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Case finished. They go out for Mediterranean food. John has demolished a kebab and a heroic amount of rice and is now eying Sherlock’s half-eaten gyro.
“Are you going to finish that?”
“What? Oh, go ahead.”
“You’re sure? You haven’t eaten since we got the case.”
Sherlock shrugs. “I’m fine.”
---
The first day is the only time it’s ever even a challenge, and he’s usually distracted during that bit. Past that, he relishes the sense of sharpening as his mind shifting from well-fed complacency to lean, finely-honed wit. He suffers from some minor degradation of his fine motor skills, but that subsides eventually.
He likes the way his skin fits tighter over his skeleton, stretching over his hipbones and ribs like he’s being wound up. He likes the pace of his thoughts gathering speed and growing ever more efficient. He likes the utter nothingness in the back of his mouth at all times, no lingering taste or smell or waxy texture from a cheap breakfast cereal to distract or irritate.
But inevitably, it ends. After a point he can feel his body weakening, going short of breath sooner than usual, muscles refusing to meet the challenges he levies against them, and he has to give in.
Afterwards, he sleeps for half a day. When he wakes, he’s just starting to feel the first stirrings of hunger in his belly again.
---
“Sherlock, get in here. I’m reheating the leftover Vietnamese.”
Sherlock does not budge from the couch. “Not hungry.”
“Like hell you’re not. You haven’t eaten all day, I know it as fact.”
“Not. Hungry.”
He’s really not. After three days, it’s more of an empty feeling than “hunger,” per se. But it is of vital importance that he dissuade John. He’s not allowed to refuse food more than twice.
(This was Mummy’s rule first, and Mycroft holds him to it, the smug bastard. But Sherlock admits that it does prevent...inconveniences.)
Leave it, John.
“Come on. It’ll keep me from eating my way through a double helping of pho.”
Sherlock grits his teeth and rolls off the couch. His head swims deliciously as he does—stood too quickly, had been supine too long—and he sways briefly before catching himself. Mild hypoglycemia. Still long before it’s cause for concern, but when his eyes refocus he sees John looks concerned. There’s no choice at all, then.
“Hand me the chopsticks, then,” he says, holding out his hand.
When he goes to bed later that night he can feel the food still working through his stomach. He grits his teeth and swallows against the vague nausea.
---
Sherlock knows better than to entirely deprive his body. He used to, but not since the overdose and the feeding tube and the half-dozen or so intravenous fluids. He takes vitamins. Hydrates. The bare minimum is met.
And he eats, sometimes on his own and whenever people make him. He doesn’t understand why he’s not permitted to do what he likes with his own body. If it’s not hurting them, it shouldn’t matter. But it’s damnably inconvenient when anyone finds out.
So when John says, “Eat,” Sherlock feeds himself.
---
Another case. Joanna Openshaw has received a paper stork in the mail, and it means that she’s about to die. Earlier in the year, her girlfriend published an expose on an American anti-abortion terrorist group. The girlfriend died in a car accident scarcely a month later, and now it seems that the Christian Soldiers are after revenge.
It takes Sherlock under five minutes to work out that the wretched people have no desire to see Joanna dead. What they want is the memory card containing compromising photographs of the leader’s homosexual dalliances. Sherlock suggests that she inform them that her deceased partner destroyed them and bids her good night.
Lestrade calls before dawn.
Car bomb.
---
If Sherlock is entirely honest, his habits do share some characteristics of self-penalization. Only sometimes, when he’s being an absolute fucking idiot who doesn’t deserve to engage in anything so plebeian as eating, and he and the world be better off if he starves until there’s nothing left of him but scraps of brain cells.
At least, that’s the general feeling. In practice, he’s not punishing himself for anything so irrational. It’s for the simple, plain reason that starving the body hones the mind, and he has failed to keep his in satisfactory condition. That’s what he’s there for, after all. You don’t keep broken engines or malfunctioning motherboards, except for out of sentiment. And sentiment is, after all, a chemical defect found only on the losing side.
Sherlock does not lose.
---
Sherlock works out that the murderers are hiding aboard a fishing boat thanks to a particular black sludge on the sidewalk outside Joanna’s house and figures out which one by examining a tide schedule, several dock records and the consistency and age of the sludge. Lestrade lets him come along to the arrest and slams the door of squad car on the ankle of one of the killers.
“Oh, God, sorry,” Lestrade says, not sounding it in the least.
“Police brutality,” Sherlock mutters.
Lestrade shrugs. “Nobody’s perfect.”
Sherlock grins.
He doesn’t realize how unsteady he is until John’s hand clamps down on his arm.
“We’re going home,” John says firmly. “Now.”
Sherlock does not bother arguing.
He spends the cab ride to Baker Street calculating how much longer he can avoid feeding himself. He’ll probably have to eat something to get John off his back, and the thought of it makes his throat tighten. He’ll probably retch it back up in his current state, which he finds distasteful, but probably beneficial in the long run. He needs to keep his mind working at its maximum potential. He’s been lax. It’s obvious now.
Too late for Joanna Openshaw.
He scowls and viciously yanks his coat more tightly around himself. John flinches.
John is terribly expressionless. His jaw tightens for a moment when Sherlock steps out of the cab and sways—almost imperceptible, but John is clever in his areas—before he blinks it aside.
They climb the stairs to the flat without a word. Sherlock sheds his coat and scarf, tosses them over the back of his chair and moves towards his room, already planning how he is going to hunt down the rest of the terrorists. He may enjoy being outfoxed, but he loathes being made a fool of. That cannot be abided. And considering they’re all murderers or conspirators to, what he’ll do to them might even be considered justice.
“Uh-uh,” John says, tone short and clipped. “You need to eat something.”
Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “I’ll be fine. Good night, John, I’m—”
“You will absolutely bloody not. You haven’t eaten in a week.”
“Please,” he sneers, and before he can stop himself or think through what’s about to come out of his bloody mouth, “that’s barely anything.”
The expression on John’s face somehow gives the illusion of his eyes going wide without actually doing anything of the sort. It’s a quiet sort of slackening, the shift from acute concern to broader, deeper anxiousness. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just watches. Considers.
“How much?” he asks. “In the last week.”
Sherlock’s eyes slide sideways, refuse to make contact. “Five hundred and thirty-one calories.” He doesn’t add, “once it would’ve been less, but I’m not allowed the necessary chemicals anymore.”
He does keep talking though. He can’t stop fucking talking, meager attempts to justify the incriminating number with more numbers, his vitamin dosages, water consumption, conservation of physical strength so he’s fit to run if it's called for, but none of it makes it better. John’s face just keeps getting tireder and tireder and it makes Sherlock want to wake him up. It makes him feel awful, in fact, so awful his head feels light and he is still talking and if he’d just shut up and get a breath in maybe his vision would fucking clear—
He breaks off in the middle of a word with a small gasp. John takes him by the shoulders and guides him onto the sofa. Sherlock notices distantly that he’s shaking and that his respiration rate is far too quick and unsteady. His heart is fluttering in his ribcage. All this is vaguely familiar, but he’s quite sure it’s never happened sober. Not since the—
“Sherlock,” John is saying. “Hey. Hey. It’s alright.”
He’s got one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and one on his chest. Sherlock tries to choke back the panic like bile in his throat and gulps in one good breath.
“That’s good,” John says, and squeezes his shoulder. “Can you do that again?”
He’s being soothed. Like a goddamned spooked horse. Sherlock wants to kick him for that, but he finds his limbs stuff and unresponsive.
“Fuck. You,” he rasps.
“If you can insult me, you can breathe,” John says patiently. “You can call me Jessica if it helps.”
Sherlock’s breath catches. He chokes on it for a moment, coughs, and coughs again. Before he realizes it he’s tripping headfirst into an all-out coughing fit. His chest feels like it’s burning, like his ribcage is clenching down on his insides.
“Slow it down,” John says. His voice is good. Soothing. Firm but not forceful. Supporting. “Into your diaphragm.”
Sherlock glares, but makes a conscious effort to slow his breathing. A sick rush of panic washes over him. “Can’t.”
“Yeah, you can. It’s okay. It’s fine.”
Sherlock clamps his arms around his stomach and doubles over. Oh God, will it ever stop? Will he ever be able to breathe properly again? Is he permanently damaged? If he can’t breathe, he can’t think. He will deprive his brain of oxygen and smother it to death and then he will be worthless, utterly fucking worthless. He can feel the cellular damage creeping in like fog in the corners of his eyes and a high-pitched whine in his ears—
John clamps one hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck and squeezes, hard.
“Hurts, yeah?” he says, still not angry. That must be yet to come. Sherlock could be sick thinking about how angry he’s going to be. Will be sick.
“I’m dying,” he gasps.
“No,” says John, “you’re having a panic attack.”
Ridiculous.
“It happens. Now I need you to listen to me, alright, Sherlock?” His hand tightens. He digs in his fingernails. Sherlock winces. The darkness in the corners of his eyes starts to dissolve. His ears are still ringing. John sounds as if he’s speaking from very far away. “Listen to me. Nod if you’re listening.”
Sherlock gulps and nods. God, he’s shaking so hard. His muscles are screaming in protest.
“Good. That’s it. Give me one good breath. Slowly. Keep it low.”
Sherlock breathes in. Diaphragm won’t stretch. Abdominals too tight.
“One more.”
Tries again. Better.
“That’s it.” His grip on the back of Sherlock’s neck relaxes a little. “Now count to five as you breathe in—yeah, just like that. Hold it—hold it—and count to five as you let it out.”
Stupid.
“Again. Five in, hold two, five out.”
Stupid.
John’s hand tightens again. “Sherlock.”
He inhales, holds, exhales.
John’s hand—the one that’s not scraping the skin off the back of his neck—comes up to his neck. He tips Sherlock’s head up a notch and presses two fingers beside his trachea to feel for a pulse. Gentle. Sure.
“Keep breathing. Five in, hold two, five out.”
Sherlock keeps breathing, narrows his focus to the pain from John’s nails cutting into his skin and the steady drag of air in and out of his lungs.
Gradually, his ears go silent and the colors fade back into his eyesight. He takes one deep, shuddering breath in and lets it out with a sigh. John lets him go.
“Do you want to lie down?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “The—the terrorists—”
“Later. I’m going to get you a glass of water, alright? Don’t move.”
Once he loses the weight of John’s hands on him, Sherlock finds that while he does not want to lie down, he does quite want to sit back. He relaxes into his chair and lets the tension ebb out of him.
He’s not actively worried now. Still vaguely concerned, if that’s the proper word, because he knows that soon John will be angry and drag him to A&E, and then there will be another round of doctors doing tests and looking disapproving and making useless, idiotic diagnoses and giving him scoldings like he’s twelve fucking years old. All that feels distant, though. It’s going to happen to some future Sherlock. Doesn’t matter.
John hands him a glass of water and sits down on the coffee table. “Drink that. Your throat’s dry.”
Sherlock finds it is. He drinks it down in one go. The swallowing hurts, but the water is cool and soothing. He sets the glass down on the end table.
“I didn’t mean for that,” he says. His voice is unexpectedly hoarse and flat.
John’s mouth tightens. “Nobody ever does.”
Sherlock narrows his eyes. Not just a comrade, then. Personal experience.
“Give me five minutes,” he says. “I’m still a bit lightheaded, but I’ll be well enough to leave.”
John’s brow furrows. “Leave?”
“Hospital.”
“I—oh. Do you want to go?”
Sherlock frowns. “Is it a choice?”
John looks puzzled for a moment. Then he realizes something, and his face wrinkles into a different emotion entirely. “Oh. Oh, God, Sherlock.”
He’s still not angry. He sounds...miserable, in fact. Sherlock is thrown by this turn of events.
John rubs his hand over his face. “I—no, Sherlock, we don’t need to go anywhere you don’t want to.”
Sherlock’s frown deepens. “I don’t understand. Aren’t you angry?”
He doesn’t mean to sound so juvenile, but his voice is not cooperating. He imagines that John doesn’t mean to look so much like he’s about to cry either.
“No,” John says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “no, I—Jesus. I’m not angry. I’m just...worried, Sherlock. Christ.”
“I didn’t mean to. Make you worry, I mean.”
“I know. God damn.”
“Are you sure you’re not angry?”
“Pretty fucking sure.”
“It’s just you’re swearing quite a lot.”
John laughs a little. “Sorry. Nervous thing.”
Sherlock smiles tentatively.
John leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “I don’t want to force you into anything, alright? And I’m not going to. But this is...not good, Sherlock.”
Sherlock swallows. He nods.
“Can you...tell me why? If you can’t, don’t. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Sherlock’s mouth feels sticky. He swallows again. “No, I can—it’s—I can’t think.”
John looks confused. “Is that related to the panic attack or the—”
“The—other thing. It helps me to think. Keeps me focused.”
“Um...okay.” He bites his lip. “So it’s not about...hurting yourself.”
Sherlock’s eyes slide sideways.
John’s face crumples. “Oh, Sherlock.”
John’s going to make him eat something now. Sherlock can feel it coming.
“It’s been a long week,” John says at length. “We both need a rest. We’re nerves and tissue paper at this point. Go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Sherlock barely keeps his jaw from dropping. “I—why?”
John shrugs. “We’ll be a lot more productive with a few hours of sleep. Much better moods.”
This is...unprecedented. Sherlock’s not actually sure how to handle ration in these situations, apart from getting back to reasonably familiar ground.
“I’d rather take care of it now,” he says.
“If you really want to.”
Sherlock nods tightly.
John shrugs. “If you want.” He sits back again and crosses his arms over his chest. “Now, you’re not going to listen to sense, so I’ll stick to logic.”
Sherlock scowls.
“You know what you’re doing is objectionable to others. You wouldn’t try to hide it if you didn’t. Do you know why it is?”
“Because other people are busybodies,” Sherlock mutters.
John almost smiles. “Not exactly. I mean, yeah, but that’s not why. It’s because they care, Sherlock.”
He snorts. “Why should it matter to me if—”
“Most of the time, it shouldn’t. But—here, I’ll put it this way. I’m your friend, yes?”
Sherlock purses his lips. He nods.
“You don’t want me hurt. I know you don’t. I was at the pool with Moriarty; I saw your face.”
Sherlock’s jaw clenches. He nods again.
“Okay. You’re with me. Good.” He takes a deep breath. “Hurting yourself hurts me.”
“Why would—”
“Because I care, Sherlock.”
Sherlock falls silent. He thinks.
“Caring is—”
“—a chemical defect, yeah, I know. Look. You wouldn’t starve me, would you?”
“It wouldn’t help you.”
“It doesn’t help you either, you—” John shakes his head. “Look. I can help you. I’m a doctor. I’m not going to force you to eat. That wouldn’t do either of us any good in the long term. But you need to let me help you, okay? We’ll work something out, but you need to let me help.”
Sherlock chews his lip. “How are you—”
“I’m a doctor, Sherlock. I may not be a dietician, but I’ve got a brain. Minimal needs. That’s all I’m asking.”
Sherlock nods. “That’s...feasible.”
John smiles. It’s not a full smile. It’s a little cautious. Protected. I’ve made him afraid, Sherlock thinks, and that makes him feel sicker than food.
---
They make charts. Spreadsheets. There are less vitamins, more vegetables. A few rows. Mycroft is kept out (barring one incident, which was the base of the the second row). Sherlock keeps to it (mostly), and doesn’t throw out any carrots when he gets into a fit of boredom and feels his brain starting to atrophy (except for twice), and it mostly works.
At least, it works until Sherlock notices how John is ordering the same thing every time they go out to eat, and puts his fork down when Sherlock puts his fork down, and stops buying the chocolate digestives he likes, and sometimes when he stands after he’s been sitting a long time he’s very still for a moment before he moves—and the other shoe drops.
Sherlock rounds on him and backs him against the door, looming ominously. “Stop it,” he demands.
John blinks up at him, very calm and sure. “Stop?”
That’s not a denial. That’s exciting, somehow. And infuriating. “You know what you’re doing.”
“I told you. If you hurt yourself, you hurt me. I’m just taking it literally.”
Sherlock’s jaw works. “Stop it.”
“No.”
“Stop it.”
“No.”
“Emotional blackmail,” Sherlock hisses.
“Incentive.”
“You’re holding yourself hostage.”
“Yep.”
He’s not angry. Just—unmoving.
Sherlock growls, throws himself away from the wall and storms into the kitchen. There are a few packets of crisps on the counter. Sherlock throws one to John and rips the other open, glaring the whole time.
As soon as he’s swallowed the first crisp down, John bites down.
“There,” John says, when both of the packets are empty. “That’s better.”