was on the verge of leaving again.
But it was raining outside.
And he had trouble enough sleeping as it was.
John sighed. “Why do you keep reading that?”
“Why do you think?”
John shut his eyes, willing himself to stay calm. He walked over to the sofa, closing the open laptop so that he at least wouldn’t have to see it.
“Sherlock, can we talk-“
“It’s not important,” Sherlock interrupted, suddenly sitting up. He opened the computer again and started to click away from John’s profile. John slammed the laptop shut, almost hitting Sherlock’s fingers.
Sherlock blinked in surprise, putting his hands back down on top of the computer, but he made no move to open it again.
“Stop reading,” John said sternly. “It’s not for you.”
Sherlock met his eyes. “Another woman has died.”
“You shouldn’t be reading this.”
“Yes, we’ve established that,” said Sherlock, annoyed. “Can we perhaps move along?”
John exhaled very slowly. “Fine. Someone’s dead. Who?”
“The person Sai28 refers to as Mymble.”
John had to brace himself against the armrest of the sofa at the news. “She- she killed herself?”
“No, it was a heart attack two days ago.” Sherlock opened the computer again, and with a couple of clicks he was in John’s inbox, turning the computer around for John to see. “Sai28 sent you a PM just before lunch.”
“He sent me a… hm… You read…” John couldn’t form a proper thought. He flexed his fingers, staring at the message Sherlock was showing him. It didn’t say much, nothing more than that Sai’s fiancée had died of a heart attack the day before yesterday. John had spent hours talking to Sai about Mymble. He still didn’t know exactly how old Mymble had been, but he knew she was far too young to die of a heart attack, had she been healthy. That was far more disturbing than the fact that Sherlock read his private messages on the forum.
At least it should be.
“John?”
“No,” was all John managed to say. He held up both hands, still staring at the computer screen, and took a step back. His vision started to close in on him; he felt like someone had pulled the rug out from under him and he had fallen smack down on the floor. Sherlock reading his correspondence wasn’t new, so why did this feel that much worse than other times? He had known this was a risk when he told him.
He rubbed his face, taking a couple of deep breaths that made him more dizzy than calm, before he was able to look at Sherlock again.
“You can’t do this,” he said with poorly acted composure. “I don’t… Sherlock, you cannot-“
“I wasn’t planning to read your messages,” Sherlock said. “I promise. This is the only one I’ve read.”
“Why did you?”
“The notification came while I was reading… other things. I recognised the sender from your comment discussions, and I saw the title.”
John nodded slowly. He didn’t know if he believed him, but right now he didn’t dare not to, because this couldn’t turn into another fight. Not now. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the other thing that had his head spinning at the moment: a woman he sort of knew was dead, and one of his friends was reaching out to him. He should be able to put his and Sherlock’s issues aside for a moment.
“I think you’re right.”
John jumped at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. “What?”
“The Angel of Death,” said Sherlock. “I think your theory is correct. I think someone’s supplying these people with the insulin, and perhaps even coaching them to suicide.”
John sighed. “I really hoped that I was just seeing things.”
“The thing is,” Sherlock said, turning on the sofa so that he was facing John straight on, “the large number of victims in such a small population can only mean one of two things; either there are a lot of other victims that haven’t been discovered yet, or - and I actually hope this is the case - the killer is a member of the forum.”
“No,” John said, shaking his head. “That’s not… No.”
“The thought must have crossed your mind.”
John shook his head more fiercely, not because Sherlock wasn’t right, but because he didn’t want to think about it. The possibility that someone used his safe space as a hunting ground, that seeking comfort there might have endangered Sherlock? He had willingly chosen to ignore that, because he couldn’t bear to face it.
“If I were to kill myself I’d use heroin, not insulin,” Sherlock said, as if he had read his mind.
John chuckled, joylessly. “Is that supposed to calm me down?”
“Yes.”
John shook his head yet again, smiling this time. It was strange, but right now it actually did make him feel better.
Sherlock smiled too for a brief moment. “I’m going to take the case.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Sherlock sounded determined, but he looked down at his hands. “This is hard enough without someone encouraging you to kill yourself.”
John’s heart dropped to his toes. He swallowed hard. “You know I don’t wish you to die, right?”
Sherlock nodded.
“I’m serious, Sherlock, I don’t. I have never wished that. Not ever, not really, no matter what you’ve read.”
Sherlock looked up at him again. He sighed. “I know.”
“The, the first time I did,” John began, wetting his lips. “Or the first time I said I did, Sai gave me his phone number, because he knew I would hate myself for weeks.”
“Did you?”
“I still hate myself for that.”
“Call him, I mean.”
“No,” John said. “As stupid as it might sound, I was afraid that if he got my number, or heard my voice, he could figure out that it was you I was talking about.”
“You want to call him now.”
John nodded, and said, practically inaudible: “His you just died.”
For a moment John thought Sherlock was trying to read him, but then he realised that he wasn’t really looking at him at all anymore. After what appeared to have been a difficult internal debate Sherlock said:
“Call him.”
“You sure?” John asked, air getting stuck in his throat.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, taking out his phone as he got off the sofa. “Use my phone. The number is unlisted, but beyond that… He knows me more intimately than I’d prefer anyway, so...”
John ignored the last part, and took his hand as Sherlock gave him the phone. “Thank you.”
“If I were to…” Sherlock trailed off, looking at their joined hands. “I would want one of these people to call you.”
“Thank you,” John said again. “And I really, really don’t wish you dead. Okay?”
Sherlock met his eyes, suddenly seeming exhausted. “I’ve wished us both dead on multiple occasions.”
“Christ, Sherlock. I’m sorry.”
“Very little of this is your fault,” Sherlock said, letting go of John, and walking to his bedroom.
When John heard the door close, he sat down at the computer to find Sai28’s phone number again. As he listened to the call going through, he wondered what on earth possessed him to do this, but when he heard a man’s voice from the other side of the line, it felt like the only good decision he had made this week.
“Hello?”
“Is this Sai28?” he asked.
“Yes, who is this?”
“It’s Dr H, I just read your PM...”
When John hung up he felt completely and utterly drained. That had been absolutely horrible. The call had lasted for 23 minutes and 19 seconds, according to the phone, but it could just as well have been hours. Sai28 had burst into tears as soon as John had said who he was, and John hadn’t done much more than listen to him cry.
With a sigh, John heaved himself off the sofa. For a long time he stood in kitchen, just looking at Sherlock’s closed door. A big part of him wanted to go in there and make sure that he was all right, that he was still with him, still alive. The rest of him was still afraid they’d start arguing again. He was unsure of his footing, and not ready to confront just how much it hurt that Sherlock had read what he had.
The latter part won.
He filled the kettle with new water and put it on, ignoring how unsteady his hands were. Before the water boiled, he heard Sherlock’s door open. He closed his eyes momentarily, sighing in relief, strangely enough.
“How did it go?” Sherlock asked.
“Fine,” John mumbled. He looked over his shoulder. “I’m making- Do you want…?”
“Please.”
John took out mugs for them and fumbled with the teabags. He struggled with himself before asking: “Sugar?”
He poured hot water in the mugs while he waited for a response. When he didn’t get one he turned around. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock breathed out slowly, shaking his head after a moment of hesitation. John wasn’t surprised; he had suspected it, and that’s why he had asked. He took his mug, stepping aside to let Sherlock come and take his own. They both leaned back against the counter, looking straight ahead at the opposite wall in silence.
“How much have you read?” John finally asked.
“Enough.”
John sighed.
“I’ve read all your entries, and all comments on those entries,” Sherlock started to clarify. “From there I identified some of your more frequent contacts - that’s how I found Sai28 - and read through most of their entries, and your comment threads on those as well.”
John had his eyes closed when he listened, his teeth clenched together. It wasn’t that shock, it was even expected, but hearing it made his blood boil again.
“No messages?” he asked.
“Only the one today.”
“Okay.”
They both sighed, keeping their eyes fixed on arbitrary points ahead. Sherlock tried his tea; John didn’t see it, but he could imagine the dissatisfied twist in the corner of Sherlock’s lips at the first sip of unsweetened tea. John didn’t bother with his own, he had no appearance to keep up and he didn’t feel like having tea anymore. It was nice having something in his hands, though; it made it easier to keep calm.
“You can’t tell them what I eat,” said Sherlock after another long silence.
John shook his head. “They don’t care what you eat.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point, then?”
Sherlock didn’t answer. John looked to him, ready to ask him again, but Sherlock’s hard-set jaw made him drop it. He put the tea down on the counter, and cleared his throat.
“Sherlock, this case…”
“I’m taking it.”
“You’re having tea without sugar and we haven’t even started yet.”
Sherlock turned to face him, narrowing his eyes. “Three of the supposed victims, bubblenox’s and adasm967’s daughters and ninja_rose’s sister, all lived on their own in the Greater London area. Two of the victims had gone through cognitive behavioural therapy without lasting improvements within the last five months leading up to their suicide. One of them - SoTired’s girlfriend - hadn’t had any type of treatment and the remaining two had tried at least four different types of therapy and treatment. ninja_rose’s sister even was in interpersonal psychotherapy when she committed suicide.” Sherlock stopped to breathe, continuing much more slowly. “I didn’t read the forum to find out how many times you’ve wanted to ‘stuff toast down my throat’. I looked into your theory and I started the case, because this really is hard enough without someone telling you to commit suicide.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Okay,” John said, nodding, even as a bad feeling rose in his chest. “Then I have another couple of messages that I think you need to read.”
“Show me,” Sherlock said, nodding as well, and sounding very determined.
John could see a small spark of excitement in his eyes. It was the most reassuring thing John could have wished for.
-x-
Chapter 8
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.
“Oh, dear! You’re soaking wet,” Mrs Hudson said as she opened the front door after John had banged at it for about a minute. “Why didn’t you let yourself in?”
“I left my keys at work,” John muttered, stepping in from the pouring rain. He took off his jacket while still downstairs to not drag too much water into the flat. Just as he was about to hang it on the hook, he saw that Sherlock’s coat was hanging there as well.
“Sherlock’s home?” he asked.
“I think so.”
John sighed, his intestines twisting into a knot as he glanced up the stairs. They had kept avoiding each other; they hadn’t said a word to each other in three days. John had even picked up an extra shift, and worked overtime just to not have to be in the flat. Sherlock seemed to have had similar ideas, because they had been pretty good at missing each other.
Until now.
There was always the chance that Sherlock had locked himself in his room, but seeing how John’s day was coming along he wouldn’t bet on it.
“John.” Mrs Hudson put a hand on his arm, ever so lightly. “I heard you the other day. How are… things?”
He smiled ruefully. Her intonation made it obvious what she was referring to, and he was genuinely grateful both that she knew and that she cared enough to ask.
“I don’t know,” he said. “He’s not- It’s not good, but it’s not bad either.”
She patted his arm. “Don’t forget your keys tomorrow.”
“I won’t,” he said. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”
She smiled sympathetically, before going back to her flat. John squared his shoulders, heading up the stairs as he prepared to face Sherlock. He had been absolutely miserable the last three days, regretting every word he’d said in anger, but he wasn’t over how violated he felt that Sherlock had gone through the forum. The mere thought of it still made him tense.
Sherlock was lying on the sofa, perfectly still, with his computer open on the coffee table, almost tauntingly showing John’s profile on LovED Ones. If it was meant as a provocation it was definitely working. John felt his pulse rise, and he was on the verge of leaving again.
But it was raining outside.
And he had trouble enough sleeping as it was.
John sighed. “Why do you keep reading that?”
“Why do you think?”
John shut his eyes, willing himself to stay calm. He walked over to the sofa, closing the open laptop so that he at least wouldn’t have to see it.
“Sherlock, can we talk-“
“It’s not important,” Sherlock interrupted, suddenly sitting up. He opened the computer again and started to click away from John’s profile. John slammed the laptop shut, almost hitting Sherlock’s fingers.
Sherlock blinked in surprise, putting his hands back down on top of the computer, but he made no move to open it again.
“Stop reading,” John said sternly. “It’s not for you.”
Sherlock met his eyes. “Another woman has died.”
“You shouldn’t be reading this.”
“Yes, we’ve established that,” said Sherlock, annoyed. “Can we perhaps move along?”
John exhaled very slowly. “Fine. Someone’s dead. Who?”
“The person Sai28 refers to as Mymble.”
John had to brace himself against the armrest of the sofa at the news. “She- she killed herself?”
“No, it was a heart attack two days ago.” Sherlock opened the computer again, and with a couple of clicks he was in John’s inbox, turning the computer around for John to see. “Sai28 sent you a PM just before lunch.”
“He sent me a… hm… You read…” John couldn’t form a proper thought. He flexed his fingers, staring at the message Sherlock was showing him. It didn’t say much, nothing more than that Sai’s fiancée had died of a heart attack the day before yesterday. John had spent hours talking to Sai about Mymble. He still didn’t know exactly how old Mymble had been, but he knew she was far too young to die of a heart attack, had she been healthy. That was far more disturbing than the fact that Sherlock read his private messages on the forum.
At least it should be.
“John?”
“No,” was all John managed to say. He held up both hands, still staring at the computer screen, and took a step back. His vision started to close in on him; he felt like someone had pulled the rug out from under him and he had fallen smack down on the floor. Sherlock reading his correspondence wasn’t new, so why did this feel that much worse than other times? He had known this was a risk when he told him.
He rubbed his face, taking a couple of deep breaths that made him more dizzy than calm, before he was able to look at Sherlock again.
“You can’t do this,” he said with poorly acted composure. “I don’t… Sherlock, you cannot-“
“I wasn’t planning to read your messages,” Sherlock said. “I promise. This is the only one I’ve read.”
“Why did you?”
“The notification came while I was reading… other things. I recognised the sender from your comment discussions, and I saw the title.”
John nodded slowly. He didn’t know if he believed him, but right now he didn’t dare not to, because this couldn’t turn into another fight. Not now. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the other thing that had his head spinning at the moment: a woman he sort of knew was dead, and one of his friends was reaching out to him. He should be able to put his and Sherlock’s issues aside for a moment.
“I think you’re right.”
John jumped at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. “What?”
“The Angel of Death,” said Sherlock. “I think your theory is correct. I think someone’s supplying these people with the insulin, and perhaps even coaching them to suicide.”
John sighed. “I really hoped that I was just seeing things.”
“The thing is,” Sherlock said, turning on the sofa so that he was facing John straight on, “the large number of victims in such a small population can only mean one of two things; either there are a lot of other victims that haven’t been discovered yet, or - and I actually hope this is the case - the killer is a member of the forum.”
“No,” John said, shaking his head. “That’s not… No.”
“The thought must have crossed your mind.”
John shook his head more fiercely, not because Sherlock wasn’t right, but because he didn’t want to think about it. The possibility that someone used his safe space as a hunting ground, that seeking comfort there might have endangered Sherlock? He had willingly chosen to ignore that, because he couldn’t bear to face it.
“If I were to kill myself I’d use heroin, not insulin,” Sherlock said, as if he had read his mind.
John chuckled, joylessly. “Is that supposed to calm me down?”
“Yes.”
John shook his head yet again, smiling this time. It was strange, but right now it actually did make him feel better.
Sherlock smiled too for a brief moment. “I’m going to take the case.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Sherlock sounded determined, but he looked down at his hands. “This is hard enough without someone encouraging you to kill yourself.”
John’s heart dropped to his toes. He swallowed hard. “You know I don’t wish you to die, right?”
Sherlock nodded.
“I’m serious, Sherlock, I don’t. I have never wished that. Not ever, not really, no matter what you’ve read.”
Sherlock looked up at him again. He sighed. “I know.”
“The, the first time I did,” John began, wetting his lips. “Or the first time I said I did, Sai gave me his phone number, because he knew I would hate myself for weeks.”
“Did you?”
“I still hate myself for that.”
“Call him, I mean.”
“No,” John said. “As stupid as it might sound, I was afraid that if he got my number, or heard my voice, he could figure out that it was you I was talking about.”
“You want to call him now.”
John nodded, and said, practically inaudible: “His you just died.”
For a moment John thought Sherlock was trying to read him, but then he realised that he wasn’t really looking at him at all anymore. After what appeared to have been a difficult internal debate Sherlock said:
“Call him.”
“You sure?” John asked, air getting stuck in his throat.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, taking out his phone as he got off the sofa. “Use my phone. The number is unlisted, but beyond that… He knows me more intimately than I’d prefer anyway, so...”
John ignored the last part, and took his hand as Sherlock gave him the phone. “Thank you.”
“If I were to…” Sherlock trailed off, looking at their joined hands. “I would want one of these people to call you.”
“Thank you,” John said again. “And I really, really don’t wish you dead. Okay?”
Sherlock met his eyes, suddenly seeming exhausted. “I’ve wished us both dead on multiple occasions.”
“Christ, Sherlock. I’m sorry.”
“Very little of this is your fault,” Sherlock said, letting go of John, and walking to his bedroom.
When John heard the door close, he sat down at the computer to find Sai28’s phone number again. As he listened to the call going through, he wondered what on earth possessed him to do this, but when he heard a man’s voice from the other side of the line, it felt like the only good decision he had made this week.
“Hello?”
“Is this Sai28?” he asked.
“Yes, who is this?”
“It’s Dr H, I just read your PM...”
When John hung up he felt completely and utterly drained. That had been absolutely horrible. The call had lasted for 23 minutes and 19 seconds, according to the phone, but it could just as well have been hours. Sai28 had burst into tears as soon as John had said who he was, and John hadn’t done much more than listen to him cry.
With a sigh, John heaved himself off the sofa. For a long time he stood in kitchen, just looking at Sherlock’s closed door. A big part of him wanted to go in there and make sure that he was all right, that he was still with him, still alive. The rest of him was still afraid they’d start arguing again. He was unsure of his footing, and not ready to confront just how much it hurt that Sherlock had read what he had.
The latter part won.
He filled the kettle with new water and put it on, ignoring how unsteady his hands were. Before the water boiled, he heard Sherlock’s door open. He closed his eyes momentarily, sighing in relief, strangely enough.
“How did it go?” Sherlock asked.
“Fine,” John mumbled. He looked over his shoulder. “I’m making- Do you want…?”
“Please.”
John took out mugs for them and fumbled with the teabags. He struggled with himself before asking: “Sugar?”
He poured hot water in the mugs while he waited for a response. When he didn’t get one he turned around. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock breathed out slowly, shaking his head after a moment of hesitation. John wasn’t surprised; he had suspected it, and that’s why he had asked. He took his mug, stepping aside to let Sherlock come and take his own. They both leaned back against the counter, looking straight ahead at the opposite wall in silence.
“How much have you read?” John finally asked.
“Enough.”
John sighed.
“I’ve read all your entries, and all comments on those entries,” Sherlock started to clarify. “From there I identified some of your more frequent contacts - that’s how I found Sai28 - and read through most of their entries, and your comment threads on those as well.”
John had his eyes closed when he listened, his teeth clenched together. It wasn’t that shock, it was even expected, but hearing it made his blood boil again.
“No messages?” he asked.
“Only the one today.”
“Okay.”
They both sighed, keeping their eyes fixed on arbitrary points ahead. Sherlock tried his tea; John didn’t see it, but he could imagine the dissatisfied twist in the corner of Sherlock’s lips at the first sip of unsweetened tea. John didn’t bother with his own, he had no appearance to keep up and he didn’t feel like having tea anymore. It was nice having something in his hands, though; it made it easier to keep calm.
“You can’t tell them what I eat,” said Sherlock after another long silence.
John shook his head. “They don’t care what you eat.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point, then?”
Sherlock didn’t answer. John looked to him, ready to ask him again, but Sherlock’s hard-set jaw made him drop it. He put the tea down on the counter, and cleared his throat.
“Sherlock, this case…”
“I’m taking it.”
“You’re having tea without sugar and we haven’t even started yet.”
Sherlock turned to face him, narrowing his eyes. “Three of the supposed victims, bubblenox’s and adasm967’s daughters and ninja_rose’s sister, all lived on their own in the Greater London area. Two of the victims had gone through cognitive behavioural therapy without lasting improvements within the last five months leading up to their suicide. One of them - SoTired’s girlfriend - hadn’t had any type of treatment and the remaining two had tried at least four different types of therapy and treatment. ninja_rose’s sister even was in interpersonal psychotherapy when she committed suicide.” Sherlock stopped to breathe, continuing much more slowly. “I didn’t read the forum to find out how many times you’ve wanted to ‘stuff toast down my throat’. I looked into your theory and I started the case, because this really is hard enough without someone telling you to commit suicide.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Okay,” John said, nodding, even as a bad feeling rose in his chest. “Then I have another couple of messages that I think you need to read.”
“Show me,” Sherlock said, nodding as well, and sounding very determined.
John could see a small spark of excitement in his eyes. It was the most reassuring thing John could have wished for.
-x-
Chapter 8