Help us to survive (13/17)
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-
“This is sickening,” Lestrade muttered, sitting behind the desk in his office and scrolling through the material John and Sherlock had brought. “I could happily have gone my entire life without knowing of any of this.”
John stood next to his chair, arms crossed over the chest, nodding grimly. For some reason, he felt irrationally angry about the fact that there were people in the world for whom it was actually a possibility to remain ignorant about the horrors of eating disorders.
“I mean, listen to this-“
“Thanks, I’ve read it,” John interrupted sternly, before Lestrade had time to start reading out loud.
Lestrade didn’t seem upset by being told off; instead he just seemed amazed by the things described, and kept on reading silently. Now and then he shook his head as if he couldn’t believe any of it.
John looked over at Sherlock, who was sitting on a chair in the corner of the small office, picking at his nails. The detached façade was pretty solid, and if you just glanced at him, he mostly looked bored. John didn’t glance, though: he noticed the very strained lines around Sherlock’s mouth, the protective way he had now wrapped the coat around himself, the small twitch at the corner of the right eye that often indicated headaches.
“Well?” John asked when Lestrade leaned back in his chair after reaching the end.
“Yeah, this is… something.” Lestrade sighed, turning to him. “I don’t know if they’d be able to charge murder for it, but it’s at least cause of grievous bodily harm.”
“That’s not enough,” Sherlock muttered, eyes on his knuckles.
The other two stared at him. Sherlock hadn’t said much since they had left the crime scene, and John had given him space by not asking questions, but this was the first thing he had said at all since they arrived at Scotland Yard.
“That’s not enough,” he said again, looking darkly straight at Lestrade. “He doesn’t want to cause harm; he wants them dead, and preys on the fact that a lot of them probably wanted that too.”
“I’m not disagreeing,” said Lestrade. “I’m just saying: giving a mentally unstable person the equivalent of a loaded gun is a shit thing to do, but it can be hard to get a murder conviction.”
“It’s assisted suicide, at the least.”
“What does it matter?” Lestrade asked. “It’s not up to us to charge the bastard, anyway. It’s tricky. They’re killing themselves, and suicide is common in self-harm communities, so it’ll be-“
“It’s not self-harm.”
Lestrade pointed at the computer screen. “Have you seen this?”
“It’s not self-harm!”
“Drop it,” John said, raising his voice to cut Sherlock off. “It doesn’t matter right now.”
Sherlock moved his dark glare from Lestrade to John, but didn’t say anything else. Instead he got up and left the room, closing the door a little harder than absolutely necessary.
The other two sighed.
“Anyway,” Lestrade said, clearing his throat. “This obviously is something, and I’ll find resources for it, but John, why didn’t you come to me with this sooner?”
John tore his eyes from the door. He rather successfully blocked out the dozen images of where Sherlock might be going, but the look Lestrade gave him told him that he’d failed to keep the worry from shining through. Thankfully, Lestrade didn’t comment.
“I don’t know,” John said, faintly. “I suppose I kept wishing it wasn’t true.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said, nodding as if he understood. “I’m still waiting for the day I’ll stop being surprised by the things people do to each other.”
“I hope you never get there.”
Lestrade smiled wearily. “Me too. Now, anything else before I put wheels in motion and make this an official case?”
John could swear his heart stopped for a moment, before he realised - or managed to convince himself, at least - that Lestrade wasn’t asking about Sherlock but rather about more information concerning the case. His eyes darted towards the door; he really wanted to go and search for Sherlock, but he turned back to Lestrade.
“I don’t think so,” he said. He finally uncrossed his arms, opening his tightly closed fists as well, but he didn’t manage to relax. “Just that… I don’t think I’ve found all of them.”
Lestrade hummed. “Figured as much.”
“And there are a couple of websites that I’ve been meaning to go through, but haven’t got around to. I can show you now, or we can take it later.”
“Might as well now.” Lestrade moved his chair to the right, giving John access to the computer.
“It is self-harm by the way,” John mumbled as he leaned over the keyboard to write the URLs. “One of the deadliest kinds.”
-x-
Sherlock fumbled with the teabag, his hands shaking in some combination of anger and humiliation.
His first instinct when he had walked out of Lestrade’s office had been to leave Scotland Yard altogether, but for some reason he was still there, in the break room at the far end of the third floor corridor. Failing to make himself a cup of tea.
Everything was falling apart. He had been so happy this morning when Lestrade had called, so grateful for police incompetence, because he had desperately needed a break. He had consumed over 2400 calories per day for almost a month to get himself back to where he’d been before this had started. It had been too much, too fast, but there had been no way for him wind it back without good reason because of John and his constant supervision.
God, how he’d hated John these last couple of days.
He had needed a short period, just a couple of days, of restriction when no one would be bothered with what he ate. A few days without questions and looks from John. And this is what he had got instead: having to sit and listen to Lestrade indirectly calling him a mentally unstable self-harmer.
Sickening.
Disgusting.
Disgusted…
Lestrade was disgusted by it. That it made him uncomfortable wasn’t news, Sherlock had seen it at Rosewood already. The pity, the mixture of guilt and blame - Sherlock’s mother had been an expert in that particular look. John wasn’t that far behind. It made Sherlock’s skin crawl, but at least it was marginally better than the disgust Lestrade had displayed while reading through the various posts John had shown him.
Sherlock wondered what John was allowing himself to say now that he was out of the room. John was usually pretty good at keeping his tongue in check, but, as recent discoveries had proven, he thought a lot more than he said, and Sherlock had now efficiently robbed him of his only emotional outlet. As much as Sherlock hated to admit it, it had begun to show, and it frightened him that they were both starting to fall apart. He recognised the lead-up to his own breakdowns, but he didn’t remember what John’s looked like - or whether he had ever truly seen it - and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t entirely trust John.
His phone vibrated. Two short buzzes - text message.
He gave up on the teabag and reached into his pocket. It was from John, of course it was.
Where are you?
At first he didn’t feel like replying. John could probably guess why he had stormed out, and Sherlock wasn’t very interested in proving him right. Staying at Scotland Yard hadn’t been to show that he was okay, though, but more to make sure that John was. At least he thought so.
Smaller break room. 3rd floor.
SH
He pressed send, put away the phone, and made a new attempt with the tea. It worked really well this time, his hands suddenly steady now that he knew John would be there soon. He took down a second mug as he waited, and made tea for John as well.
“I was sure you’d left,” John said when he opened the door.
Sherlock pushed the tea mug along the counter towards him. “That was the plan.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Sherlock shrugged.
“Lestrade’s started to put together a team,” John said, picking up his tea. “It’ll probably be Donovan and Gartner, because they were at the scene today.”
Two women. Somehow that felt significant, but Sherlock couldn’t say why, or if he appreciated it. He nodded to show that he had taken in the information. It didn’t matter who had the case, not really, as long as it was Lestrade’s lot. It was always better to have Lestrade’s lot, no matter the case. It had to be the same now. The only way he would get through this was to treat it as any other case - and why wouldn’t he? There was nothing special about this case.
Except everything.
“I know you don’t want to-“
Sherlock jumped at the sound of John’s voice, almost spilling his tea. He looked embarrassed at John, turning around to set down the mug before he’d make a complete fool of himself.
“I know you don’t want to,” John started again, “but can you at least consider talking to Lestrade about… you know?”
“No.”
John sighed, clearly not pleased with that answer, but nodded, and didn’t press the issue. Sherlock watched his profile; the deeper lines around the eyes, the nick of the razor just beneath his ear, the untidy hair after having run a hand through it one too many times… Sherlock wondered how long John had been this tired, and the shame felt like lead in his gut.
“There’s nothing to tell him,” Sherlock said, because it was the only thing he could think of. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, so am I,” John muttered, putting his mug down next to Sherlock’s. “Look, I’m not saying that you have to talk to him, I’m just asking you to think about it.”
“But I’m fine.”
“So I can start buying cheese again?”
Sherlock huffed, and looked away, his cheeks heating at the mention of the cheese. It had been naïve of him to think John hadn’t noticed just because he hadn’t mentioned it before. From the corner of his eye he saw John move, and he felt a hand on his arm. It was a light, gentle touch, as if John wasn’t sure he was allowed. Sherlock wasn’t sure either, but he stayed still.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up here,” John said quietly. “But you have to stop saying you’re fine when you’re not. Can you please do that?”
Sherlock nodded. He didn’t understand why that was important to John, who obviously knew when he wasn’t fine. Still he relentlessly kept asking for Sherlock to make promises he never kept.
“Now let’s go home.” John squeezed his arm. “We’ve got nothing to do here, and they already think we left anyway. Lestrade will call us if there’s anything.”
Sherlock nodded again, taking a step away and finally putting some distance between them. The pain that action caused John was poorly hidden behind a fabricated smile, but Sherlock pretended he didn’t notice.
He poured out both their teas in the sink, and put away the mugs in the dishwasher before they left to make sure there was no trace of him having been in the break room.
-x-
John woke to the violin that night. Unlike the last time Sherlock had played violin in the middle of the night, John didn’t waste time trying to figure out what tune it was. Nor did he stay in bed. Instead, he put on his bathrobe over his pyjama bottoms and headed downstairs.
Sherlock had gone straight to his room after they had returned from Scotland Yard. It had felt like the least worrying alternative at the time, but when Sherlock hadn’t come out for the rest of the evening, John had become less confident that the isolation was a good thing. At least Sherlock had talked to him through the closed door after Lestrade had called to confirm the unsurprising cause of death for the law student, but it still had taken a long time before John had fallen asleep.
Now Sherlock was standing by the window, turning to give John a quick glance as he came into the sitting room. The motion didn’t interrupt the melody - it was a Sherlock Holmes Original, John recognised it now. The fact that Sherlock didn’t stop playing meant that he didn’t mind the company. John sat down on the sofa, because even if he was incredibly tired, he’d rather not leave Sherlock alone.
The melody built onto another and then another and then yet another, so that when Sherlock finally stopped, John had almost drifted off to sleep anyway.
“Go back to bed,” Sherlock softly said, taking the violin from his shoulder.
“You go back to bed.” John yawned and stretched. “Have you even tried to sleep tonight?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“What’s on your mind?”
“The case.”
“Just the case, or…”
Sherlock put the violin and the bow on the table, stalling for time rather than avoiding the question. He plucked the A string once, twice. Three times… John waited patiently, but lost track of the plucking when it reached the early twenties. He cleared his throat.
Sherlock stilled the strings with his hand. “What did you think when I told you that I…?”
John waited for the end of the sentence to be able to answer, but instead Sherlock just repeated the half-sentence. Sherlock met his eyes, looking as if he was begging John to understand. It made John’s entire body ache when he realised what Sherlock was talking about.
“You didn’t tell me,” John said. “I figured it out, remember?”
“Because you kept looking.”
“Yes.”
Sherlock nodded, gathering focus to start over. “What did you think, then, when you figured it out?”
“Why? What’s this about, Sherlock?”
“Nothing.”
“No, try again.”
Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Why do you think I should tell him?”
“Tell who what?”
“Are you being thick on purpose?” Sherlock muttered. “Lestrade! Why should I tell him that I have a-What possible good can come of that?”
John shook his head. “I’m not going to ask you to do that again.”
“But you think I should.”
“Yes, because…” John said slowly, preparing for the argument he feared would follow. ”Because I really think it would help us deal with this.”
“I don’t need ‘dealing with’.”
“Not you. This.” John waved his hand in the air, indicating just about everything. “Us. The case. Your eating dis-“
“That definitely don’t need to be dealt with by Lestrade. Or you.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” John said, silently cursing Sherlock for picking the middle of the night to have a conversation like this. “Listen, Lestrade cares for you. He would never intentionally do anything that would hurt you, but he’s walking around blind in a minefield right now and is going to put you in difficult situations without meaning to.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“But you don’t have to, that’s the point.” John wet his lips. “Your last severe relapse was triggered by a case, and that one was nothing compared to this one. Nothing. This case is killing us both, and I don’t want you to spend all your energy on hiding from Lestrade.”
“I’m-“ Sherlock bit off his sentence, and started again. “I’ll be fine.”
“Why won’t you just talk to him?”
“Because it’s bad enough that you know!”
John stared at him. It felt as if he had been slapped across the room, and it was difficult to breathe. Sherlock seemed as taken aback by his outburst as John, but John didn’t quite register that.
“Yeah,” John mumbled, his ears still ringing with Sherlock’s words. “I haven’t made things better, have I?”
“No, you haven’t,” Sherlock said, his voice much calmer. “I don’t want- I can’t go through something that again.”
John willed himself to look directly at Sherlock. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” John shook his head. “I don’t want you to go through that again, either.”
With that, John deemed the conversation over and got up. He wasn’t sure he would be able to go back to sleep, but they really shouldn’t keep having this conversation now.
“Are you coming to bed?” he asked on pure impulse.
Sherlock blinked. Relief, and the hint of a smile, brushed over his features. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
“I’ll come down and get you if you aren’t,” John said, dropping his own weary smile as soon as he had turned his back to Sherlock. The words still echoed in his head, and deep down he felt that it was true: he did make Sherlock worse.
John hadn’t much more than lain down before he heard Sherlock pushing the door open. He moved the covers aside to let Sherlock crawl in, but Sherlock didn’t make any effort to get into bed.
“What is it?” John asked, getting up on his elbow.
“What did you think when you figured it out?”
“I didn’t.”
Sherlock didn’t reply. John got up on his elbow.
“I mean, I didn’t think much,” he said, trying to remember. “I hadn’t more than wrapped my head around it before you- before I had to pick the lock to the bathroom that first time.” He held out his hand to Sherlock. He became warm from the inside out when Sherlock took it. “After that, everything just… crashed, I suppose.”
“You’ve never thought that I’m… broken?”
“No.” John squeezed his hand tightly. “I’ve always thought you’re amazingly strong.”
“You’re an idiot…”
“I know,” John said, quietly. “I know. Now get in.”
Sherlock hesitated a moment, but finally got into bed. He made sure to keep a distance between them, but didn’t let go of John’s hand. In a matter of minutes, John felt the grip around his hand loosen and he heard the breathing change as Sherlock fell asleep, clearly exhausted after the day.
John didn’t find sleep any easier to come by the second time around tonight, and he kept mulling over Sherlock’s questions - and the possible reason for them - again and again. He honestly couldn’t remember what he had thought when he had first realised what was up with Sherlock’s eating, just the general feeling of helpless despair.
He brought their hands closer to him and kissed Sherlock’s, deciding to pick up the habit of sleeping in the same bed as Sherlock again. At least until this case was over.
-x-
Chapter 13
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-
“This is sickening,” Lestrade muttered, sitting behind the desk in his office and scrolling through the material John and Sherlock had brought. “I could happily have gone my entire life without knowing of any of this.”
John stood next to his chair, arms crossed over the chest, nodding grimly. For some reason, he felt irrationally angry about the fact that there were people in the world for whom it was actually a possibility to remain ignorant about the horrors of eating disorders.
“I mean, listen to this-“
“Thanks, I’ve read it,” John interrupted sternly, before Lestrade had time to start reading out loud.
Lestrade didn’t seem upset by being told off; instead he just seemed amazed by the things described, and kept on reading silently. Now and then he shook his head as if he couldn’t believe any of it.
John looked over at Sherlock, who was sitting on a chair in the corner of the small office, picking at his nails. The detached façade was pretty solid, and if you just glanced at him, he mostly looked bored. John didn’t glance, though: he noticed the very strained lines around Sherlock’s mouth, the protective way he had now wrapped the coat around himself, the small twitch at the corner of the right eye that often indicated headaches.
“Well?” John asked when Lestrade leaned back in his chair after reaching the end.
“Yeah, this is… something.” Lestrade sighed, turning to him. “I don’t know if they’d be able to charge murder for it, but it’s at least cause of grievous bodily harm.”
“That’s not enough,” Sherlock muttered, eyes on his knuckles.
The other two stared at him. Sherlock hadn’t said much since they had left the crime scene, and John had given him space by not asking questions, but this was the first thing he had said at all since they arrived at Scotland Yard.
“That’s not enough,” he said again, looking darkly straight at Lestrade. “He doesn’t want to cause harm; he wants them dead, and preys on the fact that a lot of them probably wanted that too.”
“I’m not disagreeing,” said Lestrade. “I’m just saying: giving a mentally unstable person the equivalent of a loaded gun is a shit thing to do, but it can be hard to get a murder conviction.”
“It’s assisted suicide, at the least.”
“What does it matter?” Lestrade asked. “It’s not up to us to charge the bastard, anyway. It’s tricky. They’re killing themselves, and suicide is common in self-harm communities, so it’ll be-“
“It’s not self-harm.”
Lestrade pointed at the computer screen. “Have you seen this?”
“It’s not self-harm!”
“Drop it,” John said, raising his voice to cut Sherlock off. “It doesn’t matter right now.”
Sherlock moved his dark glare from Lestrade to John, but didn’t say anything else. Instead he got up and left the room, closing the door a little harder than absolutely necessary.
The other two sighed.
“Anyway,” Lestrade said, clearing his throat. “This obviously is something, and I’ll find resources for it, but John, why didn’t you come to me with this sooner?”
John tore his eyes from the door. He rather successfully blocked out the dozen images of where Sherlock might be going, but the look Lestrade gave him told him that he’d failed to keep the worry from shining through. Thankfully, Lestrade didn’t comment.
“I don’t know,” John said, faintly. “I suppose I kept wishing it wasn’t true.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said, nodding as if he understood. “I’m still waiting for the day I’ll stop being surprised by the things people do to each other.”
“I hope you never get there.”
Lestrade smiled wearily. “Me too. Now, anything else before I put wheels in motion and make this an official case?”
John could swear his heart stopped for a moment, before he realised - or managed to convince himself, at least - that Lestrade wasn’t asking about Sherlock but rather about more information concerning the case. His eyes darted towards the door; he really wanted to go and search for Sherlock, but he turned back to Lestrade.
“I don’t think so,” he said. He finally uncrossed his arms, opening his tightly closed fists as well, but he didn’t manage to relax. “Just that… I don’t think I’ve found all of them.”
Lestrade hummed. “Figured as much.”
“And there are a couple of websites that I’ve been meaning to go through, but haven’t got around to. I can show you now, or we can take it later.”
“Might as well now.” Lestrade moved his chair to the right, giving John access to the computer.
“It is self-harm by the way,” John mumbled as he leaned over the keyboard to write the URLs. “One of the deadliest kinds.”
-x-
Sherlock fumbled with the teabag, his hands shaking in some combination of anger and humiliation.
His first instinct when he had walked out of Lestrade’s office had been to leave Scotland Yard altogether, but for some reason he was still there, in the break room at the far end of the third floor corridor. Failing to make himself a cup of tea.
Everything was falling apart. He had been so happy this morning when Lestrade had called, so grateful for police incompetence, because he had desperately needed a break. He had consumed over 2400 calories per day for almost a month to get himself back to where he’d been before this had started. It had been too much, too fast, but there had been no way for him wind it back without good reason because of John and his constant supervision.
God, how he’d hated John these last couple of days.
He had needed a short period, just a couple of days, of restriction when no one would be bothered with what he ate. A few days without questions and looks from John. And this is what he had got instead: having to sit and listen to Lestrade indirectly calling him a mentally unstable self-harmer.
Sickening.
Disgusting.
Disgusted…
Lestrade was disgusted by it. That it made him uncomfortable wasn’t news, Sherlock had seen it at Rosewood already. The pity, the mixture of guilt and blame - Sherlock’s mother had been an expert in that particular look. John wasn’t that far behind. It made Sherlock’s skin crawl, but at least it was marginally better than the disgust Lestrade had displayed while reading through the various posts John had shown him.
Sherlock wondered what John was allowing himself to say now that he was out of the room. John was usually pretty good at keeping his tongue in check, but, as recent discoveries had proven, he thought a lot more than he said, and Sherlock had now efficiently robbed him of his only emotional outlet. As much as Sherlock hated to admit it, it had begun to show, and it frightened him that they were both starting to fall apart. He recognised the lead-up to his own breakdowns, but he didn’t remember what John’s looked like - or whether he had ever truly seen it - and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t entirely trust John.
His phone vibrated. Two short buzzes - text message.
He gave up on the teabag and reached into his pocket. It was from John, of course it was.
Where are you?
At first he didn’t feel like replying. John could probably guess why he had stormed out, and Sherlock wasn’t very interested in proving him right. Staying at Scotland Yard hadn’t been to show that he was okay, though, but more to make sure that John was. At least he thought so.
Smaller break room. 3rd floor.
SH
He pressed send, put away the phone, and made a new attempt with the tea. It worked really well this time, his hands suddenly steady now that he knew John would be there soon. He took down a second mug as he waited, and made tea for John as well.
“I was sure you’d left,” John said when he opened the door.
Sherlock pushed the tea mug along the counter towards him. “That was the plan.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Sherlock shrugged.
“Lestrade’s started to put together a team,” John said, picking up his tea. “It’ll probably be Donovan and Gartner, because they were at the scene today.”
Two women. Somehow that felt significant, but Sherlock couldn’t say why, or if he appreciated it. He nodded to show that he had taken in the information. It didn’t matter who had the case, not really, as long as it was Lestrade’s lot. It was always better to have Lestrade’s lot, no matter the case. It had to be the same now. The only way he would get through this was to treat it as any other case - and why wouldn’t he? There was nothing special about this case.
Except everything.
“I know you don’t want to-“
Sherlock jumped at the sound of John’s voice, almost spilling his tea. He looked embarrassed at John, turning around to set down the mug before he’d make a complete fool of himself.
“I know you don’t want to,” John started again, “but can you at least consider talking to Lestrade about… you know?”
“No.”
John sighed, clearly not pleased with that answer, but nodded, and didn’t press the issue. Sherlock watched his profile; the deeper lines around the eyes, the nick of the razor just beneath his ear, the untidy hair after having run a hand through it one too many times… Sherlock wondered how long John had been this tired, and the shame felt like lead in his gut.
“There’s nothing to tell him,” Sherlock said, because it was the only thing he could think of. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, so am I,” John muttered, putting his mug down next to Sherlock’s. “Look, I’m not saying that you have to talk to him, I’m just asking you to think about it.”
“But I’m fine.”
“So I can start buying cheese again?”
Sherlock huffed, and looked away, his cheeks heating at the mention of the cheese. It had been naïve of him to think John hadn’t noticed just because he hadn’t mentioned it before. From the corner of his eye he saw John move, and he felt a hand on his arm. It was a light, gentle touch, as if John wasn’t sure he was allowed. Sherlock wasn’t sure either, but he stayed still.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up here,” John said quietly. “But you have to stop saying you’re fine when you’re not. Can you please do that?”
Sherlock nodded. He didn’t understand why that was important to John, who obviously knew when he wasn’t fine. Still he relentlessly kept asking for Sherlock to make promises he never kept.
“Now let’s go home.” John squeezed his arm. “We’ve got nothing to do here, and they already think we left anyway. Lestrade will call us if there’s anything.”
Sherlock nodded again, taking a step away and finally putting some distance between them. The pain that action caused John was poorly hidden behind a fabricated smile, but Sherlock pretended he didn’t notice.
He poured out both their teas in the sink, and put away the mugs in the dishwasher before they left to make sure there was no trace of him having been in the break room.
-x-
John woke to the violin that night. Unlike the last time Sherlock had played violin in the middle of the night, John didn’t waste time trying to figure out what tune it was. Nor did he stay in bed. Instead, he put on his bathrobe over his pyjama bottoms and headed downstairs.
Sherlock had gone straight to his room after they had returned from Scotland Yard. It had felt like the least worrying alternative at the time, but when Sherlock hadn’t come out for the rest of the evening, John had become less confident that the isolation was a good thing. At least Sherlock had talked to him through the closed door after Lestrade had called to confirm the unsurprising cause of death for the law student, but it still had taken a long time before John had fallen asleep.
Now Sherlock was standing by the window, turning to give John a quick glance as he came into the sitting room. The motion didn’t interrupt the melody - it was a Sherlock Holmes Original, John recognised it now. The fact that Sherlock didn’t stop playing meant that he didn’t mind the company. John sat down on the sofa, because even if he was incredibly tired, he’d rather not leave Sherlock alone.
The melody built onto another and then another and then yet another, so that when Sherlock finally stopped, John had almost drifted off to sleep anyway.
“Go back to bed,” Sherlock softly said, taking the violin from his shoulder.
“You go back to bed.” John yawned and stretched. “Have you even tried to sleep tonight?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“What’s on your mind?”
“The case.”
“Just the case, or…”
Sherlock put the violin and the bow on the table, stalling for time rather than avoiding the question. He plucked the A string once, twice. Three times… John waited patiently, but lost track of the plucking when it reached the early twenties. He cleared his throat.
Sherlock stilled the strings with his hand. “What did you think when I told you that I…?”
John waited for the end of the sentence to be able to answer, but instead Sherlock just repeated the half-sentence. Sherlock met his eyes, looking as if he was begging John to understand. It made John’s entire body ache when he realised what Sherlock was talking about.
“You didn’t tell me,” John said. “I figured it out, remember?”
“Because you kept looking.”
“Yes.”
Sherlock nodded, gathering focus to start over. “What did you think, then, when you figured it out?”
“Why? What’s this about, Sherlock?”
“Nothing.”
“No, try again.”
Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Why do you think I should tell him?”
“Tell who what?”
“Are you being thick on purpose?” Sherlock muttered. “Lestrade! Why should I tell him that I have a-What possible good can come of that?”
John shook his head. “I’m not going to ask you to do that again.”
“But you think I should.”
“Yes, because…” John said slowly, preparing for the argument he feared would follow. ”Because I really think it would help us deal with this.”
“I don’t need ‘dealing with’.”
“Not you. This.” John waved his hand in the air, indicating just about everything. “Us. The case. Your eating dis-“
“That definitely don’t need to be dealt with by Lestrade. Or you.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” John said, silently cursing Sherlock for picking the middle of the night to have a conversation like this. “Listen, Lestrade cares for you. He would never intentionally do anything that would hurt you, but he’s walking around blind in a minefield right now and is going to put you in difficult situations without meaning to.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“But you don’t have to, that’s the point.” John wet his lips. “Your last severe relapse was triggered by a case, and that one was nothing compared to this one. Nothing. This case is killing us both, and I don’t want you to spend all your energy on hiding from Lestrade.”
“I’m-“ Sherlock bit off his sentence, and started again. “I’ll be fine.”
“Why won’t you just talk to him?”
“Because it’s bad enough that you know!”
John stared at him. It felt as if he had been slapped across the room, and it was difficult to breathe. Sherlock seemed as taken aback by his outburst as John, but John didn’t quite register that.
“Yeah,” John mumbled, his ears still ringing with Sherlock’s words. “I haven’t made things better, have I?”
“No, you haven’t,” Sherlock said, his voice much calmer. “I don’t want- I can’t go through something that again.”
John willed himself to look directly at Sherlock. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” John shook his head. “I don’t want you to go through that again, either.”
With that, John deemed the conversation over and got up. He wasn’t sure he would be able to go back to sleep, but they really shouldn’t keep having this conversation now.
“Are you coming to bed?” he asked on pure impulse.
Sherlock blinked. Relief, and the hint of a smile, brushed over his features. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
“I’ll come down and get you if you aren’t,” John said, dropping his own weary smile as soon as he had turned his back to Sherlock. The words still echoed in his head, and deep down he felt that it was true: he did make Sherlock worse.
John hadn’t much more than lain down before he heard Sherlock pushing the door open. He moved the covers aside to let Sherlock crawl in, but Sherlock didn’t make any effort to get into bed.
“What is it?” John asked, getting up on his elbow.
“What did you think when you figured it out?”
“I didn’t.”
Sherlock didn’t reply. John got up on his elbow.
“I mean, I didn’t think much,” he said, trying to remember. “I hadn’t more than wrapped my head around it before you- before I had to pick the lock to the bathroom that first time.” He held out his hand to Sherlock. He became warm from the inside out when Sherlock took it. “After that, everything just… crashed, I suppose.”
“You’ve never thought that I’m… broken?”
“No.” John squeezed his hand tightly. “I’ve always thought you’re amazingly strong.”
“You’re an idiot…”
“I know,” John said, quietly. “I know. Now get in.”
Sherlock hesitated a moment, but finally got into bed. He made sure to keep a distance between them, but didn’t let go of John’s hand. In a matter of minutes, John felt the grip around his hand loosen and he heard the breathing change as Sherlock fell asleep, clearly exhausted after the day.
John didn’t find sleep any easier to come by the second time around tonight, and he kept mulling over Sherlock’s questions - and the possible reason for them - again and again. He honestly couldn’t remember what he had thought when he had first realised what was up with Sherlock’s eating, just the general feeling of helpless despair.
He brought their hands closer to him and kissed Sherlock’s, deciding to pick up the habit of sleeping in the same bed as Sherlock again. At least until this case was over.
-x-
Chapter 13