Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I just have to lay down and I’ll be fine.

Sherlock was just on his way home from a suspect’s house not too far from his flat.  It has been a long and tiring day, with barely any breaks. And in the short breaks he did have, he couldn’t spare the time to eat anything all day. Between trying to keep up with everyone else and managing symptoms, food had been the last thing on his mind. He’d need at least an hour of rest after he ate anything, so that was completely out of the question on busy days like this.

But it’s not a big deal. He would just eat when he gets home.

It’s late evening in the middle of autumn, so it still got debilitatingly hot during the day, yet dark pretty quickly in the afternoon. 

He’s barely two streets away from Baker Street, and incredibly dizzy and lightheaded.

At one point he almost stumbles, half blind, and he realises that this is the end. He knows the signs too well; the game is up. He will be on the pavement in the next minute, whether he likes it or not.

He quickly slides off the backpack and with one last glance around, to check that there were no strangers about to pass by soon, he lays himself on the still slightly warm asphalt. 

I’ll be fine. Just a quick rest and then I’ll continue home. 

The ringing in his ears got louder, deafening whatever cars may be driving past, and his vision quickly grows black before he starts to feel floaty.

Okay, maybe I’m going to pass out, after all. Fantastic.

He thinks before he loses consciousness.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he wakes up again, but it isn’t a lot darker than before, so probably a few minutes at the most.

He tries to check his watch, but can’t raise his arm just yet, and neither his head. He feels like all his energy was sucked out of him, leaving him too weak to even keep his eyes open.

Apparently, passing out is an extreme workout.

But his brain seems to have realised something, and he feels his heart rate pick up without him moving, which is very unsettling and uncomfortable. 

When he thinks about what his heart rate would currently be at, he finally makes the connection: something is wrong. 

Something is missing. 

His wrist doesn’t have the familiar pressure of the band around it. 

He finally finds his strength to sit up, and inspects his wrist. In his panic, he feels around on the ground, but comes up empty. Sure enough, he has been relieved of his watch. And not just his watch, but also his phone.

He looks around again, but there is not a single soul to be seen. 

Oh my god. I was-

For some reason, the first thought that comes to mind is: I can’t call for help, I don’t have a phone. 

He couldn’t call John, or Greg, or god forbid Mycroft. What if he needed medical attention?

That thought makes him concentrate on his body, trying to access any injuries, but other than being a bit stiff from laying on the ground, and the obvious after effects of syncope, he feels alright. Physically at least. 

Mentally he is about to have an anxiety attack.

Sherlock tries to carefully stand up, using the wall of a house to his left to stabilise himself. 

He’s still incredibly unstable on shaking legs, but at the same time his fight or flight instinct has now fully set in, and sitting back down was not an option. Grabbing the backpack off the ground, he slowly makes his way back to his home.

By some miracle or other, he manages to get back to Baker Street, only to realise with newfound anxiety that his keys were gone as well.

Of course. Idiot, why is my brain so slow? 

He bangs on the door and calls out for Mrs Hudson. Thankfully she’s home and opens the door almost immediately when she hears his voice.

“Sherlock? Did you leave without your keys again?” She wonders when she lets him inside. Once she catches a better glance at him thanks to the light, she gasps softly. “Oh dear, what happened?”

Apparently his hair was an absolute mess, and the backside of his clothes got dirty. None of which Sherlock had taken notice of before now. “I seem to have lost my keys. Sorry.” Is all he says before shakily climbing up the stairs. He needed to get to his MacBook and disable his phone and watch as soon as possible, before whoever stole his belongings could think about using his data for… something. 

Mrs Hudson watches him worriedly from the ground level below. There is something not right about him.

The next day he is back at the Yard to discuss his recent findings from questioning that neighbour yesterday, whilst trying to block out how that day had ended for him.

“She wasn’t very forthcoming, but I can say that she had nothing to do with the case.” 

“Wasn’t forthcoming? Was John not with you?” Sally jabs. 

Sherlock glowers at her. “Remember that I used to work alone? I don’t need someone holding my hand every time I talk to someone.” 

Sally shrugs. “Just saying. John tends to have the effect of not making people want to kill themselves after he talks to them.”

“Donovan.” Greg chides from the side, having listened to their banter while reading through some files.

Even though Sherlock and Donovan 'get along' better now, they still got into their old schemes sometimes. 

“What? How would you feel if you got terrorised by Zombie Boy over there?” Sally points to Sherlock over her shoulder, and even as she said that, she immediately regretted her words. It really wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that he was still more or less skin and bones, with dark shadows under his eyes if he doesn’t apply concealer  – which doesn’t always manage to make the ‘panda eyes’ disappear.

Before she can apologise, Greg has stood up from his desk and is giving her a pointed look. “Out.” He points to the door.

“I’m sorry.” She quickly tells Sherlock before deciding on getting everyone a coffee from the café down the street.

Greg shakes his head, watching her leave. “I don’t know what’s up with her today.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Maybe it’s just that time of the month?”

Greg looks at his consultant strangely. “Are you guessing, or deducing here?” 

“Do you honestly want to know?”

“..No.”

Just then, Anderson rushes in, phone in his hand. “Yo, Freak. It’s your brother. He said he couldn’t reach you, it’s urgent. Something about Astrid being shot?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen and his heart stops beating for a second.

Astra. 

Oh my god.

Chapter Text

“I have to go.” Is all Sherlock managed to say before dashing out.

“Wh- Sherlock!” Greg yells after him, but it’s like he’s under water, every sound is just muffled background noise.

All he hears is an endless mantra of Please be alive. Please be alive. Please be alive. Which he may or may not be thinking out loud.

He completely dissociated the ride to the stable grounds. One moment he was talking to Greg about… something.. and the next he’s shakily walking up to the stables, frantically looking around for any signs of his beloved horse or even the shooter running away.

The paddocks are seemingly bare, not a single horse, pony, or human in sight.

He reaches the large building, walking on autopilot through to Astra’s box, ignoring all the frantic horses in their boxes, some of which were sticking their heads out to him.

His pace quickens. 

There. The door to her stall is open, three people – Briggs among them – are standing before the white mare. When she sees Sherlock quickly approaching, Astra lets out a panicked whinny. 

“I’m here. Let me through!” Sherlock commands and the people make space for him to get through. He lets out a shuddering breath when he sees the blood. The bullet is right in the middle of her right shoulder, the blood trailing down her leg, some of the hay is coated in it.

“We have to sedate her.” One of the other people says. The two people next to Briggs are vets, now that Sherlock has actually looked at them. 

Sherlock turns back to Astra, gently stroking her face. “It’s okay girl, they’re here to help, you have to let them do it.” He whispers to her. Astra’s panicked breaths slow a bit. “I’m not leaving you, okay? I’m right here.”

One of the vets comes next to Sherlock with a syringe. Astra eyes it, her breathing echoing loudly in Sherlock’s head as everything turns fuzzy again.

He’s zoned out again. When he snaps out of it again, it’s because Astra has started to sway under his hands.

In an instant, he’s a small child again. He smells the smoke from the fire. Hears the screams. The vet is sedating the horses that managed to survive the fire, before euthanising them. Because the injuries were deemed too severe. The horses wouldn’t be able to work on the farm anymore, which made them a useless waste of money to care for them.

Everything he had, taken from him, just like that.

The child sobs into the burnt fur of Redbeard, who is laying lifeless behind the barn.

In the present, he wraps his arms around Astra’s neck, presses his face against her fur, his tears wetting the soft coat. 

It was happening all over again. He’s going to lose her now, too.

“Sherlock..!” A muffled voice in the distance.

“Sherlock!” Hands grab him by the shoulders, pulling him away, but he doesn’t want to let go. If he lets go, she’ll be gone.

“Sherlock, dammit!” Two sets of hands pull him away, and he finally loses his grip, stumbling backwards and toppling to the cement ground just outside the building, openly sobbing now.

“Oh Sherlock..” Someone is wrapping their arms around him, hugging him tightly. 

“She’s gone..” Sherlock whispers.

“She’s not gone. No. They’re only patching her up-”

“She’s gone..”

“Sherlock, Astra is going to be fine.”

“She’s gone..”

“Shhhhh…”

John keeps Sherlock in his arms, sometimes gently rubbing his back, repeatedly shushing him when he keeps repeating that phrase again and again.

It’s been at least twenty minutes, turning into half an hour, when Sherlock finally comes back to reality.

“John..?” 

“Yeah. Yeah it’s me.” John pulls away so Sherlock could get a better look at him. Sherlock’s eyes are bloodshot from crying, in fact half of his face is red. It’s the most colour John has seen on him in ages.

“Is she gone..?” Sherlock asks hesitantly.

John immediately shakes his head. “No. The vets should be done with stitching her up soon, actually. She was extremely lucky, honestly. It didn’t go in deep enough to cause real damage.”

Sherlock sags in relief and wipes at his eyes with a hand. Then he realises something. “What are you doing here?”

“Mycroft called me.” John shrugs. “Said that Astra got shot and that I should be with you as soon as possible.”

“Mmh..” 

“Do you want some water?” John asks. “Briggs brought us some.” He reaches behind him and pulls up two bottles of water. 

Sherlock just shrugs.

“Drink some.” John gently commands, uncapping one of the bottles for Sherlock.

As he drinks from the bottle, he realises just how thirsty he had previously been, almost drinking the whole thing when the repetitive motion of swallowing caused his brain to disconnect again – but John is quick to act. 

“Hey, I think that’s enough.” He gently chides and takes the bottle away, which brings Sherlock back to reality a little bit.

Sherlock is gasping for air when John takes it away, and he notices a new figure standing behind John.

“Who are you?” He slurs, shaking his head.

John turns his head around to look at the stranger.

“Collins. Daniel Collins. I’m the owner of the Knightsbridge Riding Club. I was just around the corner and heard the shot, I take it you’re the owner of the poor horse?” Collins asks.

John watches a certain look flit across Sherlock’s features – he’s deducing, probably trying to gauge Collins’ intentions.

After ten seconds of rude staring, Sherlock finally replies. “Yes, I am.” 

Collins nods. “You’re that famous detective, right?”

John nods. “He is.”

“I know this isn’t a good time, but as it happens, we got something rather strange going on at our grounds.” Collins says, his entire body language speaks volumes of how awkward he feels.

“Strange how?” John wonders.

“Three of our best riders have suddenly turned ill, and some of the horses have come down with respiratory infections. Vet can’t make out any bacteria or viruses, and neither can the human physicians with our riders. Just elevated white blood cells and a nasty cough.” He explains.

“Were they planning on competing at the Olympia London International Horse Show?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes.”

John and Sherlock share a look, both thinking two things. One, it’s just some odd, new infection that spreads to both humans and animals, and two, someone is trying to sabotage their champions.

John turns back to Collins. “We’ll be in touch.” He tilts his head towards the stables, making his point clear.

“Of course. There is no rush, please take your time. I wish you and your horse all the best.” Collins nods to Sherlock. 

Just then, Briggs approaches the men. “Daniel.” He quickly regards the man welcomingly before turning to Sherlock. “Astra’s surgery was successful, now she just needs to rest and recover.”

“Can..” Sherlock trails off.

Thankfully Briggs knows exactly what he was asking. “Of course, come on.”

John helps his friend to his feet and they walk to the stables, Briggs trailing behind as he fetches the water bottles and nods to Daniel in goodbye.

Chapter Text

Astra has a shoulder guard protecting the stitched up wound. She’s still swaying a little, but lifts her head up with perked ears when she senses Sherlock’s presence approaching.

“Hey girl..” Sherlock whispers as he carefully touches her soft nose. John stays outside her box, not wanting to accidentally startle Astra.

“You’re okay.” Sherlock gently runs his hand down her neck, staying away from her bandaged shoulder. “You’re okay.” He repeats in the same soft whisper, reassuring her and himself of that fact.

They stay with her the whole night. Briggs checks on them every now and then, and provides them with blankets to fight off the cool autumn air. 

Sherlock has to consciously avoid looking down at the hay. While they exchanged most of the bloody mess for new hay, there are still a few areas with spots of brownish-red. Astra’s leg had been cleaned up and the wound is dressed, but his own hands are still stained a little. It still smells of blood, if you were looking for it. 

All it takes for him to slip again, is to briefly look at his hands. Even just a fleeting glance is enough, his eyes get stuck, and all the memories hit him at once, over and over, only coming to an end when John touches him and tells him to look at him.

Thankfully, even though Sherlock never manages to make the connection, John has figured out what is going on. The blood on his hands is a trigger, pulling Sherlock into dissociation over and over.

“Hey.” John says. He waits for Sherlock to look at him before continuing. “Let’s go to the loo, hm?”

Sherlock stares blankly with drowsy eyes for a long moment. It reminds John of when he’d gotten Sherlock home from Schall’s lab after she’d captured him and Mycroft. Sherlock’s brain is disconnected from all stimulus, probably not really registering what he’s just said as words, but more like a gibberish mess.

“Let’s go to the loo.” John repeats, more slowly this time.

Still, nothing.

“Sherlock?” 

Sherlock shakes his head like he’s physically shaking away the daze that has gathered in his head. “Yes, sorry.” 

“Let’s go to the loo.” John repeats for a third time, and finally, Sherlock understands his words and gets to his feet. The younger man hesitantly steps outside of her box and closes the stall door. John needs Sherlock to lead the way, since he isn’t as familiar with the layout.

Once they reach the bathroom, John tells him to wash his hands with soap, but to keep the lights off in the room. After possibly scrubbing away the first layer of skin with the dried blood, Sherlock steps back out and holds his hands out, like a little child showing their parent that they washed their hands. 

John can’t find a single trace of the blood, which had previously coated his entire hands. He hadn’t expected anything less from Sherlock, graduate chemist and all that. Sherlock then goes back into the loo, the water from earlier probably catching up with him.

While Sherlock is in the bathroom, John’s phone vibrates. He checks the screen, and furrows his brows. It’s from Sherlock’s phone number.

I will not be working with you anymore. -SH

Turning back to the bathroom door, John can clearly hear that Sherlock is currently busy with other matters. There is no way he could have sent that text, and even if, why would he send such a message in the first place? Which begs the question.. who is sending fake messages from Sherlock’s number, and how?

The toilet flushes and John pockets his phone. He would ask Mycroft about it at a later time. Right now his focus needs to be on Sherlock.

The night proves uneventful. The two men only leave Astra’s side to visit the bathroom, and at one point the intelligent horse must have noticed how cold and tired Sherlock has become, and laid down so he could cuddle up to her barrel, his left arm reaching around her back and fingers tangled into her mane. It’s certainly a sight to behold, and John may or may not have snapped a few quick pictures.

Despite being utterly exhausted, Sherlock doesn’t sleep. He’s merely resting his eyes, and whenever he does drift a little, he’s immediately brought back at the tiniest movement or sound from Astra and/or John. He doesn’t let himself sleep. He can’t. Because if he does, he knows what his dreams will be of, and he feels like he’s had enough emotionally taxing moments lately. 

He doesn’t need nightmares of the barn fire and losing everyone he loved on top of everything else.

Astra makes it through the night like a champion. Briggs disturbs their blissful peace in the morning. “Hey guys.”

John, leaning against the stall door with his back, rubs sleepily at his eyes. “Morning.”

“Good morning.” Briggs smiles kindly at him. “They doing okay?” 

The question wakes John up and he scrambles to his feet to look through the box door’s window. Sherlock is still half sprawled over Astra.

Briggs slides the door open, the motion making Sherlock’s hand dig deeper into her mane. 

“Sherlock, mate. Can you scooch over a little?” He kneels next to the heap of detective.

“Nh.. you can’t hav’ her..” Sherlock mumbles.

Briggs chuckles softly. “You can keep her, but I have to check her wound and give her her next dose of painkillers.”

That seems to get Sherlock back to reality. He immediately sits up straight, and Astra whinnies at him like she’s amused as well.

“Hey there girl, how are you?” Briggs asks her and gives her nose a quick pet. 

Astra snorts in reply.

“Ah. Well I suppose I would sleep well too, if I had my dad sleeping with me when I’m ill.” Briggs jokes and John barks a laugh from outside the horse box. “Alright, be a good girl for me and take this, hm?” He holds up a large syringe. Astra lets him administer the medication without a fuss, like they’ve done this a million times before. “Good girl, good girl.” He murmurs, scratching her behind her ears.

Watching the man interact with the mare, John can easily see that Briggs really has a talent with horses. Same with Sherlock, who is still sitting right next to Astra’s hind hooves, and the sight gives John just the tiniest bit of anxiety, since she could easily hurt Sherlock, unintentionally. But he doesn’t tell Sherlock to step away, because Briggs sees no reason to do so.

Briggs raps her neck affectionately. “You’re such a good girl. Just wait until you’re feeling better and get back to being feisty, eh?” 

“Excuse me? Who are you calling feisty?” Sherlock demands, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes daring. 

Briggs laughs. “You know what I mean. Shouldn’t be possible that she’s almost 17, still acts like a silly little filly on the pasture.”

Astra flicks her tail, giving Sherlock a face full of feathered hair. “Ey!”

John and Briggs just laugh at his expense, but at least Astra turns her head to look back at her complaining human, and nickers lowly (apologetically?) at him.

“Alright, let’s just check and redress the wound, then I’ll leave you guys alone.” Briggs commends. He unwraps her bandages with great care and reveals the square of naked skin, with the stitches in the middle.

“Nooooo…” Sherlock whispers. “Briggs, we can’t let her out like this when it’s healed. The other horses will laugh at her.” 

“Oh shush, she’s a warrior. The other horses should respect her more, if anything.” Briggs chuckles as he gently cleans the stitches.

“Time for your meds, too.” John pointedly says after Briggs is done and left them alone again.

“Ugh.. what time is it?” Sherlock complains and looks down at his bare wrist out of habit, the reminder making his stomach clench for a moment.

John notices. “Almost nine. Sherlock, where is your watch?”

“I left it at home.” The lie rolls easily off his tongue.

“Sherlock. We had an agreement! You don’t leave the house-”

“-without my phone and watch, so that I can call for help if needed. Yes mother, I’m aware.” Both men feel a cold in their stomachs when Sherlock says ‘mother’ without thinking. He quickly recovers and adds to his lies. “I got called away on short notice and it was low on charge, alright?” It comes out more snappy than he intended to.

John is taken aback by the sudden outburst. Something is clearly wrong, but it’s also clear to him that now is not the time to question Sherlock.

Chapter Text

After taking his meds and convincing John that he was really fine, he went back home, where no other than Mycroft was already waiting for him. Tilting the straight door knocker thirty-five degrees to the right, his mood already depletes before he even unlocks the door with the spare key that Mrs Hudson gave him, and enters the building.

Begrudgingly, he climbs up the stairs and sighs.

“I’m not in the mood, Mycroft.” He says as he takes off his shoes.

“I hear that Astra is on the mend.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock is still refusing to look at his brother.

“The thing is.. when my men tried to locate your phone, its last location was nowhere near you.”

That stills Sherlock’s movements.

“Sherlock, what happened two days ago?” Mycroft’s voice is careful.

Sherlock swallows thickly. “Nothing.”

“Hmm. Well it’s kind of strange. Mrs Hudson said you lost your keys, you told John that you’ve left your watch at home to charge, yet there is no watch anywhere in your flat. And then John received a text, from 'you'.”

Sherlock stares at his brother in complete shock. 

Mycroft eyes his brother before looking down at his phone. “Quote, I will not be working with you anymore. -SH, which he received at a moment where you were quite busy with other things. So I will ask again.” He stares his brother dead in the eyes. “What happened two days ago?”

Sherlock looks down at the floor, trying to blink away tears. What is wrong with me?! Why am I suddenly so emotional?! Yes, some idiot stole my stuff, big deal, it happens all the time. My horse was shot at but she’s on her way to make a full recovery. 

So why does it feel like everything is falling apart?

“Sherlock..” Mycroft is coming closer, already seeing what is about to happen. The moment his arms wrap around his skinny form, Sherlock’s knees give out from under him. “It’s okay.” He whispers. “It’s okay, just calm down..”

He wants to say ‘you’re wrong’ and ‘nothing is okay’, but he lost all control over his breathing and is just sobbing against his brother’s expensive suit in the most pathetic way.

“I am sorry, I shouldn’t have handled it like this.” And now Mycroft; Mycroft(!), is apologising. To him. 

Wonderful.

“Not your fault I always screw everything up.” His voice is tiny and broken.

“You didn’t screw anything up. Will you tell me what happened to your things?” 

Sherlock shifts out of Mycroft’s hold. “I was on my way home and got dizzy, so I laid down.” He speaks slowly, nervously scratching his neck. “I ended up passing out, and when I came to, my things were gone. That’s it, that’s all.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft hums, considering it. “And there was nobody in sight?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I was alone, both when I passed out and when I came to.”

“Maybe whoever it was, was traveling by car. Stop the car, get out, steal your belongings, get back into the car and drive off. Could have gone completely unnoticed if there was a break in traffic.” Mycroft think of the possibilities. 

Sherlock only shrugs his shoulders. 

“And you should go and take a shower. You reek of stable and horse.” He chides amused. 

“You’re just jealous.” Sherlock smirks at his brother. 

“Yes, absolutely. Go shower, then we’ll talk.”

“Oh joy..”

After a quick shower and changing into fresh clothes, Sherlock comes back into the living room, still towelling his hair dry.

Mycroft has laid out a couple familiar looking boxes on the table. 

“I don’t want a new phone.” Sherlock immediately says when he sees the embossing on the lids. Especially when said phone is one of the newer models without his precious, familiar home button. Oh how he detests those. He’d actually sworn himself that he would take his iPhone 8 to the grave. So much for that.

“You need to have a phone.” Mycroft says pointedly.

Sherlock eyes the new watch’s package. Series 6, the newer model of his old watch. He glares at his brother. “Why do you always have to go and buy the newest technology? The older models would have sufficed.” 

Mycroft sighs, and Sherlock realises that he probably sounds like an ungrateful brat. He takes out the new devices from their boxes and starts setting up the phone.

“Why couldn’t your men just recover everything?” He asks as the phone loads all of his iCloud data. 

“Because a certain someone has remotely deleted the phone data, and whoever stole it has removed the SIM card after sending that text from a different phone, so we couldn’t trace it anymore. But just so you know, it would appear that your thief is already long gone, given that the last location recorded was about to enter Wales.”

“Wales? What the hell.” Sherlock comments and pays his attention back to the phone. 

“My thoughts exactly. Which backs up my theory about the thief traveling by car.”

“I don’t presume there was any CCTV following me?” Sherlock asks absent mindedly. The lack of a home button is still overwhelming him.

“No. Why would you think I would ask you about what happened if I already knew?” Mycroft asks incredulously.

“Hm. Apparently you did know enough, when you’ve already provided me with a replacement, here.” He points down to the very much slippery phone on the table. He doesn’t dare pick it up again, it has too much touch screen, he feels like he can’t safely hold it without tapping on one thing or other without meaning to.

“It’s really a shame that people feel the need to steal from others, when they don’t even know if they just might be reliant on the technology.” Mycroft thinks out loud.

“To them, I was an easy target, nothing more and nothing less.” Sherlock grumbles as he now has to pick up the phone, so that he can scan and set up the watch. “But I agree. People like that are utter scum.” 

Mycroft can see a short flicker of anger come across his brother’s eyes.

Sherlock sends a text to Lestrade and John, thanks to his contacts being saved in the iCloud, saying that he had to get a new phone number and to please delete the old one.

It’s right when Mycroft turns to leave, that Sherlock is suddenly hit with intense dizziness when he gets up. With nothing to hold on to, he sinks to his knees, hands over his eyes, trying to shield them from the blackness and growing static dancing in his visual field. 

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?” Mycroft immediately kneels next to him and places a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Dizzy.” Sherlock grits out, the room still spinning around him. Or maybe he is spinning?

There is an odd pressure in his chest, like nothing he has ever felt before. It’s making him even more anxious.

“Hang on.” Mycroft commands and gets up to fetch him some water. He keeps an eye on his brother the whole time it takes him to get it and make his way back to him. “Can you see?”

Sherlock removes his hands and blinks, but his vision is still almost entirely black from the dancing spots, he’s only able to make out a few shapes. “No,” he breathes out. He doesn’t dare shake his head, he’s so incredibly dizzy.

So Mycroft takes his hand and helps him grasp the bottle. Sherlock’s fingers are tingling strongly, which makes it all the more difficult to know if he’s even touching it. “It’s okay, I’ll help you, alright?” Mycroft asks and slowly moves it to Sherlock’s lips. He’s a bit scared that Sherlock is going to pass out in the next ten seconds, but at the same time his incredibly stubborn brother has already managed to hold on for this long.

“Maybe lay down for a bit?” Mycroft suggests when Sherlock has almost downed half of the bottle. “Is it any better?”

Sherlock lays down on his back, similar to how he’d lain down on the pavement that fateful night. “I can see a bit more, but that’s about it.” 

“Shall I go get the Vertigoheel?” Mycroft asks.

“I guess.” Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes in defeat.

“Don’t pass out while I’m gone.” Mycroft half jokes and goes over to Sherlock’s backpack. As he takes out the little glass bottle, he finds that Sherlock’s briefcase is still there. All the bank cards are still there, and it doesn’t look like any cash is missing. Strange.

He can’t dwell on it, though. Right now he has more important matters to focus on. Since Sherlock can’t see at the moment, Mycroft tells him to open his mouth so he could give him the circulation drops. Sherlock, being as mature as ever, takes that opportunity to stick his tongue out at his brother.

“Charming.” Mycroft comments and counts how many drops are landing on his tongue. Then he gives Sherlock more water to drink.

When Sherlock promises not to pass out, Mycroft quickly fetches the blood pressure cuff and turns it on. 

When it’s done measuring, Mycroft frowns confused. 106/64, Pulse 52, and an arrhythmia symbol. He checks the battery symbol, finding it still half full.

“And?” Sherlock asks as he lays still on his back.

“Error, I have to redo.” Mycroft lies as he tries to make sense of the reading. Probably just a bad signal or something, his pulse is never this low. He resists the temptation to check Sherlock’s pulse by himself, and just hits the button again.

108/66, Pulse 56.

Shaking his head in disbelief, he takes Sherlock’s wrist and feels for his pulse with two fingers. Checking the time on his watch, he counts.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asks instantly, catching on to Mycroft’s sudden change in demeanour, and pushes himself up a little. The action of course brings his heart rate back up, double the speed from when Mycroft first felt the slow beats.

He lets go of his wrist. “Lie still.” He commands, but Sherlock sits up fully.

“But I feel fine.” Sherlock says. “I can see again.”

“Stay down, though. Let your body recover from.. whatever just happened.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes at him. “If I took a break every time I get dizzy, I’d never be able to stand up again. Seriously, I’m okay.” 

Mycroft presses his lips into a thin line at Sherlock’s annoyed statement.

Mycroft only left his brother again after he was reassured that his brother wasn’t going to randomly pass out or drop dead, and was more or less forced to leave so he would be able to catch his flight to…. well, that is classified information.

Being on his own again, Sherlock started thinking. Maybe I’m deconditioning? I haven’t worked out in a while. Stupid. Stupid. 

He’s been slacking off with exercising every day, and if you have a form of dysautonomia, a single week of no exercise could undo months and months of hard work. It probably sounds ridiculous and over dramatised to healthy people, but that’s the reality he lives in. And it’s like a punch in the face every single time he has to start from he beginning again, which will worsen the symptoms for the first two months before he would slowly improve overall again.

So, he figured that he may as well make the most of it, and prepared for his "POTS friendly HIIT program". Collecting his blood pressure cuff, bottled water, a hand towel, and got semi undressed since that saves him the effort of trying to undress when he’s burning hot and exhausted later on.

The app Pulsalarm is of course on the new watch, and he sets the threshold to 190, since he won’t get that high up, anyways.

Or at least he thought he wouldn’t. After the second round of jumping jacks, his watch vibrates, but surely that was just him getting a message. John or Lestrade probably just replied to his text from earlier.

He takes his 30 second break, drinks from the bottle between quick pants, turns on the 'sound' on the app – his heart rate is only showing 179, so surely he hadn’t been over 190 moments earlier – and resumes the third round.

He still has ten seconds to go when someone comes into his flat, and his watch is vibrating and giving that unique alarm sound every three seconds, so he knows it’s not a false alarm this time. He briefly falters in his jumping jacks as he sees Greg standing in the doorway, feeling oddly embarrassed at being seen like this, but he keeps going despite the growing dizziness and growing struggle to get enough air.

“What’s that sound?” Greg asks hesitantly, and Sherlock just gives up and collapses onto the sofa, utterly out of breath and his heart hammering loudly in his chest. It goes out of rhythm for a good ten seconds from the sudden change in posture causing his heart rate to slow down in a few seconds, making him cough before going back to his exhausted panting.

Greg is just standing there in shock. “Should you be exerting yourself so hard?” 

Finally getting his breath back a little, Sherlock starts explaining. “I have t.. to do it.. this way..” he takes a quick break to breathe again. “The alarm is.. my watch.. when I g…” Sherlock slumps back, too out of air to explain.

Getting concerned, Greg comes closer. “Do you need anything?” 

Sherlock looks up at him, then remembers the blood pressure cuff on the table. Damn it! I’m supposed to monitor everything. I forgot. Again. 

Before Sherlock can get mad at himself for the billionth time today, Greg catches on and helps him get the blood pressure cuff on his arm and presses the button to start the measure. 

151/84, Pulse 137, arrhythmia symbol.

Greg looks alarmed at the last part. He shows Sherlock the display. “Do you- should I-”

“No it’s fine.” Sherlock argues weakly. Greg hands him the water bottle, which Sherlock takes gratefully. While he’s seemingly drinking the whole bottle, he starts to wonder why the DI is suddenly here in the first place. This just reeks of my brother again. He leaves and thinks I’ll perish without someone to watch me.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock says pointedly and returns the almost empty bottle. He sits up to dry off the first sweat on his forehead. “I just haven’t worked out in a while.” He admits lamely.

Before Greg can say anything, Sherlock gets up, and very nearly passes right out. Greg easily caught him and held him steady for the time it took for the darkness to fade from his vision again. 

“Maybe I overdid it a little.” Sherlock offers sheepishly, and to his embarrassment, his watch goes off again, so he quickly stumbles back to the sofa and lays back down. His right ankle was hurting him in a suspicious way, he would have to ice it later.

At this point Greg understood what the alarm was for, or at least he has a suspicion. “So whenever your heart gets in a bad way, that thing ding-dongs like the signal to buckle the seatbelts in airplanes.”

Sherlock only grunts in reply.

“How high was it?” Greg asks curiously. He’s probably seen all kinds of ridiculously high numbers on Sherlock until now.

Sherlock weakly presses the button on the side to see the "infograph" watch face with his heart rate history. The number at the top definitely surprises him. “202, whoops.”

Greg’s mouth literally falls open in shock. “Two- did you just say two hundred and two?“ 

“Like I said, maybe I overdid it a little bit.” 

“A little? I think you overdid it a lot there, mate.” 

“It’s fine..” Sherlock argues weakly.

“Did you eat today?” Greg asks, like a parent.

“Yes.” Sherlock lies instantly. When did I last eat anything? He wonders to himself. He hasn’t been hungry lately, not with what happened to Astra. Oh well, I’ll just eat something later.

Chapter Text

The next evening he gets an urgent call from Briggs. “Astra is colicking, she refused to eat all day. The vet said it’s not looking good.”

Sherlock is by her side in less than twenty minutes. The grey Arabian is outside, with Briggs trying to get her moving. Sherlock immediately takes the lead from him and massages her behind her ear. “Oh girl..”

“We have to get her moving.” Briggs says urgently.

“I know. We’ve been through this before.” Sherlock replies, gently petting her neck. “I know it’s hell, girl. But we have to walk.” He turns so he can lead her. “Come, we’ll take it slow.”

And to Briggs utter amazement, she walks on. Slowly but surely, one hoof in front of the other. “Blimey.. I’ve been trying to get her moving for the past half hour, and all you did was tell her to walk.”

“It’s not that simple.. You have to understand her pain if you want her to trust you.” Sherlock comments and Astra suddenly stops, lowering her head. “It’s okay girl, it’ll pass.” He massages her ear again, whispering “you have to be brave for me. We’ll get through this.”

Briggs watches them with a sad frown. “The vet already gave her some more pain relievers, but they don’t seem to be helping much.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, too busy focusing on trying to get Astra relaxed. 

After a while she picks her head up again and they walk around the grounds. They continue into the night, the long hours of being upright taking their toll on Sherlock. He’s sweaty and his stupid ankle is hurting him terribly again, barely able to keep from obviously limping, but he won’t take a break. He can’t.

If Astra lays down, it’s over. 

Briggs can see that he’s struggling, and periodically offers him some water.

And then, to everyone’s huge relief, around ten pm she finally, finally lifts her tail and releases a round of horse apples. 

Both Sherlock and Briggs laugh from the euphoria. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy about having to clean up horse apples.” Briggs comments.

Sherlock just praises the mare before hugging her neck. He feels like crying from the relief, but it could also have to do with his nervous system completely malfunctioning at this point.

When John approaches right at that moment, he fears for the worst. “Sherlock?”

Pulling away from Astra, Sherlock looks at him in confusion. “John? What are you doing here?” 

“I had a late shift, and when I was done, I had messages from Mycroft. How is she?” John asks, holding out a hand to her nose.

“On the mend, thankfully.” Briggs says with a grin, carrying a stable shovel. It’s only then that John notices the pile at her rear end.

“Well that’s good. And how are you?” John regards Sherlock, the question catching him completely off guard. “Mycroft mentioned you passed out, yesterday.” He clarifies.

“Well I didn’t.” Sherlock glowers. “My brother likes to make everything needlessly more dramatic than it actually is.”

Are you sure you’re just talking about your brother, here? John mentally smirks. “So what actually happened?” 

Briggs seems equally interested from where he’s busy cleaning up.

“I just got a bit dizzy. I didn’t pass out.” Sherlock says, thoroughly annoyed at that tiny wrong detail.

“Okay.” 

Astra notices Sherlock’s aggravated state and accidentally flicks her tail right in his face, thanks to the long feathers.

“Hey!” Sherlock snaps, and the horse snorts and throws her head up and down, apparently feeling a lot more like herself again. “Glad that you’re feeling better.” Sherlock comments, rubbing at his eye that was assaulted by the surprise attack.

“Good one.” John praises her with a laugh. 

“Well, mate.” Briggs puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder without warning, but only John sees him jump for a second. “It’s getting rather late. I think it’s time you go and get some sleep.”

Sherlock throws him a glare. Then he looks between him and John. “Are you two conspiring against me now?”

John quickly shakes his head. “No, I promise we had no contact.”

Briggs nods. “I don’t even have his number, Sherlock.” He gently takes the lead back from Sherlock’s hands, who reluctantly lets go.

“Come on.” John takes his hand and gently pulls him away from the horse. Sherlock stops and pulls his hand free to give her one last hug. 

“You lads can sleep at my place if you want.” Briggs offers. “I have a big guest room downstairs. It would make me feel better if I knew you guys were safe and sound. There’s some creepy guys roaming the streets at this time of day.”

That last comment sends a chill down Sherlock’s spine, and he has to make sure he doesn’t let it show how uncomfortable he suddenly feels.

John considers the offer and shrugs. “It’s fine with me. Sherlock?”

“..huh?” The offer hadn’t really registered, his mind too focused on that stupid remark about ‘creepy people’ reminding him of--

“Do you want to sleep here?” John clarifies, though he eyes his friend in a calculating way.

“Uuhhh, sure.” 

Briggs gives then a smile. “Let me just take her back into her box, then I’ll show you.”

Briggs wasn’t lying about the rather big guest room. It has two beds, one on either side of the room, and a guest bathroom that can be accessed through a door in the guest room.

The boys quickly get ready for bed, and fall into an uneasy sleep….

Sherlock is kneeling in Astra’s box. The Arabian is laying flat on her side, breathing shallow, gums pale as snow, eyes weak and lifeless, the dark shadowy figures of vets are ready to administer the syringe.

“You have to tell me when to let you go, girl.” He chokes out, the tears now running freely. The mare gives a low nicker, like she has no strength left. Sherlock sobs and presses his face against her neck, fingers clinging to her fur. 

He pulls away and his hands are bloody, the entire stable floor is covered in it, and one of the shadow vets shakes their head….

He wakes up sobbing, a big wet spot already on the pillow. Sitting up, the tears are just running down and drops collecting as soon as the last became too heavy and landed on his lap.

“Sherlock?” John’s sleepy voice asks and Sherlock can hear him shifting on the bed.

“It’s n-n-noth-ing.” He wipes angrily at his eyes, but fresh tears just continue to flow.

Alarmed, John immediately gets up and comes over to him.

“J-just a st-upid dr-ream.” Sherlock sniffs and wipes at his eyes again.

John wordlessly sits down next to him and starts rubbing his back. Sherlock only hangs his head in shame. “And sometimes a stupid dream has enough power to feel so real that you believe it actually happened. Wanna talk about it?”

Sherlock swallows thickly and watches the tear drops staining his trousers. “They had to- had to p-put her.. down.” He chokes out.

It takes John a moment to realise what Sherlock means, the sudden stuttering catching him a little off guard. “Put Astra to sleep?”

Sherlock doesn’t dare reply verbally, only nods tearfully.

“She’s alive and well.” John reminds him.

“I know…” But he’s had to say goodbye to too many animals at once in his childhood, and it had felt so real that he still subconsciously believes that the nightmare had been real, that she is truly forever gone. 

The thought alone makes him break down into sobs all over again.

John almost tears up, himself. He wraps his devastated friend into a hug and shushes him, repeatedly telling him that Astra is fine and probably dreaming about carrots right now, and offering Sherlock some tissues.

“She doesn’t like carrots, never has.” Sherlock says after blowing his nose.

“Really? Well, good thing you’re telling me, what should I bring her instead?” John decides to play, like he’s learned to do with Rosie. Try to redirect the situation into a more positive direction and take their mind off of the big evil.

“She only likes apples and sugar cubes.” 

“Hmm, reminds me of someone else.” John jokes.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

John laughs. “You, you idiot. You practically swear by Apple and you can’t tell me you don’t got a sweet tooth. Not after the caramel bonbons.” 

Sherlock snorts. “Is this the- the payback for that stupid game where you c-couldn’t guess ‘apple’?”

John smirks, his tactic had actually worked. “Maybe.”

But the distraction didn’t last long. Not even a minute later, the nightmare is flashing before Sherlock’s eyes again, and fresh tears begin to spill. He can’t help it, it felt so frighteningly real, like he really just said goodbye to her, forever. It certainly doesn’t help that he’s been through this before, and his soul aches.

John watches him wipe away the new tears. “Heeey, come here.” He pulls the younger against his chest again, who doesn’t resist.

“I can’t lose her, John.” Sherlock cries. “I just can’t.”

“You won’t lose her. She’s one tough horse, kind of like you.” John tries to lighten the mood again, but Sherlock only sniffs and keeps wiping away the tears. “I know how much she means to you. Well, I mean, I can only imagine how important she is to you. And I’m sure Briggs knows that too, and will try everything in his power to make sure she’s alright.”

Even after pulling away from John, still aggressively wiping away the tears that seem to flow faster than he can get them under control, Sherlock apologises “I’m sorry, I can’t stop crying.”

John chuckles softly. “It’s alright.” 

“It’s so weird. I know she’s probably fine, but it still feels like- like- feel-” Sherlock pauses. Stop stuttering already. He tells himself.

“Like you just lost her for real?” John finishes for him.

Sherlock nods.

“Yeah, I get that. In the weeks before I met you, I kept dreaming about my friends dying, out on the field. Friends who hadn’t even been in Afghanistan. Even a couple of people that used to be my friends long ago, but we’ve lost contact. And even though I was long since back in London, mentally I was back in Afghanistan every time I woke up.”

Sherlock looks at him in surprise. “You never te- told me that.” 

John shrugs. “Never came up. Like Astra, in a way.”

Sherlock hangs his head and closes his eyes. 

John backtracks. “Okay, bad comparison. Sorry. I know why you never told anyone about her.”

“It was for the- for the best..” Stop! Stuttering!

“I know.” John agrees. “I don’t want to think of what could have happened to her already if the wrong people knew about her. Just look at what happened with Moriarty. Bastard put me in semtex just to get to you.” He growls the last part, as it is still a sore subject, even years later.

“Hm. And he almost succeeded.” 

“You didn’t let him win, though. You saw through it.” John points out.

Sherlock sighs. 

John gets a thoughtful look. “You know.. it’s kinda weird.”

Sherlock looks at him. “What is?”

“First you get shot in the chest, now a year later the same thing happens to Astra.” John elaborates.

Sherlock frowns at him. “Are you suggesting it was Mary?”

“Wh- no! Of course not! I just mean.. it must be someone who knows about the whole getting shot thing, and knows about Astra. It can’t have been a coincidence.” 

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment, the cogs visibly turning. 

“Sherlock? Do you have someone in mind?” John asks after it seems like Sherlock.exe has stopped working.

But he never gets a reply.

Chapter Text

Four days later, Lestrade couldn’t help but notice that his consultant wasn’t working his 100% lately, and when he gets a chance to talk to him in private, he sits down next to him.

Greg lowers his voice. “Is everything okay?” 

“Yes.” Standard answer.

“Is it really?”

Sherlock sighs. “My horse got shot at, a week ago.”

Colour Lestrade surprised. “Your horse? No, wait, your horse?”

Sherlock nods sadly. “She’s a secret, for obvious reasons.. I don’t know who could be so heartless and shoot at an innocent animal. They’re lucky she’s pulled through.”

“Oh man..” Greg is at a loss for words. Because really, what could he say to that? “Shit, I’m sorry, mate.”

Sherlock just shrugs. Because he doesn’t know what to say, either.

“Do you.. do you have a picture of her?” Greg asks hesitantly. 

“Huh?” Sherlock asks, mind already wandering again.

“On your phone.” Greg clarifies.

In response, Sherlock pulls out the new phone that Mycroft had gotten him. He still hasn’t gotten used to its different gesture controls and lack of a home button, and he honestly doesn’t know why he even took it out since he never took a single picture of her in the first place – for obvious reasons.

“Oh, fancy.” Greg comments. “When did you get a new phone? Oh, is that why you have a new number?” He asks innocently.

“It’s.. it doesn’t really matter.” He shakes his head again, partly to clear the fog that has formed in his brain, and pockets the phone again.

Greg has known him for too many years, and knows that there’s more going on with his consultant. Been that way for at least two months by now, but he never seems to manage to just bring it up. “Sherlock.. wh-”

“Greg! We got a new lead!” Sally suddenly barges inside, phone in hand. 

And that was it for their conversation.

Why is everything going wrong?! Sherlock wonders as he lays flat on his back on the pavement, unable to get back up because apparently his stupid hip joint decided that it wasn’t going to cooperate with him any longer. The pain is getting close to unbearable, and every tiny movement just aggravates it further. 

Greg is on his knees next to him, telling deaf ears that John is on his way. Sherlock just keeps an arm draped over his screwed tight eyes and tries to pretend that this did not just happen. 

Finally John arrives, and after a quick inspection – and a sharp warning of “don’t touch it!!” from Sherlock – he decided on his diagnosis. “I think you dislocated your hip. How did you do that?” John genuinely wonders. Normally it’s elderly people, or people who’ve had a bad sports or even car accidents that come with this rather rare type of joint dislocation into the ER. 

“Suspect.” Sherlock says between grit teeth. 

John looks at Greg for further information. “We tried to catch a suspect, rounded that corner,” he points to the street intersection behind them, “and suddenly he yells and falls to the ground, shouting at us not to touch him.”

John just shakes his head in disbelief, then turns back to Sherlock. “Look, we have to get that joint set, and as soon as possible at that. You don’t want to get necrosis anywhere.” 

Sherlock softly whines at the very idea of anyone moving his stupid leg. 

“Did you take painkillers yet?” John asks.

“No, he refused.” Greg replies for Sherlock.

John sighs exacerbatedly. “Let’s get some into you.” Him and Greg move away from Sherlock’s side for just a minute, and that is enough time for him to suddenly get the brilliant idea of setting the joint himself. Holding his breath and fighting against the urge to scream from the pain, he pushes himself up so he’s sitting up, and then tries a few movements to try to pop it back in.

“Sherlock no!” John shrieks in horror and grabs a firm hold of his shoulders. “Don’t try to fucking get it back in by yourself! You need a medical professional for that! You could cause so much damage!” 

“Mmmh! You’re a doctor, just do it!” Sherlock groans out.

John sighs frustratedly from behind him. “I can’t just set it, we need x-rays to be sure on how to go about it, and especially not without you having pain relief.” He listens to Sherlock’s strained breathing and speaks in a lower voice. “I know you’ve had a shit week. Don’t make it even worse by acting stupid. Take the painkillers, then we’ll take you to the hospital.” 

“No hospital.” Sherlock immediately gasps. 

“Yes hospital.” John retorts. “Sherlock, hip dislocations are no laughing matter. They are always considered an emergency. There is so much that can go wrong when reduced by someone without medical training, and if we don’t get it reduced, you could lose your leg.”

Sherlock has to blink away tears as he looks down at the offended appendage. His right leg is turned inwards – more so than his hypermobile joints do, anyways – the knee-cap basically touching the ground, and while it could just be a trick of the light, it looks a bit shorter than his left leg, too.

He sniffs and looks at John, over his shoulder, with sad eyes.

“I’m here. Please just take some painkillers.” John holds out his hand with two white pills laying on his palm. 

Greg is joining them with the water bottle from Sherlock’s backpack.

Sighing heavily, Sherlock moves to accept the pills, but the movement causes an intense pain to shoot through seemingly half of his body, making him audibly wince and screw his eyes shut.

John squeezes his one shoulder sympathetically and places the pills in Sherlock’s hand. He takes the pills with his water, without a complaint, which makes John feel sorry for his friend, since he has to be in an awful amount of pain to do so without hesitation.

“I’ll just go and get the car, shall I?” Greg offers. 

“Yes please.” John nods at him and watches him leave. “And once you’re up for it, we’ll get you up.”

Sherlock stays silent, too busy gritting his teeth as he waits for the painkillers to kick in, which couldn’t happen soon enough. And that was saying something, coming from him.

Greg parks the car right behind where Sherlock is sitting on the pavement, with John still behind him and keeping a gentle hold of his shoulder.

“How is it?” Greg asks as he walks back to his earlier spot next to Sherlock.

“About 5% better.” He replies honestly, the pain evident in his voice.

“Then we’ll give it another ten minutes.” John reassures him.

Sherlock sighs. He just wants this annoyingly bad pain to stop, not wait around until they could go to A and E and wait another two hours to be seen.

Greg clears his throat. “So.. about your horse..”

“You know about her?” John asks, surprised.

“Just a tad.. I still can’t believe some dumb fuck would shoot a horse in the first place.”

John hums in agreement. “She didn’t deserve that. The poor thing went through hell before Sherlock rescued her.” He starts explaining what he knows about Astra, about what she symbolises.

Greg nods, taking in the new information.

All the while, Sherlock doesn’t make a single noise.

“Sherlock? Are you not talking because of the subject or is the pain still too bad?” John asks carefully.

“Both.”

“Hmm..” John unhelpfully squeezes his shoulder again, hoping that the action is reassuring in Sherlock’s book.

He decides to change the subject completely. “What case were you working on?” 

So Greg starts explaining the whole debacle from the beginning, and another fifteen minutes pass by.

“Think you can handle getting up?” John asks Sherlock. 

Sherlock only shrugs his shoulders a tiny bit, which John obviously feels under his hand.

“We can try and if it’s too bad, you say so. Alright?” 

At Sherlock’s hesitant nod, John and Greg stand on either of Sherlock’s sides and carefully pull him up to his feet. Or rather, his foot, since he can’t stand on the right leg.

But it’s very quickly too much, before his bottom is even fully off the ground, as every tiny movement of the dislocated leg sends intense waves of pain through him, making him dizzy and nauseous. 

“Haa- hoo- mmmmhhhhh..!” 

They quickly get him back down, but the added movements and trying to brace himself manage to finally make him cry out in pain, press his face against John’s body and his hand to grip onto his jumper, tightly fisting the fabric.

John watches his chest heaving rapidly, and briefly worries about him hyperventilating, but it slowly returns to normal again.

“Shit.” Greg mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

“We’ll just wait a bit longer. Maybe take some more painkillers.” John says. Hell, they would somehow pick him up and carry him to the hospital if that’s what it took! But right now it’s clear that Sherlock needs a break.

But Sherlock doesn’t want to wait anymore. He is done waiting. When John gets up to talk to Greg about whatever, he starts attempt number two at setting it by himself. He’s not stupid, he knows that the femoral head is slightly above the socket, where it should have been, so he just has to pull his leg down a bit, right?

Riiight.

Trapping the bad leg under his good one, he first tries to pull his torso away with his arms, but that tactic doesn’t work out, and he has to suppress the noises of pain from escaping.

Easier said than done, as it turns out, but one shout from John, and Sherlock stupidly twisting his torso to yell back at him that he is fine, only to yelp in surprise and excruciating pain, when he felt it.

The odd, yet familiar sensation of a joint (audibly) popping back into place. 

First his face contorts as he waits for the onslaught of new pain, but then his features relax when the pain slowly dissipates altogether.

“Oh my god.” Sherlock breathes out in a quiet whisper.

“Please tell me you didn’t just break your femoral head.” John says, a hand covering his face in utter disbelief.

But Sherlock gives a relieved, shaky laugh. “I got it. I did it.”

Greg still hasn’t fully understood what in the world just happened. “Uhh, what?”

To prove his point, Sherlock attempts to climb on his feet, but John beats him to it and pushes him back down. “NO! Keep your weight off that leg! Greg, come over here, we’re taking him to the hospital.”

“What?! Why?! I got it back in!” Sherlock argues, the scene reminding more of a little kid arguing with their parent.

“Yes, and you probably damaged a lot of tissue with it! Dammit Sherlock, god. We have to get some x-rays and CTs, probably an MRI too. God, you’re lucky if you didn’t just break off tendons and blood vessels.” John scolds him and pulls up the trouser leg to check the circulation, which is looking alright.

Greg has to deeply exhale at John’s words. He walks over to the other two men. “Right then. Let’s get you to the hospital..”

Chapter Text

They spend a total of 3 hours at the hospital, thanks to long waiting times and a lot of scans – which revealed some pretty nasty tissue damage around the joint, but thankfully no life threatening injuries that would need immediate medical attention.

The big downside is that there is so much tissue damage and already inflammation forming in the joint, plus obvious haematoma, that the doctor is ordering a strict prohibition of Sherlock putting any pressure on the leg for at least two weeks, and to minimise movement as best as possible to avoid the joint from popping out again. 

Sherlock is horrified at that last part, and taking the doc’s words to heart after that. He definitely does not want to experience another hip dislocation, preferably for the rest of his life.

John suspects that with Sherlock’s established hypermobility, it’ll take more like 3 months for him to heal, but only time will tell.

They give him a steroid shot to help with the inflammation, but warn him that he’s likely going to be reliant on painkillers for a while. “Plus, you can’t use crutches. The added pressure puts a lot of strain on your heart and will only cause unnecessary heart rate problems.” For once in his life, Sherlock seems to have gotten a competent doctor right off the bat, who knows a thing or two about POTS. 

“Guess we’ll have to move you back in with Mycroft.” John says thoughtfully after they are back at the waiting area. Sherlock had been placed in one of the hospital’s wheelchairs, and keeps holding his right hand over the painful joint. John suspects that he’s definitely starting to feel the inflammation building up. 

“Forget it.”

John rolls his eyes. “Well you can’t get up the stairs to Baker Street.”

“Why can’t I stay with you..?” Sherlock timidly asks. 

John is taken aback by the question. It’s not that he was against it, per se. The thought just.. hadn’t occurred to him. “I guess we could.. but won’t Rosie bother you?”

It had been a quick discovery on John’s part. Whenever Rosie started to cry as a baby, Sherlock reacted… odd. He would suddenly stop talking, grow distant, and more often than not leave the room for a while. Something about the sound of a baby crying loudly was upsetting him in a strange way, but John had never really gotten around to bring it up, since he was busy trying to shush his daughter.

Sherlock shrugs. “If it doesn’t work out, I could always stay with Grant.” 

“Greg.” John corrects automatically. “And why would you stay with him? I thought you were on…. pretty good terms with Mycroft, now?” 

And they technically are. But Sherlock doesn’t want to be at his place anymore. After being captured where he was supposed to be safe, the place gives him anxiety just thinking about it. 

And then there are also the recent events, which he still does not want to talk about. If ever.

“Just..” he trails off. 

“Just?” John prods gently.

But Sherlock only sighs and shakes his head. 

“Well.. I guess that means I’ll have to be the one to call him.” John comments and fishes out his phone from his pocket.

“Why?” 

“Because your wheelchair is still at his place and we need a driver to take us to our house.” 

“Oh..”

“Can you behave yourself for two minutes or do I have to text him?” 

“I’ll behave..”

“Good.”

The driver takes them to John’s place without problems. Mycroft had even gotten fresh sets of clothes for Sherlock delivered. 

The problem is getting Sherlock out of the car and inside the house, as the inflammation has now fully set in, and every small movement of his leg is causing almost the same amount of pain as he was in while it was dislocated. Even just sitting is giving him a constant, dull pain, and his hip joint feels swollen inside.

The first pitiful attempt at getting out of the car was quickly cut short when simply turning to the side on the seat proved to be excruciating. 

John tells him to slowly move the leg with his hands, and after calling John an idiot before actually doing what he said, Sherlock finds that he easily manages that first hardship thanks to John’s advise.

When his surprised embarrassment shows on his face, John only laughs. “I had a psychosomatic limp, remember?” 

Sherlock stays silent and just tries to now get out on his own, only to find that it’s extremely painful to straighten the leg after sitting for twenty minutes – not counting the long hours at the hospital.

“Only push yourself up with your left leg and use the door as leverage.” John advises him.

Sherlock exhales deeply from his growing frustration and tries again. He manages to push himself up, but has to stay slightly bent over until he can fully straighten his injured leg, wincing at every small degree of getting there. 

John already has the wheelchair out and is waiting for Sherlock to manoeuvre into it, which is the next big challenge.

“I can’t turn.” Sherlock pitifully admits after finding that he simply cannot put any pressure on his bad leg, no matter how quick he tries to be. Even with the added support of leaning on the open car door with his hands, the second he so much as tries to lift his good leg, his bad one explodes in pain again and the joint feels so unstable that he’s afraid of it breaking apart. 

John desperately thinks for a moment, then gets an idea. “Hold on, I have an idea. I’ll be right back, don’t move.” 

“Not planning to.” Sherlock says sourly at John running into the house. 

Just when he thinks that he can’t stand anymore – from his certain other condition finally rearing its ugly head – John comes running back with a long object in his hand. It’s already pretty late so he can only make out what it is when John is right before him.

“Oooh no.” Sherlock immediately rejects the item. 

John laughs. “It is kind of ironic, huh?” He looks down fondly at his old walking cane. He pushes the button into the holes repeatedly until it’s almost at the longest setting, before placing it in front of Sherlock to check it’s height. “Should be good.”

“Forget it.” Sherlock still fights the very idea of using a cane.

“Just do it, unless you want to spend the whole night out here?” 

Sherlock grumbles but reaches for the cane’s handle.

“Use your left hand.” John advises when Sherlock first tries it with his right hand and all but cries out again when he tries to move his leg.

“What? But my right side is injured, not the left.” It makes no sense to support his good side, right?

“You have to use it on the opposite side. Just try it.” John explains halfheartedly.

Sherlock huffs but does as John says, and finds that it really is way less painful that way. 

“Right, come on, enough standing for you.” John says and nods to the wheelchair. 

But the thought of having to sit down and then get up again, makes Sherlock look down at the cane. “No thanks, I’m good.” 

“Sherlock.”

“Please? It’s not far, and I’ll probably lay down as soon as we’re inside.”

John sighs. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to try to walk right now?”

Sherlock puts both hands on top of the other on the cane handle. “Sitting down hurts, and having to get up again is even worse..” he admits.

John weighs their options, and decides to let Sherlock walk. He’s keeping the wheelchair with them, just in case Sherlock does decide otherwise, but after a few hiccups with getting the right rhythm – “John, I sincerely have a newfound respect for you. How can it be so hard to use a simple cane?!” – Sherlock gets the hang of it and they finally get inside.

Chapter Text

“Any news on Sherlock?” Sally is phoning Greg around the time John and Sherlock got home that same evening.

“I guess he won’t be helping us for a while.. John said he dislocated his hip.” 

“Oh hell.. how did that happen?” 

“Heck if I know. But he was in a lot of pain until he got it back in.”

“.. wait, you don’t mean that he got it set, by himself?” Sally asks in mild shock.

“That’s exactly what I mean. He’s a right idiot sometimes. He’s gonna give poor John an ulcer one day.” 

“Idiot is right. Doesn’t he know how easily you can cause permanent damage if it’s not treated and re-set by professionals? Also, isn’t that usually done under anaesthesia?” Sally inquires.

“I don’t know enough about that stuff, but I can see why it would be done under anaesthesia.. jeez, Sally, he was screaming. Sherlock. Mister I Got Shot And Run Around London Without Any Painkillers For Hours.”

“Fuck…”

“Mh.” He agrees.

“My grandma dislocated a hip one time. She had to be put under and then had to stay off it for a really long time, cause it kept slipping out again. She needed a lot of physio therapy to get the muscles back in shape so it would stay in.” Sally tells him.

“Aw man..”

“How is John going to get him to rest?”

“Well, I’m hoping he’ll be in too much pain to think about bolting, but knowing the stubborn git, if he’s got something on his mind there is just no stopping him.”

Since Rosie is already asleep in the bedroom, they don’t have to worry about the toddler overwhelming poor Sherlock. 

Mary quietly greets them after John shuts the front door and locks it – a routine that has become ingrained into his very soul. 

“I’ve put a couple of blankets and pillows on the sofa for you boys.” Mary whispers.

“Why are you using plural?” Sherlock asks in the same volume.

“I’ll be sleeping on the couch with you. Did you really think we would leave you alone at night?” John whispers incredulously. 

Sherlock only sighs in defeat and tries to quietly limp over to the sofa with the cane. John notices how he’s wincing more and more with each painful step, and how he’s hardly lifting the right foot up anymore, almost dragging it behind him.

“I’ve put a large water bottle for each of you on the sides, I hope it’ll sustain him.” Mary informs John.

“Thank you. Really.”

“It’s the least I could do.”

John smiles at his wife before making his way over to Sherlock, who is desperately trying not to make any noise in pain as he carefully sits down on the edge of the sofa.

“Time for more painkillers.” John orders and hands Sherlock a couple ibuprofen this time, to help with the inflammation.

Sherlock takes them without a word or hesitation once again. Before he can put the bottle back down, John halts him.

“Ah ah, your meds.” Glad to have remembered this important bit, John quickly retrieves the little box where Sherlock always keeps a few halves of his Ivabradine, in case he forgets to take them or for when he’s not at home at the time when he has to take the next dose, like now.

Sherlock easily swallows the much smaller pill, and together they work on getting Sherlock undressed and into comfier clothes from what Mycroft had sent over. 

They have to stop moving every two seconds when it comes to the shoes, socks and trousers, even with John being as careful as he could. 

At the end he helps Sherlock to his feet when all that’s left is to pull the trouser waistband up.

“Alright, let’s get you to the loo and then we’ll see about sleeping.” John says.

Even with the painkillers mostly absorbed into his system by now, his hip is killing him and the thought of trying to 'walk' the twenty or so steps to the loo and back, makes him want to just throw in the towel, curl up in a hole and die. He probably can’t even go much, since all he’s been drinking over the past hours has been only what he swallowed with the many painkillers and his meds.

But John is not going to just not have him use the bathroom, since it would only disrupt their already flimsy plan of getting some sleep if he needs to get up in an hour.

“Take it slow. One step at a time”. John reminds him. And Sherlock obeys, taking one step, pause, breathe through the pain, keep going.

When they reach the bathroom, Sherlock has to decide on how to go about it. Sitting down and getting up hurts, but he’s also not really used to urinating whilst standing anymore, at this point. And with his unstable leg, he isn’t sure he wants to stay standing, either. 

Gritting his teeth, sitting down it is.

He manages better than he expected, thanks to the cane, and for some reason Sherlock decides to wait in front of the door while John goes in after he is done. Maybe he doesn’t trust himself alone with the cane just yet. Because what other reason would he have to wait for John?

It’s when he goes to lie down on the sofa side closest to the loo, that he discovers that laying down is somehow twice as painful as standing up from sitting has been. His breath hitches and he has to press a hand against his mouth to keep from crying out.

John watches him and only shakes his head. “Sherlock, you don’t have to keep everything in.”

“I’m going to wake Rosie.” Sherlock hisses.

“Okay screw Rosie, if you wake her up then so be it. Plus, she can be a really heavy sleeper sometimes.” John replies, slightly amused. “Just.. let it out. Shout at the world, hit the sofa, I don’t know. You have nothing to prove, to anyone. I can’t imagine what it feels like, I only know as a doctor that hip dislocations are extremely painful. There’s a reason why we normally set the joint under anaesthesia. Not to mention, under very strict guidelines as to minimise tissue damage as much as possible.” He stresses, because part of him is still in parent mode and feels the need to make his point clear, to hopefully avoid something like this from happening in the future. Because seeing Sherlock like this is breaking his heart.

Sherlock just attempts to get into a comfortable position, but every movement just hurts more and more. “It feels like there’s cotton wool stuck in my joint, doused in fluoroantimonic acid.”

John just blinks at Sherlock’s rather interesting description. Maybe he should ask him to describe his pain more often. “Well. That’s one way to describe it, I suppose. I’m guessing that’s a rather strong acid?” 

“Strongest in the world.” Sherlock replies matter of factly.

“Remind me to tell Mycroft to never let you handle any, then.” John jokes.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at him. “Really, John. I’m a scientist, not an idiot.”

“And many smart people have died in the name of science.” John points out.

Sherlock only huffs and carefully turns on his left side, turning his back to John, and completely underestimating the sheer amount of pain that action would give him. “Aah-!” he quickly presses a hand over his mouth again, but it does nothing to silence the whimper from forming in his throat as he waits for the wave of pain to end.

John is really worried, now. If the pain is still this bad, even with the painkillers and steroid shot, they are probably not going to get any sleep. And despite being reassured by the scans, he is afraid that all the moving about could have caused even more damage. 

John gently sits down on the seating between the long sides of the sofa, and places a supportive hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Do you want more painkillers..?” He offers. 

“No.” Sherlock’s voice is thick, like he’s on the verge of tears. 

“Okay.”

They sit in silence for a while, with John thinking about possible solutions to help Sherlock sleep, and Sherlock trying his best not to move a muscle while feeling his heart racing uncomfortably in his chest. At some point he decides to check with his new watch, and groans at the reading. 

“John.”

“Hm?”

“Look.” Sherlock lifts up his arm a little to make John understand what he means.

John peeks over his shoulder at the small screen. The readings change wildly every few seconds.

135, 142, 127, 130, 143..

“Oh, fuck.” John mutters to himself as he watches the numbers change over and over. Is this just from the pain? Or maybe his meds reacting to the ibuprofen? “When did it start?”

“I don’t know, ten minutes ago? It kept going faster.” 

So probably not just from the pain. “You don’t normally take ibuprofen, right?”

Sherlock nods, letting his arm drop when the screen goes black again. 

“Maybe your body reacts to NSAIDs. We’ll have to keep an eye on it, let me know if you notice anything else or if it gets any worse.” As much as John wants to spare Sherlock another trip to the hospital.. averse reactions to medication are never to take lightly. Of course the best course of action would be to have Sherlock just throw up the remnants of the ibuprofen, but in his current state he wouldn’t put him through it unless it was absolutely necessary. 

“Okay. Does this count?” Sherlock raises his arm again, which lights up the screen again for John, showing the number 156. 

John stares at him in shock. “How high do you think it is right now?” Just how in tune with the different stages is Sherlock? 

“Getting close to 160. Why?”

“You got it right. Wow.” John says in genuine amazement.

“Can we please do something about it now? I’m really dizzy..” 

“Yeah okay. Sorry. Sit up, please?” 

While Sherlock begins the painful process of getting himself into said position, John is taking out Sherlock’s emergency medication case again. 

“Okay, first I want you to take an antihistamine and drink as much as you can handle.” John explains and hands Sherlock his water bottle and the pill.

Sherlock gives him a quizzing look, but does as requested. He pulls back to update John on his current state. “John, 170.” He pants out as he screws the cap back on the now half empty bottle.

John just nods and takes the bottle away, while handing Sherlock a nitroglycerin tablet. “Under your tongue. You know the drill.”

“But I’m not having an attack?” 

“No, but it should give your heart a break. Hopefully just enough for the water to help flush out the ibuprofen. I don’t want to risk anything to get worse until the antihistamine kicks in.” John explains.

So Sherlock places the tablet under his tongue, and John climbs on the sofa behind him and interlocks his hands around Sherlock’s chest, in case he passes out.

Sherlock grimaces at the familiar sensation in his head, but feels his heart slowing drastically in a matter of seconds. 

“Rate?” John asks, feeling Sherlock reflexively tense up and relax repeatedly.

“Uhhhh.. I think.. maybe around 80 to 100, I..” Sherlock blows out a breath and shakes his head.

“You okay?” John asks when he feels Sherlock’s breathing quicken under his hands. BP dropping, probably. He thinks, wishing he would have grabbed the blood pressure monitor, even though the thing hadn’t been used in ages and probably needed new batteries first. John isn’t even sure about where it is, right now. They changed a lot of interior and furniture over the years, especially after Sherlock more or less made them rich and allowed them to fulfil some of their plans (they would of course honour Sherlock’s wishes and keep saving the money for Rosie’s every wish, growing up).

“Yeeeeh..” Sherlock drags out, shakes his head again. “Room’s.. spinning.. a bit..”

“I got you.” John reminds him and tightens his grip a little. 

Sherlock leans back a bit, resting the back of his head against John’s collar bone. “I know.” 

Chapter Text

Sherlock doesn’t pass out fully, although he’s on the brink of it and fading in and out every couple seconds for around half an hour. John keeps checking Sherlock’s watch, and is satisfied when the heart rate only goes a bit over 100 every now and then. Nothing as dramatic as it had been before.

Sadly, when Sherlock is fully awake again and jerks into sitting up, he’s reminded full force again that his right hip is badly injured. “Ahmmmmph, ow ow ow ow ow…” he whispers to himself.

“Do you want to take some paracetamol?” John asks sympathetically. 

“I don’t know.. should we really mix them so soon? What time is it..” Sherlock flicks his wrist and tries to make out the small numbers at the top, but his head is still a bit wobbly and his eyes have trouble adjusting to the display. “Argh forget it..”

John checks his own, none smart watch. “Just after ten pm. It’s only been an hour since I gave you the ibuprofen, yes, but your body didn’t take to those very well and I can tell that you’re not going to catch a wink of sleep without any pain meds.”

“Mmh..” Sherlock whimpers quietly as he painstakingly moves to the edge of the sofa and looks for the cane.

John doesn’t have to ask where Sherlock is planning on going. He is, however, afraid of him getting dizzy (or worse), so he’s always an arm’s length away. 

Getting to his feet and going those first steps is always the hardest part. Every tiny movement in his hip joint hurts like hell, and at first he has to just stand there uselessly, as he mentally has to coach himself into pushing through the pain and taking another step.

He completely loses his balance halfway on the way, which not even the cane could help with. Stumbling to the side, John quickly catches him and holds him steady, while Sherlock breaks into quiet sobs because his bad leg had had to take his full weight for a split second during his stumbling, making the pain absolutely unbearable for a long minute.

John feels his heart breaking for his friend, runs a warm hand up and down his back slowly, and tries to shush him… which is apparently more effective on Rosie than it is on Sherlock, who leans away from the touch, so John takes his hand away.

Sherlock looks up at him with teary eyes. “I’m so stupid. I’m so damn stupid, John, and now I’m paying for it.” He looks down at his left hand, which has a painfully tight grip on the cane’s handle. “This is what I deserve. What I deserved all along.” 

John doesn’t take too kindly to it. “Hey now, none of that. You have a long history of doctors mistreating you and not believing you. So you tried to fix it yourself, like I know you have become used to. I’m still surprised that you even managed to get it back in, in the first place. But what’s done is done, you can take at least one paracetamol and see if that’ll help. It’s gonna take a really long time for this to heal, but we’ll get through it. Okay? Together.” 

Despite the tears now falling freely, John can see his features relax a little.

“Are you sure you don’t want the chair?” He asks, just to make sure that Sherlock knows that the option is still available.

“Yes.. it’s better when I walk a bit, the start’s just... but it gets better.” Sherlock reassures him, but the sentence is so broken and monotonous that John briefly fears for an oncoming migraine. 

Slowly, they tackle the rest of the way to the bathroom, then return back to the sofa, where Sherlock all but starts crying from the pain of laying back down.

He finally takes the offered paracetamol, but the wait for them to kick in is thick with tension on both men.

“Hang on, I have an idea.” John suddenly whispers and carefully gets up, as not to jostle his poor friend too much. 

He silently slips into their bedroom, where a still awake Mary greets him quietly. “Hey, how is he?” 

John knows that she probably heard most – if not all – of what they were saying, and maybe even Sherlock’s cries, even with his efforts in keeping them quiet. 

“Not good. I thought the heat blanket might help until the painkillers kick in.” 

Mary just nods understandingly and retrieves the small, square electric blanket. They mostly use it to help with John’s shoulder sometimes, and to ease her menstruation or back pains. 

“Good luck.” Mary whispers as she hands it over.

“Thanks… I think we’ll need that, too.” John half jokes. “Rosie doing okay?”

“She’s been an angel so far. Better prepare for The Tornado in the morning.” Mary giggles. 

“Oh boy.” John grins. Well, they could worry about that in the morning. For now they have to somehow make it through the night. Preferably with both of them getting at least a couple hours of sleep.

Leaning the door closed on his way out, John goes back to Sherlock. He has to rely on his sense of touch to find the outlet and plug it in, since the only light is coming from the kitchen lights, as not to have it too bright and make them even more awake. 

“Remember this?” John jokes as he holds it up for Sherlock to see, thinking back to that celebration dinner and Sherlock using Mrs Hudson’s electric blanket. They have since gotten him his own one, which Sherlock keeps hidden away until he needs it, because he simply couldn’t “have that thing lying around for anyone to see.”

But when he turns it up on the control piece and lays it over the injured hip, he feels Sherlock trembling slightly.

“Are you cold?” He asks, frowning.

“No.” 

“POTS?”

“Maybe.”

“Pain?”

“Bearable as long as I don’t move.”

Hmm.. 

“Pulse?”

“‘Round 110 I think.”

Okay, that is a bit odd. Since he was put on Ivabradine, Sherlock’s resting heart rate was around 70, sometimes even dipping down as far as 62bpm in rare cases. 

“Has it been like that since getting up or is it rising like earlier?” 

“Since getting up.”

“Okay.. but tell me as soon as it changes, please.” 

“Kay.” Comes the sleepy reply.

John smiles softly, apparently the heat is working wonders already. He takes one of the comforter blankets and drapes it over Sherlock, then goes to turn off the lights in the kitchen, before finally joining Sherlock on the sofa.

And finally, they fall asleep.

Sherlock wakes up two hours later to the blinking LED on the control device of the electric blanket. A safety mechanism that turns off the heat after a certain amount of time.

Good for preventing house fires, bad for managing pain. 

He sighs and turns it off completely. He might as well go and use the loo while he’s awake.

Without thinking, he pushes himself up – or tries to – and immediately bites his tongue at the fresh onslaught of pain.

Oh god I’m so done with this..

Holding his breath, he pushes through the pain and sits up, then takes a break to get a grip on himself. 

I’m just being overly dramatic, it can’t be that bad. I’ve dislocated joints so many times and never been in this much pain.

Completely forgetting about the cane, he gets to his feet, waits until he can stand up straight, and tests his hip’s stability.

So far the pain is bearable while standing. Thinking that maybe the worst part is finally over, he tries to take a step.

Huge mistake.

The joint isn’t fully mobile, and reflexively (or maybe because of the swelling and inflammation?) twists inwards, almost like it had done when the joint was dislocated. For a horrible moment, Sherlock thinks that it must have popped out again in his sleep, but then remembers how he almost couldn’t move it at all, then. 

He looks back to the sofa, blindly looking for the cane that has disappeared in the darkness. 

He peers over at John’s sleeping form, thinking about how the noises that the cane makes when being used would probably just wake him up unnecessarily.

Oh well. I can probably make it without. It’s just the first few steps that are the worst.

So he takes another step, barely able to support himself in the milliseconds where his right leg has to bear his weight. 

Ignoring all the warning signs, Sherlock keeps going. Even when he has to stop and bend over from the pain, in-between steps.

And finally, after almost four minutes, he reaches the bathroom. 

He painfully lowers his trousers and sits down on the toilet, steadying himself by holding on to the sink and wall, but he just could not go. He was too tense from the pain to be able to pee.

That is definitely a new one.

He tries to find a position that didn’t require a lot of leg and abs tension, and finally managed to at least push the urine out.

It’s the process of getting back to the sofa that makes him want to cry. Gritting his teeth, he uses his left leg and arms to get back up, and has to bite into the back of his hand to stifle a cry. Quickly washing his hands, he carefully and very slowly makes his way back, the pain becoming too much to handle every few steps.

By the time he has managed to lay back down, he is steadily leaking tears and his hand is littered in bite marks. 

He listens to the familiar sound of John snoring. The normally comforting noise just makes him feel even more alone and isolated in the dark of night.

He knows that he’s just being irrational. He could simply wake John up, just so he wasn’t alone. But he just couldn’t bring himself to do so. John is already generous enough for letting him stay at his place. He really should be more grateful. 

John has to be at work almost all day 3 times a week, he has a wife and young daughter to take care of, why does Sherlock have to keep messing things up for him?

Why, oh why did I ask him if I could stay with him? Really not my best idea. And of course he won’t throw me out, because other than me, he is actual friend material and a good man.

He snivels quietly, the tear-stains on the pillow slowly but surely growing in size.

Stop wallowing in self pity. He scolds himself. There’s still a case going on and you’re proving to be utterly useless.

Chapter Text

The next morning comes way too soon, with a not-so-gentle awakening for Sherlock when little Rosie jumps on him with a loud squeal.

Her joy is quickly cut short when Sherlock screams in pain – actually screams. John sits bolt up and Mary comes running to get her off him, the toddler now looking like she is about to cry. 

“Sherlock I am so sorry, I was picking out clothes for her and wasn’t looking for one minute.” Mary quickly apologises, while simultaneously hushing Rosie.

John has all his attention on Sherlock, who is pressing the back of his bite-marked hand against tightly pressed lips to avoid making another noise or biting it again. He desperately wants to touch him, try to soothe him, but he’s afraid that touching him right now could cause his brain to completely overload.

“Uncle Sheelook” Rosie babbles tearfully and reaches out a tiny hand. 

“Rosie, I told you that uncle Sherlock has a bad owie. You were just a little too rough.” Mary gently explains it to the toddler.

“I sorrey.” 

Sherlock has calmed down enough to finally look at the little girl and gives her a completely faked, yet reassuring smile. “It’s okay Rosie. I know you were just happy to see me.” John stares at him in a mixture of shock and awe, at his ability to sound like nothing is the matter. It makes him seriously wonder how many symptoms Sherlock has mastered to simply mask.

That makes the toddler grin happily again. Mary doesn’t let her down anymore, though. “Come on you little rowdy, you have to get dressed, eat breakfast, and go to kindergarten.” She says as she carries Rosie back to her room. Rosie squeals at the mention of the kindergarten. “Yaaay!”

Sherlock watches them leave before turning his attention to John, who is watching him with a completely baffled face. “What?”

“How in the world can you do that?” John asks, frowning.

“Do what?” Sherlock asks back, confused.

“That. Going from being woken up like that, pain probably at a flocking ten, and then just act all calmly like nothing is the matter.” John elaborates.

Sherlock shrugs. “I’m just used to it.”

John stares at him in utter shock and disbelief, and a bit of guilt. He clears his throat and changes the subject. “Did you at least get any sleep?”

Sherlock remembers the horrible night he’s had while everyone else was asleep, and looks down at his battered hand. “A few hours.”

John sighs. “Well it’s better than not at all, at least. Come on.” He gets up and helps Sherlock with sitting up, wincing in sympathy when Sherlock cringes and holds his breath at every tiny movement. 

He notices the marks on Sherlock’s hand and frowns. “What’s that?” He points to it.

Sherlock looks at it and thinks of an excuse. “Probably laid on it in my sleep. Can we go now?” He asks, hoping to make John forget about it when he’s confronted with his physically disabled friend needing the loo. 

“Sure. Let’s use the wheelchair, though. It’s quicker getting you there and back.” 

Sherlock, for once, agrees to John’s plan, and lets the doctor help move him. By the time he’s sitting in the damn chair, Sherlock is drenched in sweat and breathing heavily from the severe pain and effort.

They quickly take care of it, and on the way out, Mary asks them “breakfast is ready. Sherlock, anything I can make you?”

Feeling put on the spot, Sherlock (once again) stutters “n-no, it’s- I’m fine.”

John frowns at him. “I’d rather you ate something, not just for your meds but also when you take painkillers.” He watches Sherlock hesitating.

Mary comes to his rescue. “If you’re not in the mood you can always eat something later.” She offers sweetly. “Surely we have something that you’ll like.”

Sherlock relaxes a little at her words and just nods gratefully.

“Sheeeloook!” Rosie sings as she comes stumbling back to the adults (and Sherlock). She tries to climb on his lap on the wheelchair, but John holds her back. 

“Rosiiiieee, we said no. Why don’t you go eat your breakfast and then you can show Sherlock your backpack, hm?” 

Sherlock can’t help but grin at Papa John. 

“Yaaah!” Rosie squeals delighted at the idea and runs off into the kitchen. Mary giggles and follows her. 

John turns back to Sherlock. “Just rest for a bit. Maybe try to get some sleep when we’re gone.”

There is a flash of fear in Sherlock’s eyes when John implies that he would be alone. He had known it before he even asked to stay with them, and he knows that he should be perfectly fine without help. It’s only a few hours, he doesn’t know why he feels so anxious about being on his own. He’s basically used to it now, at 221B. He feels silly for being so dependent on others. “Sure.” Sherlock mumbles and John tries to get him to look him in the eyes.

“If anything happens you can always text me or Mary, and we’ll come straight home. Just take it easy for a while. I know you’re sick of it but you really need to give yourself time to heal.” John tells him in a low tone.

Sherlock only nods, and is glad when John leaves him alone to join the rest of his family at breakfast.

Listening to them laugh when Rosie apparently does something silly, Sherlock once again feels like he’s just intruding. A third wheel. An unnecessary presence, taking up space.

Whatever little appetite he may have had, it is entirely overshadowed by the guilt, now.

Sherlock puts on a genuine smile when Rosie proudly shows him her little Peppa Pig backpack. “Like yuu.” She says, pointing to Sherlock’s black one. They would need to place that somewhere out of her reach later, so she couldn’t accidentally take some of his meds. That would be a dangerous disaster.

John takes her hand and brings her over to the door, puts her shoes on and grabs the car keys. “See you guys later.” He calls to them, and Rosie yells “BYE MOMMY BYE SHEELOOK, I BACK LATER!”, the volume of her voice making Sherlock flinch for a moment. 

Mary turns to him once the front door is shut. “She’s just really excited that you’re here.” 

Sherlock just nods. He doesn’t have a lot of memories from when he had been her age, but he knows that he has always hated it when there was suddenly a new person in their house. Especially Uncle Étienne. Sherlock shudders at the thought.

He hears Mary sighing and perks up. “I really should be vacuuming, we haven’t had the time to do so for two weeks, it’s a bit embarrassing.” She says and her look tells Sherlock that apparently she is embarrassed about having Sherlock in her 'messy' house. Has she seen my flat? He thinks with a grin.

There’s a loud beeping that startles Sherlock, jerking in the chair, not helping his painful hip. He pulls a face for a moment, and Mary apologises. “That’s the washing machine, I’m sorry. We have an alarm on it so we would hear it, even if the TV is on. I should have turned it off.”

“It’s okay..” Sherlock reassures her. 

“And I haven’t even gotten around to taking everything down from the drying rack.” Mary complains. 

“How about you hang up the clothes from the machine and I fold the dried ones?” Sherlock offers.

“Oh I couldn’t ask that of you.” Mary says almost immediately.

“I’ll be sitting the whole time. I may not look it but I can fold laundry. And I learned to adapt everything so I don’t have to stand.” Sherlock says. Besides.. it’s literally the least I can do.

Mary looks stricken for a moment, but then nods and goes to the bedroom where the drying rack is standing. Mary and him have a mutual understanding of one another that John would be jealous of. She’s quick to remove the clothes pins and throw the pieces of clothing on one side of the bed, so Sherlock could sit on the other half of the double bed.

While Sherlock gets to work, Mary collects the wet clothes from the washing machine and starts hanging it up.

Mary is done quicker than Sherlock, though he is down to the last five pieces by the time she turns around. “Wow, Sherlock, if only I could get John to be this helpful.” Mary jokes. “Don’t worry about sorting it, I’ll do the rest when I get back.” She checks her watch and groans. “I have to leave in five, I’ll be back with Rosie at 2.” 

Sherlock nods, a small grin on his face. The constant stinging pain in his hip is totally worth it when he can feel needed and useful, even if it’s only for a few minutes.

He ends up only eating a banana from the kitchen, before the nausea got too bad again, and he got so tired that he fell asleep on the sofa again until Mary and Rosie get back home.

The little girl immediately runs over to him on the sofa, jumping up on it on John’s side, being just a tad more mindful this time. She grins goofily at him as she crawls on all fours towards him.

“Hello.” Sherlock says with a smile, and Rosie giggles.

Mary joins the two and gives Sherlock a quick once-over, to make sure he was okay. “Hey there, doing alright?” 

“Getting there.” 

“Any wishes for lunch?” 

Rosie gasps in a big breath, before screaming at the top of her lungs “CHICKEN NUGGETS! Chicken nuggets, chicken nuggets, chicken nuggets!”

Sherlock feels his stomach twist painfully.

“You always want chicken nuggets.” Mary laughs.

“Yummy!” Rosie yells with a toothy grin.

Mary playfully rolls her eyes. “Sherlock, how about you?”

Taken off guard and stressed out by the current topic of conversation, he only stammers.

Rosie jumps in again. “Try! Try! Try!”

Sherlock immediately shakes his head. “No no, you can- you can have the-the-the ugh..” Great, now I’m stuttering again? Is this going to keep happening again? Like I don’t have enough problems right now..!

Mary blinks at him, puzzled. Rosie jumps off the sofa and runs into the kitchen, chanting “chicken nuggets” over and over.

He awkwardly clears his throat. “I’m.. allergic.. to chicken.” He says, taking his time as not to stutter again.

Mary’s eyes widen at that. “Oooh!” She turns to her daughter. “Rosie, uncle Sherlock can’t eat them.”

“Aww..” The toddler is sad at first, but then her face lights up again. “More for me!”

Sherlock only sighs in relief, entirely missing Mary giving him a calculating look before going after Rosie to fulfil her wish.

His peace doesn’t last long, however. “So what else can I make you?” Mary calls out to him.

Remembering that he actually did eat something earlier today, he is quick to inform her that he had a banana not too long ago and was fine for now. 

“Alright..” she replies, unsure. “I think I’ll make lasagna. If you want to, you can always have some of it, later.” Mary offers.

Sherlock gives her a reassuring smile and grateful nod, already knowing that he definitely wouldn’t. There’s just something about staying at other people’s homes that makes him so uncomfortable. It doesn’t matter whose house it is, he always feels like an unwanted presence that everyone is just waiting for him to finally leave. He simply cannot stand hospitality. It makes him feel so indescribably guilty, for some reason.

Mary had vanished with Rosie into the toddler’s room a while ago. Sherlock hadn’t thought much about what was going on, until Rosie started crying out very loud “NO!”s, the door opens and the toddler runs out to him on the sofa. 

“What’s going on?” He asks once Mary emerges as well. She looks tired and annoyed.

“Just the usual. She needs a nap, but she’s too hyper to calm down.” 

The mention of needing naps makes Sherlock think of how, when his energy depletes and the fatigue hits him, napping is inevitable. He physically can’t stay awake until the end of the day. It’s humiliating, and he’s lucky he hadn’t fallen asleep standing up at the Yard during a case.

Mary is next to the sofa now, gently trying to pull Rosie off. “Come on, honey pie. Please.” 

The little girl clings to Sherlock’s arm, yelling at her mum with another “NO”. Sherlock had promised to John that he wouldn’t interfere with their discipline, but intuition has taken over. “Rosie, go with your mommy. I’m not going anywhere.” He says, strict but gentle.

She looks up at him with big eyes, then releases his arm and turns to Mary, hanging her head. “Sowy.”

“Come here.” Mary repeats softly. Rosie crawls over to her and lets Mary pick her up. “I know you love your uncle Sherlock, but it’s time for your nap.” She carries her back to her room.

Feeling like she would never be able to fall asleep if he stays here, Sherlock follows them. The pain is thankfully getting better, the steroid shot seems to finally kick in. 

Mary is showing Rosie an assortment of bed time stories, but the toddler wasn’t having it.

Sherlock remembers when he was watching her as a baby and played a few pieces to make her fall asleep. He wishes he had his violin so he could play something to help her sleep, though he was hardly ever playing anymore to begin with. It was just fuelling the POTS symptoms… 

Then he remembers that he has a few pieces downloaded on his phone, and pulls it out from his pocket. He looks through the list, looking for one that he finds more suited to put a toddler to sleep, and starts playing Divenire. 

“Oh, that sounds beautiful.” Mary comments after a few minutes. “I think I know it.”

“Most people do.” Sherlock replies, and they both watch as Rosie gets comfortable and closes her eyes. Sherlock shows Mary the title on his phone, knowing that she’ll remember it for later. 

They stay quiet, letting the music do its magic, until Rosie falls asleep.

“If I had known that all it takes for her to calm down is classical music, it would have saved us a lot of tantrums.” Mary says in amusement when they’re out of her room again. She doesn’t watch him the way John does when Sherlock walks with the cane. She simply keeps an eye on him through her peripheral vision and matches his pace, without appearing that she’s basically moving in slow motion. 

Once Sherlock is resting on the sofa again, he finally comments “this is new.” He remembers that their old sofa had only had enough room to fit two people. It’s one of those things you suddenly pay attention to, when your body requires you to sit or lay down frequently to avoid collapsing. 

“Yes. I admit, it’s been a wish of mine for a long time to have a large sofa like this.” Mary explains. “The money was there, but John kept insisting that we keep it saved for whatever Rosie may want or need. So, in a way, I guess I should thank you for getting John to allow this.”

It’s taking Sherlock an embarrassingly long moment to remember that he’d won the lottery for John. “Oh, uhm. You’re welcome…?” 

Mary smiles sadly at him, which makes him nervous in a way he doesn’t fully understand. “Are you sure that you don’t want to eat anything? It’ll still be a few hours until John gets back.”

What does John have to do with it? “No, thanks, I’m just not hungry.” He shrugs. It was the truth.

Mary gives him that sad, almost pitying look a moment longer, before nodding. She  goes back into the kitchen and works on the lasagna. 

Sherlock ends up sleeping some more until John gets home.

“Hey mate,” John greets him, Sherlock having woken up when the door opened. Sherlock noticed John’s slightly damp hair and a bag that doesn’t hold medical equipment, but sports wear from the looks of it. Deduction: John is going to a gym. Why? He wasn’t sure. He also wasn’t sure why that deduction made him feel jealous.

“Daddy!” Rosie yells, entirely too loud again. 

“Heeeey lovebug.” He kneels down so she could run into his arms. “Had a good day?” He asks when she pulls away again.

“Yes!” She exclaims, jumping on the spot.

“Did you behave?” John asks playfully. 

“Yes, daddy.” She keeps jumping excitedly.

He chuckles and Rosie climbs back on the sofa next to Sherlock.

“What about Sherlock? Did he behave?” John asks his daughter, and Sherlock gives him a baffled look.

“No!” Rosie giggles.

“No?” John could barely contain the giggle as he looks at Sherlock. They hear Mary trying to stifle a laugh in the kitchen.

“No!” Rosie grins, giggling.

“What did he do, lovebug?” John asks curiously.

Now the little girl was stumped. “Ummmmmmm..”

John just grins to himself and decides to regard Sherlock. “Did you eat something at least?”

“No!” Rosie yells, once again.

“No?” John asks, this time looking concerned at his friend.

“I did..” Sherlock says, sounding almost defensive.

“No eat at table!” Rosie interrupts.

John sighs a little in relief. “That’s alright, lovebug. Sherlock doesn’t have to eat at the table.”

“John?” Mary calls from the kitchen. “Dinner is ready.”

“Coming!” John calls before turning back to Sherlock. “You coming?”

Before Sherlock could utter a single word, Rosie jumps up again. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Sherlock winces at the volume.

“Rosie!” John scolds, placing his pointer finger in front of his lips to tell her that she’s being too loud. 

She ignores him, wraps her hands around Sherlock’s arms and pulls at him. “Come! Yummy!”

Who could refuse a child so happy to have him? “Yes, fine, okay.” He relents, grabbing for the cane.

“You know you don’t have to.” John reminds him, knowing how weird Sherlock was about eating at other people’s places. Greg has told him a bit about it, so John knows how uncomfortable Sherlock feels at other’s hospitality.

“It’s fine.” Sherlock says, giving John a pointed look to drop it. He was not discussing this in front of Rosie – if there even was anything to discuss in the first place. I am fine. I ate that banana today, there’s nothing worth mentioning. John is just making me second guess myself with his over-accommodating attitude.

Rosie runs to the table and sits in ‘her’ chair until the men arrive.

Mary seems a bit surprised that Sherlock decided to join, after his earlier declarations. So he’ll eat in John’s presence, after all. Afraid that he’ll call him out on it if he doesn’t? Or is he maybe more hungry than he thought?

“How much can I give you?” She asks, ready to cut the lasagna.

Sherlock feels once again put on the spot. “Uh.. you guys can go first.”

Mary and John share a concerned glance. Are you afraid you’ll end up taking a bigger piece than us and feel judged or guilty? Mary wonders, but nods and starts handing out equal pieces for herself and John, and a smaller square for Rosie. At Sherlock’s nod, she gives him one of equal size of what Rosie has.

“Thanks hun.” John gives his wife a small peck on her cheek.

“You’re welcome.”

Mary tries to make it not noticeable that she’s keeping an eye on Sherlock while she eats, but she’s saddened when he picks it apart, separating the noodle plates from the filling, and only eating small amounts of both every now and then. The cheese is carefully pushed away to the side. His full attention is on the plate, and Mary feels her heart breaking at the familiar pattern.

She could still be wrong about this. She doesn’t know Sherlock as well as John does, and surely he would have noticed something long ago, being a doctor and all. 

John nudges her with his elbow, and shakes his head at her when she looks at him. Apparently she’s been caught, not by Sherlock but by her husband. She throws him a worried, yet apologetic, look, and focuses on her own plate.

When everyone is done, Mary can’t stop herself. “Did you not like it?” She asks, before taking up his still half full plate.

“Mary.” John hisses and steers her away. “Sherlock, go lay down if you want.”

Sherlock nods and does just that, wanting to apologise and tell Mary that it wasn’t her cooking. He just didn’t feel like eating, like it’s been happening more and more often. It wasn’t her fault.

Rosie has already run off to her room to play, as was the routine.

The Watsons are quietly cleaning up in the kitchen, but Sherlock feels guilty for being such an inconvenience.

Later on, John makes sure that Sherlock takes enough painkillers to help him get some more rest.

But even with John sleeping next to him, and the electric blanket keeping him warm and the pain at bay, he still feels disconnected, alone, cold. 

The next day he’s still in a lot of pain, but it seems that the steroid shot was finally taking effect. He was still wincing at every movement of his hip, but he wasn’t suppressing cries of pain and fighting the urge to hurt himself anymore. 

What had gotten worse was his hair. But he couldn’t really wash it, since every position he could think of would be too painful, and for once in his life, he doesn’t want to challenge it. 

“I need a hat.” He grumbles when Mary brushes Rosie’s beautiful blonde hair on the sofa (Rosie always wants to be near him, it’s quite adorable).

“Why? You’re not going out, are you?” Mary asks.

“No, but I think the mirror might just shatter if it saw my hair.”

Mary chuckles. “If you want, you could give dry shampoo a try.”

“Dry shampoo? What, is that like a tofu variant?” Sherlock asks. He had seen others in the Facebook group say how ‘dry shampoo was made for us disabled folks’, but he’s never been daring enough to actually give it a try. He was too worried that it would ruin his hair and make it sticky and gross feeling like hair spray. 

Mary laughs. “It doesn’t fully replace actual washing with water, but it can freshen it up and give you the look like you washed it.”

Sherlock debates that. “Okay.”

“I just have to finish the braid. You can go to the bathroom, I’ll be right there.” She tells him, while focusing on giving Rosie braids down the sides of her head and ending in a little pig tail above the back of her neck.

Rosie happily jumps about while Mary is in the bathroom with Sherlock. She’s shaking the can. “Close your eyes and hold your breath.” She warns, and when he does, she starts spraying it on his hair. 

They both wave at the air, but Sherlock still ends up coughing from the artificial flower scent. His hand clenches around the cane handle when the coughing causes the hip pain to flare terribly.

Mary meanwhile ruffles Sherlock’s hair to spread the ‘shampoo’ everywhere. 

Once Sherlock got his breath back, and looks in the mirror, he’s quite impressed. It really looks like he’s just spent half an hour on washing and drying his hair, all in not even two minutes.

“What is this wizardry?” Sherlock asks perplexed.

Mary only laughs.

He munches on a few liquorice snails that John gave him that morning, when Sherlock had been more dizzy and lightheaded than usual. “They’ll help get your blood pressure up, I’ve read about it recently. Just don’t overdo it.” The doctor had said with a wink, referring to the last time he’s given Sherlock liquorice to help get his bowels moving. 

Sherlock doesn’t notice Mary’s concerned, watchful eyes before she leaves for work.

His phone battery dies some time during the day, but he doesn’t have his charger with him and the Watson household has neither anything from Apple, nor futuristic technology like wireless charging. It was fine, though. He would survive without it, so he doesn’t mention it when they all get home.

On the third day, Sherlock felt well enough to go back home (with the cane and wheelchair, of course). It may have had something to do with how the uncomfortable feeling, that he always gets when staying at someone else’s house, was finally becoming unbearable. 

He promised John that he would stay at home and rest until he was really healed (while using the term ‘healed’ very loosely, since that joint would probably never fully recover) and not gonna run around London.

For some reason, the feeling of shame started eating at him at the phrase ‘run around London’. He wasn’t in a good enough shape to do that, anyways. Injury or not.

Finally back in his familiar surroundings, he plugs in his phone to charge before placing his watch on its charger as well. As much as he would like to just lay down, he knows that he’s barely eaten enough to get himself through, so he carefully makes his way to the kitchen, looking for something edible. 

Everything he looks at is appetising, and then utterly revolting in his eyes. His stomach hurts and everything he considers picking up, his brain screams No! and he pulls his hand away.

In the end he takes an apple that’s still looking good, both in terms of its state of perishability and also in his mind. He doesn’t sit down, just keeps pacing in small steps back and forth, eventually ending up walking laps around the table in the kitchen. 

Once only the core is left of the apple, he limps back to his bedroom, his hip now irritated at his constant moving about.

Shortly after his phone turns back to life, it vibrates and ding!s like crazy with notifications. Leaning over, he takes it in his hands and looks through the messages that popped up. 

He has three messages from unfamiliar numbers, as well as eight emails, and every single one is rudely saying that he ‘totally faked passing out at the trial’. He wonders why these people are suddenly so concerned about that, and why in heaven’s name they claim that he "faked" fainting like that. 

Frowning at the screen, he deletes all of the emails and blocks the numbers, deciding to just ignore it.

Chapter Text

“Hey, John?” Mary says softly. They’ve retreated to bed ten minutes ago, but her mind was far from sleep.

“Hm?”

“You’ve known Sherlock for much longer than me.”

John turns on the small lamp on his bedside table, turns on his side to face her, and props himself up on his elbow, already knowing where this was going.“Yes?”

“Have you ever.. noticed anything strange?” 

John chuckles. “We’re talking about the same person here, right?”

But Mary isn’t amused. “Has he ever behaved strangely around food?”

“Well, you know that he thinks he’s above all human functions and refused to eat on cases like some messed up hunger strike. You’ve read the blog; you know what he always said, ‘digestion slows down my thought process’ and all that.”

“And beyond that?”

“Mary, what are you trying to say, here?”

She looks away. “I think Sherlock has an eating disorder.” 

John scoffs and just laughs. “Mary, I swear to you, he’s fine. Yes, he doesn’t eat as much, or regularly, as I and probably everyone who cares about him would like him to, but he eats. He doesn’t want to be underweight. He was actually ashamed of how he looked when he lost so much weight last year.”

“Is he allergic to chicken?” She asks straight out.

John hesitates, growing quiet. He didn’t know how to explain that one, and he didn’t want to talk about such things behind Sherlock’s back. The younger was still badly affected by the trauma, as John recently discovered.

Mary stays turned away from him, not saying more.

“Hey.. I know that you’re worried about him, but he just doesn’t like eating what other people offer him. He’s always been like that, alright?” He says gently, reaching over to take her hand into his. She allows it. “And I’m pretty sure that he just wasn’t hungry much because of the pain, too.”

Mary finally turns to him, giving him a quick, fake smile. “You’re probably right. Good night.” She kisses him, then turns away again, shifting to get more comfortable.

“Night.” John kills the light, not thinking much of her worries.

The next morning, however, Rosie only took one spoonful before pushing her bowl away and happily declaring “finish!”

“Rosie, you haven’t even touched it.” Mary remarks, pushing it back to her daughter.

“No!” She says, squirming happily in her seat.

“What’s going on, Rosie?” John wonders genuinely.

“No eat!”

“Why not?”

“No eat! Like Sheelook!”

John and Mary share a startled look. Mary’s eyes show the same concern from their conversation last night, but John shakes his head. He turns back to Rosie. “You want to be like your uncle, huh?”

“Ya!”

“Then you have to eat your breakfast, to become big and strong like uncle Sherlock.” He tries to reason, and thankfully, his daughter is still highly gullible and really finishes her breakfast this time. He’s still confident in what he told Mary the night before, but even he can’t deny the seed of doubt that’s now been planted.

A week later, Sherlock is with Astra again. He has the honours of taking off the bandages for the last time. Her stitches have been removed and the wound is completely healed up, leaving only a scar behind.

He carefully peels it off, exposing the naked, scarred skin. 

“You know what this means? You can finally go out in the pasture again.” He tells her fondly, and Astra gives a high pitched whinny and stomps her right leg. 

“Don’t get too excited. No running, still. You need to give yourself time to heal.” Sherlock reminds her, and Astra flicks her tail at him.

“Yeah yeah, I know. Come on.” He gets out of her box and gives her a hand signal for her to come out as well. She calmly follows him outside and waits at the gate for him to give her the go-ahead.

“Behave.” He tells her and gives her the signal. Astra trots out into the paddock, tail flying high behind her and her head proud in the air. 

Watching her being so happy, graces a smile on his face. 

Sadly the moment gets ruined when Collins runs up to him. “Mister Holmes!”

Sherlock sighs and turns to the man. 

“I have dire news. The same thing that happened to your horse has now happened to one of our champions!” Collins says urgently.

“What? When?”

“This morning. It was the exact same thing; horse is outside alone, and gets shot at with no sign of the shooter.”

Sherlock frowns. “Take me to your estate.” 

Coincidentally, Greg was already informed and is waiting for his forensic team to get pictures of everything. He’s a bit surprised when he sees Sherlock approaching.

“What are you doing here?” He asks.

“Collins asked me to come.” Sherlock replies simply, pointing to the man in question who is being held up by one of the forensics.

“You know him?” Greg can’t help but ask.

“Yeah, sort of.” Sherlock shakes his head, not wanting to go into details of their first meeting. “He’s asked me before to investigate something, but I never got around to it.”

“The sick horses and riders? Yeah, we know about that. Still don’t know what’s up with that to be honest.”

“Guess this case just got a lot more interesting.” Sherlock mutters and looks around, taking in as many details as possible.

“Are you okay to do this?” Greg asks in a low tone. “What with your own horse having been in the same situation, I mean.”

Sherlock shakes his head, not looking at the DI. “I think I’ll be fine as long as I don’t have to see the horse.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock goes to check the paddocks. Collins follows him. “That’s where it happened.” He points to the cordoned off area that surrounds a blood splatter. Sherlock has to blink and look away.

“That’s only where the horse was at. But where was the shooter?” Sherlock thinks out loud and crouches down on the ground to look for any signs of someone having stood there and possibly run off. But there’s nothing.

He stands back up, waits for the dizziness to pass, and regards Collins. “How deep was the wound? And do you still have the bullet?” 

“Not very deep, thank God. But it could still be enough to end Champion’s career. The extracted bullet is already with the police.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “The horse’s name is Champion?”

Collins laughs. “No, it’s his nickname. Though his real name gets close enough. Champagne Arceus The Third.”

Sherlock nods. “Good lineage?”

“Oh, the best.” Collins grins. “Which is why we suppose that this wasn’t just some idiot’s idea to shoot at a random horse.”

Sherlock nods in agreement. 

“What about yours?” Collins asks.

“Hm?”

“Your horse. He’s a beauty.”

“She.” Sherlock correctly automatically, like that’s the most important thing in the world.

“Sorry, she is a beauty.”

Sherlock smiles to himself. “Yeah, she is.”

Collins grins. “Does she have any lineage?”

Sherlock freezes at the question. “I think she does…” he stares off into the empty paddock. There’s the odd pressure in his chest again. Blinking rapidly, he dizzily reaches out to steady himself with the wooden fence. He always gets hit by the nasty pre-syncope at the worst possible times.

Collins tilts his head. “Are you alright?”

Greg approaches them from behind. “Any news?”

Collins gives him a pleading look, and points to the still pretty much mentally absent Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” Greg asks. “You okay?” 

Sherlock feels his heart rate go faster for a moment. He breaks out of his trance and shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah, just.. I have to get out of the sun.” He decides.

“Well, feel free to come inside my office. Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?” Collins offers.

“Just water.” Sherlock replies and all three walk into the building.

Greg watches his consultant with concern when he slumps down into an armchair, head in his hands. “Do I have to call John?” 

Sherlock raises his head enough to shake it 'no'. “He said something. It got me thinking.” He explains. Half the truth was better than none.

“And what is it?” Greg wonders.

“I think this isn’t a coincidence, and neither was Astra. Someone is deliberately selecting high lineage horses to indispose.” Sherlock explains dryly. “I have to call Mycroft.” He gets up and goes back outside before Collins could bring him the water.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft says after accepting his call.

“Do you still have Astra’s documents?” Sherlock asks, repeatedly tensing his leg muscles to help combat pre-syncope, even though he’s feeling pretty alright again.

“.. I should. Why?”

“Do you remember what her lineage was?”

“Her lineage?” Mycroft asks confused.

“Her full name. It was their tradition to give champion foals the same middle names as the parents, remember?.”

Mycroft hums in thought. “I think it said something like Belladonna Basil and F-something.”

“Very helpful.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You’re slipping.”

“Middle age, little brother. Comes to us all.” Mycroft sneers.

“At least we know for sure that she has multiple names..” Sherlock mutters. He’d just needed it confirmed.

“Is this good news or bad news?” Mycroft asks, hearing the subtext.

“I don’t know yet. Call me when you find her documents.” Sherlock replies and hangs up. He sighs, pulling up his shirt sleeves. He really is feeling hot.

He goes back inside and sits down in 'his' chair again. Collins offers him the water bottle and Sherlock drinks it halfway in one go. 

Greg eyes his bare arms suspiciously but doesn’t say anything. 

Putting down the water, Sherlock looks at Collins seriously. “I think you’re right. Someone is trying to sabotage high lineage horses.”

“I shall warn the other riding centres then.” Collins says and leaves them to do just that.

Using their short moment of privacy, Greg leans over to Sherlock and whispers “are you losing weight again?”

“No?” Sherlock says and pulls down his sleeves again, feeling self conscious. 

The next day they’re meeting at the Yard to look through the many pictures and CCTVs nearby. Sherlock has requested John’s presence, himself.

Sherlock discovers what looks like tire markings from a bike or similar behind the round-pen. “What about this?”

“Maybe someone came with their bike?” John suggests. 

“And leaves it there? No horse owner in their right mind would do that. The handles could reach into it and injure the horse if it gets too close to the fence.” Sherlock points out. 

“But what if it wasn’t in use?” Greg asks.

“Again, no one in their right mind would do it. There’s a reason why they put the rods for bikes outside of stable grounds. In some places, you’re not even allowed to bring a bike on the grounds.” 

Anderson scoffs. “And you would know all about that.”

Sherlock glares at him but doesn’t say anything to him. “There’s two options. It was the shooter, or it was an uneducated guest. The marks are fresh, so it’s more likely our shooter.” With a gleeful grin, Sherlock gets up from his chair, and right as he’s passing Anderson, he is hit with syncope. Anderson instantly catches him when his knees go weak, and John and Greg rush to his sides and help support Sherlock’s dead weight. 

“What the hell?” Anderson grumbles but keeps a firm hold around Sherlock’s chest.

It only lasts about ten seconds before Sherlock is back, and when he realises what happened, he only offers a sheepish “got up too fast,” before pushing the many hands away from him.

John watches him thoughtfully as Sherlock steps away from Anderson. “You’re welcome, Freak.” The latter says in distaste, and Sherlock brushes off his clothes. “Maybe put on a few pounds. I could feel all your ribs.” The officer mutters under his breath.

Sherlock looks like a deer caught in headlights and looks away in embarrassment. 

Unbeknownst to everyone, Sally Donovan had watched everything through the window to the media room, and looks thoughtfully at Sherlock’s reaction.

Thankfully the others inside the room don’t seem to mind the comment much, though it has definitely peaked John’s and Greg’s interest, and Sherlock in turn doubles his efforts in masking, to get them to back off again.

When he gets home a few hours later, dead tired and ready to just collapse in his bed, his watch vibrates with a message, and Sherlock closes his eyes in anticipation. Of course it’s another hateful message about how fake he is. He deletes it on the watch and tries to do the same in his mind palace, but it’s getting harder and harder to delete it from his hard drive with every message.

The thought to eat anything doesn’t even occur to him, he just goes straight to bed and pretends to not exist.

Chapter Text

He exercises in the mornings, before he takes his meds, so that his heart rate will go higher and he’ll burn more calories. He pays for it with some minor chest pains, but just watching the calorie counter go up so fast is oddly comforting to him. He could fix this. Yes, he is deconditioned from his own laziness, but he would remedy it. 

It’s also a way for him to fight off the fatigue that plagues him, making him feel so lazy when he has to make himself get out of bed. He’s always shaky and fainty afterwards, because his blood pressure likes to drop into the cellar after physical exertion, plus the slight dehydration from sweating, but it’s all worth it.

The boys are at New Scotland Yard again the next day. John is mostly just present because he’s concerned about Sherlock after his little stunt yesterday.

Greg has thankfully stopped watching Sherlock’s every move, and John is easy enough to fool.

Their progress gets disrupted when Sherlock’s watch starts to ping with messages. He ignores the first, and the second one two minutes later. At the third one, Greg clears his throat. “Don’t you want to get that? Apparently someone is trying to get your attention.”

Not wanting to explain why he doesn’t really want to know, he just nods and gets his phone to look at the messages better. He’s about to dismiss the new hate messages, but one is different. The number is familiar to him, and his eyes widen when he reads the message.

Sherlock, it’s your father. Mycroft gave me your new number. Please call me back.

He looks up at Greg and John, who are the only ones still waiting on Sherlock at this point. The other officers have already turned their backs on him and resumed working. “Excuse me.” He says before dashing out of the building without another word.

John shares a quick look with Greg before going after him. He stops in front of the exit, watching Sherlock on a phone call through the glass windows in the door. 

The call goes on for a good ten minutes, with Sherlock switching through every possible emotion multiple times. Although ‘anger’ and ‘upset’ seem to take over after a few minutes. John couldn’t remember ever seeing Sherlock so involved in a phone call.

When Sherlock finally gets off the phone, John comes outside to him. 

“What is it? Did something happen?” 

Sherlock sends Mycroft an angry message to come to Baker Street immediately, before pocketing it. “Ooohohoh yes, ‘something’ happened, alright. And my dear brother has a lot to answer for.” He replies darkly, walking off towards the street.

“What? What do you mean?” John asks, startled. He picks up pace to keep up with Sherlock.

“He didn’t tell me that our mother was still alive after.. our visit.” Sherlock growls and gets into a cab.

“Wait, you didn’t know?” John asks, getting in after him. He’d assumed that Mycroft would have told Sherlock at some point. It’s been a long time.

Sherlock freezes and throws him a glare. “Oh you knew it too, didn’t you? Wonderful!” 

John flinches. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you aren’t.” Sherlock mutters, looking out of his window.

“What? Of course I am. I’m sorry, Sherlock, seriously.” 

“If you were sorry, you wouldn’t have kept this info from me at all.” 

John couldn’t argue with that, so he stays silent for the rest of the cab ride.

Turning the straight door knocker a bit to the side, Sherlock stomps up the stairs angrily.

Before Mycroft could even turn around to greet his brother, Sherlock is already shouting abuse. “Why didn’t you tell me that my mother was still alive?!”

“..what?” Mycroft asks, shocked by the sudden outburst. 

“Why did father have to tell me that she was still alive?! I thought she died right after our argument! How could you not have told me about that?” Sherlock demands, heated. He climbs up on his leather chair, feet on the seating and his bottom on the back rest. The position makes the too large phone dig into his hip from inside the pocket, so he carelessly throws it on the coffee table with a clatter.

Mycroft takes a seat in John’s chair. John finally gets up on the landing as well, too busy processing what is happening to say anything.

“Even if you had known, I more than likely wouldn’t have let you see her, anyways. Father-” Mycroft gets cut off by Sherlock’s phone lighting up and vibrating with a new email, which makes Sherlock sigh in an agitated way.

He had turned off that the watch would ‘mirror’ the mails notifications after ten mails from those obsessed people came one after the next at one point, which was seriously getting on his nerves when they broke his concentration each time. He used to get a rush of joy at the prospect of an interesting case having just entered his e-mail box. Nowadays? There’s only dread.

“Ignore that.” Sherlock commands and stares intently at his brother.

Mycroft eyes Sherlock’s phone for another moment, before continuing. “Father said it wasn’t a pretty sight. Tubes everywhere, and she didn’t look well at all. I didn’t want that to be your last memory of her.”

Sherlock wants to argue that the one he’s got, about the fight that landed her on her deathbed in the hospital – literally, wasn’t exactly much better.

But Mycroft continues. “The one you have is already bad enough.”

“I could have talked to her, Mycroft. We could have.. made up.” Sherlock points out.

The other two men both feel a cold shiver run down their spines. Neither of them had thought that Sherlock would have wanted to rekindle.

Mycroft recovers quickly and tries to reason with him. “Sherlock, you weren’t in a good place mentally, at the time. You only feel this way now, because you’ve had enough time to calm down and think about it.”

“Don’t even attempt to justify this, Mycroft.” Sherlock growls out through grit teeth. He is absolutely livid. “You didn’t even give me the fucking chance.”

Ignoring his brother’s choice of words, Mycroft stays calm. “Whatever you think, it wouldn’t have ended well if I had taken you to see her, Sherlock. In all likelihood, you two would have argued again, which might have really killed her then and there, and you would have found a way to shoot up. I couldn’t take that chance.”

A low scream tears from Sherlock’s throat as he repeatedly hits his thigh with a fist. “Fuck my addiction! Screw me! My mother is dead and you wouldn’t even let me say goodbye to her!” 

The flat is dead silent for a good minute, as each one feels a different set of upsetting emotions.

“I didn’t see her, either, Sherlock.” Mycroft breaks the silence, keeping his voice so soft, yet it feels like he’s yelling. “Keeping you safe was all that mattered to me.”

“Still doesn’t justify not telling me about her funeral.” Sherlock grumbles out, not looking at either man. “They must have thought I didn’t give a shit about her.” 

Mycroft sighs. “It was just me and father. Despite what you may think, our parents weren’t exactly the most liked. What do you think why they chose to move away, after all these years?”

That silences him. Sherlock turns away from his brother, gets up and looks out the window. “I’m not ready to visit her grave.” He admits quietly.

John steps closer to him. “Then you don’t have to. Nobody is forcing you. And nobody thinks ill of you for needing time.”

“Yeah, but what kind of a son doesn’t visit his own mother’s grave?” Sherlock retorts, and when he turns around, he finds John giving him a pointed look. “Sorry..” He’d momentarily forgotten that John’s own parents were long dead, and as far as he knew, John hasn’t been to his mother’s grave since moving to London.

“None taken. You’ve got more than enough on your plate.” John says and Sherlock’s stomach clenches at the phrasing, in fear that John might know. But the doctor doesn’t notice and just continues. “Please just focus on yourself, here. Don’t reproach yourself for the way things are, none of it was your fault. Getting sick, needing more time to solve a case, losing your mother, almost losing Astra.. none of that was in any way your fault.”

His phone gives another email alert, completely ruining the moment, and Sherlock digs his finger nails into the flesh of his arm. By now, even John has noticed the change in his demeanour whenever the phone makes a noise. He raises an eyebrow at his friend. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock growls, which obviously has the opposite effect.

Mycroft gets to his feet and picks up Sherlock’s phone without another word, and Sherlock’s yell of “no!” comes too late. Sherlock doesn’t use any kind of lock on his devices, so his brother easily opens the mails and frowns.

Glaring at the messages, he turns to his brother and demands “what the hell is this? How long has that been going on for?”

Right when Sherlock tries to make up something, another email arrives on his phone, and Sherlock only shakes his head and covers his face with his hands in shame.

John, now even more confused, regards the elder Holmes who has gone back to reading the emails. “What’s going on?”

“These emails.. it would appear that some people have an unhealthy obsession with my brother.” Mycroft says in disgust, looking over at John. “They attach screenshots of that blasted clip where he fainted during the trial, and call him a faker.” 

“What?” John asks in complete disbelief. He walks over to see for himself. Mycroft hands him the phone.

You have obviously never seen a real person pass out because that’s not what it looks like. Worst acting I have ever seen. You’re a disgrace to the entire disabled community, pretending to faint just because you can’t solve crimes right. I dearly hope you know that.

John shakes his head, then opens the two pictures that this one came with. They’re slightly blurry/pixelated screenshots from the televised trial, zoomed in on Sherlock. The first is from when he’s dropping the stack of papers, his face already deathly pale and gaze appearing absent. The second screenshot shows him half hanging on to the podium, half already collapsed.

John looks over at Sherlock, who is standing in front of the window, looking outside, arms tightly wrapped around himself in a protective way.

He looks at Mycroft, a million questions running through his head. “Where are they even getting these from? They cut the official footage; I haven’t even seen it like this.”

Mycroft sighs sadly. “There were international websites that still featured exactly this moment in a two or three minute video that my people had missed for a short while. We got everything taken down, but I fear that some people must have downloaded it somehow, when the pages were still up.”

“Shit..” John curses.

Mycroft watches his little brother with concern. He knows how upsetting this event was for him, and still is. “I’ll see what I can do about this, Sherlock.” He promises. “Don’t open any emails until then.”

Sherlock looks down at the windowsill. “It’s not only emails..”

“Where else are you getting these messages?” Mycroft asks.

John, looking through the apps, finds an answer to that question. “Per SMS.” He scrolls through the many numbers that have sent Sherlock messages. Sherlock’s new phone number is on his website, providing easy access for these sick (not in the same sense as Sherlock’s sickness) people. Most of the more recent ones (which John has to scroll 3 times just to reach last week’s messages) haven’t even been opened, yet. He’s feeling a bit overwhelmed and even nauseated at just the sheer amount of mobile numbers that have sent such messages. Obviously a lot of these are from the same people, using fake numbers in case Sherlock blocks them, just so he couldn’t escape. So many messages, in fact, that his own chat with Sherlock is practically shoved to the very bottom. “Jesus Christ..” he breathes when he reads the starts of a few messages that are shown in a preview under the numbers, not opening any of them.

Mycroft is by his side in no time, watching in disgust as John scrolls back up to the top. “When did those start?” He asks both John and Sherlock, although the latter makes no sign that he is even listening.

“The first text message was from September 3rd, I think.” John replies, scrolling all the way down again. “Correction, September 5th.”

Mycroft feels torn. On one hand, he wants to confiscate Sherlock’s phone so he at least doesn’t see these anymore. But he can’t, because Sherlock needs to have his phone to call for help if something happens.

“Sherlock?” John calls him softly. The man in question looks at John over his shoulder. “Is there some way for you to turn off these notifications?”

“Of course.” Sherlock replies quietly, and finally removes himself from his spot by the window to take his phone back. Right when he opens the Settings app, another SMS arrives, his eyes instantly moving to the top of the screen. John takes notice and quickly covers the top half of the screen with his hand. 

“Don’t look at them. Put it on airplane mode or something until you’ve turned off the notifications.” The doctor instructs, keeping his voice gentle.

Out of habit, Sherlock goes to swipe the screen from the bottom up, only to remember that the home-button-less phones open it from the top right corner, which John keeps covered. Then he realises that the airplane mode slider is the first thing below the iCloud in the settings. Like almost everyone, he had always just used the control centre to do it, no matter what app he’d had open. Now he feels stupid for not seeing it right away.

Airplane mode turned on, he tells John to remove his hand so he could see everything, and disables the notifications on his email and messages.

Locking the phone screen again, he feels like some huge weight has suddenly disappeared from his shoulders, and wonders why he hadn’t thought of this before.

Chapter Text

He couldn’t stay away from Facebook. He ignores the hate messages he gets on there, but he’s too curious about the posts in the POTS and Dysautonomia group. There was still so much he had to learn, even after living with the condition for almost two entire years.

But lately, the majority of the posts is about EDS and the issues. Tips on how to deal with dislocated joints, videos of the stretchy skin, a lot of memes about how their bodies are falling apart but it’s normal, and some people upload pictures of their hypermobile joints in slightly nauseating positions. 

Despite knowing better, Sherlock was curious and tried to copy the pictures – with varying degrees or success. 

It strikes him as odd at how many people seem to have some type of Ehlers Danlos, but he doesn’t meet the criteria. Even here, I just don’t fit in. I’ll always be the odd one out, don’t I?

He sends Skyler a message about his thoughts, asking if everyone in the group has EDS.

Skyler Tailor
Nah, it’s just more common for people with connective tissue disorders to develop dysautonomia, because of the elasticity of the veins, aka more blood pooling. 

Why do you ask?

Sherlock Holmes 
I don’t think I have EDS.

Skyler Tailor
Well it’s not necessary, not everyone with POTS has EDS and not everyone with EDS has POTS. 

Andrea wants to know if you’re flexible

Sherlock Holmes 
I have diagnosed hypermobility syndrome 

There’s a short break in messages and Sherlock feels like a fraud for even saying that. Compared to these other people, he doesn’t dislocate his joints even half as often. 

Skyler Tailor
Andrea wants to see it, if you got time

He hesitates for ten seconds, then clicks on the video call button at the top of their chat pop-up.

The call gets accepted almost instantly, and Andrea waves at him. “Hey!” She says happily. Sherlock could see the back rest of a sofa behind her and Skyler. He guesses that Skyler had moved to the living room with his laptop once he told Andrea about Sherlock’s problems.

“Hi.” He smiles genuinely.

“Okay, show me what you got.” Andrea says, sounding a bit too excited.

Sherlock copies the pictures of others again, to the best of his ability.

“Not bad.” She laughs. “Do your elbows hyperextend?” She stretches her right arm out to the side, letting the lower part rest limply, creating an angle in her elbow that makes her arm look broken.

Sherlock pulls his arm out of the sleeve of his dressing gown and does the same motions, his own elbow hyperextending almost as much as Andrea’s had.

“Hoho, Andrea I think you’ve got competition.” Skyler laughs.

Andrea just throws him a grin before looking back at the screen. “What about your knees?”

Sherlock nods. “Not as much as when I was a teen, but I still can, especially the left one. I had to have surgery on my right because of frequent patella luxations.”

Andrea sighs dramatically. “Finally someone who understands! Aren’t knees just the worst?”

“I thought your shoulder was the worst?” Skyler asks her in amusement.

“Yes, that too.” She giggles. “I have a lot of ‘worst’ joints, don’t I?”

“Only like ten.” 

They all laugh.

“What’s your worst joint?” Andrea asks curiously.

Sherlock glares at his right wrist, holding it up and pointing to it with his other hand. “This thing here, but I’m with you on the knee hatred. Also recently my hip.”

Andrea leans forward at that. “You dislocated your hip?”

“Yes. A few weeks ago. It’s healing.. sort of. I already hated my shoulder, wrist and knees with a passion, but then the hip came along and now it’s number one.” Sherlock grumbles.

“Oh hell.. yeah that one’s a bitch.” Andrea says sympathetically.

Skyler points to his wife. “She dislocated her left one a year ago, when she tried to pull on a pair of jeans while laying in bed after a shower.”

“And it’s still bothering me.” Andrea adds, annoyed. “Because I didn’t have enough chronic pain as it was. Had to add the hip.”

Yeah, people with EDS have much worse problems than me. I totally could have prevented that dislocation, if I had just stuck to exercising and kept enough muscle mass to hold the stupid joints in place. Andrea dislocates joints from simple everyday things, I’m at fault for mine dislocating.

“How about your body shape? Do you have long legs compared to your torso?” She asks next.

Sherlock nods, since that describes him perfectly. “I feel like my whole body is just un-proportional.” He jokes and her eyes light up, similar to how Sherlock gets that look when he connects the pieces on a case. 

“Have you always been really slim?” She asks, and Sherlock feels strangely unnerved by the question. 

“Uh, yes. I don’t think I’ve ever had normal weight, I have always been underweight.” At least that’s what everyone always told me. Can’t say I felt very underweight in my late teens and onwards. 

Definitely don’t feel ‘underweight’ right now, either.

Andrea nods giddily. “What about your chest?” 

“My chest?” 

“Is it shaped weirdly? Like, is your sternum pressing in?” 

The question makes Sherlock move a hand to his chest and feel, actually feel everything. He could easily feel all of his ribs and of course the sternum, and finds that it does lean inwards just a bit, but surely that was normal?

“I guess?” He decides to say.

“Have you ever heard of Marfan Syndrome?” She asks with the same enthusiasm as she has asked the other questions. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. Never heard if it.”

“Okay. It’s also a connective tissue disorder, pretty rare too. Basically what you’ve described, with long, lean body and hypermobile joints. POTS is super common, funnel chest – that’s why I asked about that – isn’t necessary but it’s common in Marfan. Have you had scoliosis?”

That last question sparks some memories. He could remember the doctor tracing his spine, remembers how it had felt like the physician was drawing a long stretched S over his back, and telling his parents that he would need physio therapy. 

It had been long before they moved to London, he had probably been around 8 years old. How did I forget about that?

“Sherlock?” 

He looks at the screen to see both Andrea and Skyler looking concerned.

“Sorry. I just remembered something.. that happens sometimes.” He explains sheepishly. “To answer your question: yes, I’ve had scoliosis as a kid.” 

Andrea lights up again at that. “Well, it’s not official without a genetics test or skin biopsy, but, I’m 126% sure that you have Marfan.” 

Sherlock snorts at the odd number. Could it really be that? Is there a deeper cause for all of this? A genetic disorder? He would have to look into it more.

“Oh! Have you seen that new study yet?” Andrea snaps him out of his thoughts.

“Hm? What study?”

She turns to Skyler. “Sky, do you still have the link?” 

“Of course.” He leans over the keyboard a bit as he clicks around.

She playfully rolls her eyes. “While he finds the link from his 479 tabs-” 

“I don’t have 479 tabs open..! I closed like twenty, yesterday.” 

“-I guess I can just tell you the gist of it. So basically they did a study on POTSies with hypermobile spectrum disorder or hypermobile EDS, and found out that.. what was it? Well the majority would meet the criteria for a diagnosis on the autism spectrum-”

Sherlock leans away from the screen in shock.

“-and now they want to look into it more, so see if there’s a connection.”

“Why.. why are you telling me?” Sherlock asks.

“Oh, I just thought.. never mind.” 

“Andrea is convinced that you’re part of the club, so to say.” Skyler elaborates, still apparently searching for the tab. Sherlock wonders if he really has so many open as Andrea said.

“..part of the club? You mean..?”

“That I’m on the spectrum? Yup.” She says proudly. “ASD and ADHD.”

“She’s been saying that you have to be autistic, from the way John describes you on his blog.” Skyler adds. “There! Found it!”

The way John describes me? Sherlock frowns, ignoring the other man’s victory. Is it that.. obvious? To other people?

The blip of Skyler sending him the link snaps him back to the fact that there are people watching him.

“So.. are you?” Andrea asks, sounding a bit unsure now. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“No, don’t worry, you haven’t. I.. I am.” 

That makes her grin again. She gives Sky a playful slap on his shoulder, to which he gives a non-meaning “ouch”. “See?! What did I tell you?” She turns back to the laptop. “My autidar is never wrong!”

“Auti-what-now?” Sherlock asks confused.

“Like gay-dar; you know how gay people just know it if someone else is also gay? But with autism, so.. autidar.” Andrea explains matter of factly.

“Can’t really say I’ve had that happen before, to be honest.” 

“Hmm.. well, maybe you don’t actively seek out other autistics. You’re not really looking for friends, huh?” She asks sympathetically.

Sherlock shakes his head. He’s never really thought of it before. 

“Well.. now you know. Hopefully they’ll do more studies and recommend a screening for autism on newly diagnosed POTSies with hypermobility, and vice versa.”

“Yeah.. yeah, that would save a lot of time.” Sherlock agrees, though his brain is already wandering off again. Is everything I have, always connected in some way? Like some programmed predisposition? 

Am I just going to develop more and more conditions over the years, now that my stupid body has gotten a taste?

Since it was still warm enough outside to not need the heating turned on inside the building, Sherlock didn’t worry too much about passing out at the Yard. Last time was just a blip, nothing more. He’d just gotten up too fast, like he’d said. 

It’s been happening quite a lot more often, but given that it was still fairly hot weather, it seems logical that his circulation disorder is causing more issues – John had said so, himself.

They go through security videos and statements for an hour, making slow but steady progress.

And then there was the pressure in his chest again, seemingly out of nowhere. His vision rapidly started to go black, and he could feel the blood rapidly draining from his face. Not knowing where John was right now, he quickly says into the room “s'écrouler”. 

John is immediately by his side and guiding him to the floor in a safe way.  “I’m here, I got you.” The doctor says, hoping that Sherlock had heard him.

Greg comes over to them as well, just to make sure that everything was alright.

Sherlock is panting fast, his body trying to combat the sudden drop in blood pressure (or whatever the hell was causing this), until his brain finally didn’t get enough blood and oxygen and he turns limp.

John keeps two fingers at his pulse point on the wrist and makes sure he keeps breathing. He finds the heart rate strangely slow for a moment, before picking up speed and returning to what he knows is normal for a medicated Sherlock. Not taking his eyes off of his friend, he asks Greg what time it is.

Knowing that John wasn’t asking for the time per se and instead wants a way to time how long Sherlock is out, he replies “three minutes after 12.”

After sitting in a tense silence that feels like it’s lasting forever, John comments “it’s kind of odd.”

“What is?” Greg asks.

“It happened so suddenly, is all. And normally he doesn’t pass out once he’s lying down. It’s always been his advantage, I guess.” He laughs. “He’d made a game out of it. Seeing how long he can go without completely passing out. I think his record was three and a half months.”

Greg snorts. “Trust Sherlock to turn every unfortunate circumstance into a game.”

John looks down at his friend with a sad smile. “He’s so much stronger than he gives himself credit for.”

“Yeeeaaap. Don’t have to tell me that. Remember, I’ve known him since before he was clean.” Greg smirks, sounding like a proud father.

John notices Sherlock’s eyelids twitching and puts a hand on his shoulder to try to rouse him. “Hey, Sherlock. It’s time to wake up. Greg, what’s the time?”

Checking his watch, Greg replies “almost 3 minutes.”

Also unusual. John notes.

Sherlock tries to shrug John’s hand away, still not opening his eyes.

“Come on, Sherlock.” John shakes his shoulder a bit.

“Nnnnnnggh.” Sherlock complains.

“Yes, I know. Come on, look at me.” John says. “Look at me.”

And Sherlock does. And he also sticks his tongue out at him, making both men laugh.

“Brat.” John playfully scolds. “Greg, honestly, didn’t you parent him at all?”

Greg laughs. “Don’t look at me! You know I’ve tried.”

“You g’ys ‘r st’p’d.” Sherlock mumbles.

“We know.” Both men reply in unison, making them giggle.

Lifting a heavy arm, Sherlock runs his hand down his face in sloppy movements. It comes to a rest on his chest and he sighs, closing his eyes again.

“Are you okay?” John asks seriously, a stark contrast to the giggly atmosphere earlier. He’s genuinely worried that something is not right, and with Sherlock’s illness, that’s not to be taken lightly. 

“Mmhmm.” 

“You sure?”

“Yeh.. jus..” Sherlock sighs, talking is still a lot of work. “Need a min..”

“Sure, take your time.” Greg reassures. He’s concerned as well, from what John had said earlier. But he hopes that it’s just a weird one-off.

“Do you want some water?” John asks. 

“Please.”

While John unzips the backpack and pulls out the water bottle, Sherlock painstakingly pushes himself up to a sitting position, body still feeling way too heavy. He hates the exhaustion that always comes after syncope. John unscrews the cap and hands it over to him, keeping a hand beneath the bottle at all times in case Sherlock’s hand loses its strength and drops it.

After drinking from it, Sherlock hands it back to John, who returns it back to where it was.

Sherlock sighs. “I hate this.” He thinks out loud. He looks at John with scared eyes. “John, I think something is wrong with me.”

Startled at the sudden declaration, John asks “what do you mean?”

“This is the second time this happened. Passing out after I lay down, I mean.”

“Yeah I-” John was about to explain his own concerns when Sherlock’s words register, “wait, second time?”

Sherlock immediately regrets bringing it up. He doesn’t want to talk about this. “Never mind. Forget I brought it up.” His brain was obviously not working properly, yet. He looks down at his side, the floor suddenly much more interesting.

“Sherlock.. what’s going on?” 

Sherlock clenches his jaws tightly and takes a deep breath. “Someone stole my watch, phone and keys while I was unconscious, out on the streets.”

John’s eyes widen in shock and Greg gasps quietly at the admission.

“When was that?” John asks in a low whisper.

Sherlock looks at Greg for help. “Remember when I said I would question a suspect?”

“Yeah, that was.. I think two months ago?” 

“Did you get hurt?” John springs the question at Sherlock.

Sherlock shakes his head. “It happened when I was done and on the way home. No outside force, just my stupid body acting up.” He grumbles.

“No. I mean, whoever stole your phone.” John clarifies. He has a very concerned look on his face that makes Sherlock uncomfortable.

“No. I don’t think they touched me at all, save for when they relieved me from my belongings.” For some reason, now that he says it out loud, he feels disgusted. Whoever stole it, probably didn’t even check to see if he was alright. He could have died and all they cared about was taking his things from him.

“Are you sure..?” John asks, voice almost pleading. He looks Sherlock up and down, like he’s trying to see something.

The strange behaviour is making him uneasy now. “Yes!”

“It’s just…” 

Greg clears his throat. “Sherlock, I think I know what John is trying to ask.”

Sherlock just raises an eyebrow at him. The uneasiness seems to have spread to the DI as well.

“I think I’ll put it this way.. were you undressed in any way, when you woke up?” Greg asks him, voice serious.

And then, it finally clicks. “No! God no! Why would you even assume-- No!”

John steps forward. “Why would we assume? Have you seen yourself lately?! You act like we’re burning you if we so much as brush up by accident! You’re always wired up and… anxious. There, I said it. I know that the last weeks have been absolute hell for you, but it feels like something worse happened than a simple theft.” 

Greg pointedly clears his throat at John’s implications.

John immediately regrets his words when he sees Sherlock’s face falling. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I.. god I’m so stupid, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,..” Sherlock trails off, shaking his head. There’s no point in making a big deal out of it, now. It’s already been two months since it happened, much worse things have gone wrong since then, and everything that was taken has been replaced. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels like a mental wound has been re-opened.

“I’m sorry.” John apologises again. 

“I want to go home.” Sherlock decides.

“Let me at least drive you, then.” Greg offers. 

Sherlock nods, still not looking at either one, and shakily climbs to his feet, refusing every offer of help.

Right when they exit the building, John gets a text from Mary. 

Mary XOXO

Rosie got sick, can you pick her up?

Greg notices John looking at his phone with an odd expression. “Everything alright?”

But Sherlock, passing both men, replies before John even registered the question. “Rosie has taken ill.”

Greg only gives him a pointed look.

“Can you drop me off at the nursery school?” John asks.

“Of course. Hop in.” Greg says and unlocks his car.

Sherlock, who has been standing at the back door, climbs in once the car is unlocked. John gets in on the passenger seat and Greg obviously climbs in behind the steering wheel. 

Twisting the key into the ignition, Greg doesn’t even look back when he says “Sherlock, seat belt.”

“Right.” Click.

“Alright, John. Where to?”

After dropping John off, the new silence in the car quickly became unbearable. At least John had been talking to Greg, but Sherlock just kept silently looking out the window.

“Did Mycroft at least find out who stole your things?” The DI asks.

Sherlock stays silent as he debates whether or not he wants to talk about it.

“Sherlock?” Greg asks, checking the mirror to make sure that Sherlock was lucid.

“No. I mean, he said the last location that they got was already in Wales, so.. who knows where they are now.”

“Hm.” 

“It’s not a big deal.” Sherlock mumbles.

Greg tries to make eye contact with him through the rear view mirror, without success. “Sherlock. John didn’t mean what he said. Theft is a severe invasion in privacy, the fact that someone took advantage of you when you were unconscious is just disgusting.”

“No one took advantage of me!” The very idea sounds absolutely preposterous.

“Oh yeah? Tell me the definition of it, then.” Greg challenges.

That shut him up.

“Exactly. Hell.. someone should have been with you, or driven you home..”

“Don’t start.” Sherlock complains with a sigh and rolls his eyes. “Yes, what happened was completely avoidable. But I don’t need a body guard to hold my hand every time I leave the house!”

Greg knows that he just lost, and only sighs. The silence returns, so he turns on the radio so that there’s at least some background noise. He knows that Sherlock hates it, always wants it so quiet that you could hear a pin drop, especially when he’s trying to think, but he hopes to kill some of the tension with it.

Sherlock has other issues to focus on than some person blabbing about traffic jams and stupid skits. He’d been completely fine one moment, and the next his bladder was sending intense urges and threatening to release itself right then and there. 

What the hell is wrong with me?! Fingernails digging into his thigh, he tries to breathe through the cramping spasms. But then, despite clenched muscles, some urine slips out, and he all but panics that he’s really going to wet himself in Lestrade’s personal car, completely without warning.

He loses a little bit more, just enough to seep through to his jeans in a tiny spot, before the sudden urgency finally disappears again. Breathing strained, he stares at his lap in complete shock, trying to understand what in the world just happened.

“..here- Sherlock?” Greg calls out and it takes Sherlock a moment to realise that the car is not moving, and Speedy’s is right in front of his window. 

“Thanks.” He says breathlessly, unbuckles the seatbelt and rushes out without a second thought.

Sherlock doesn’t dare leave the house after that. Not that he’s too embarrassed or anything about that one incident. No, it’s because it keeps happening, and after a full week of constantly almost wetting his pants over and over, he is utterly terrified of it happening while he’s out, at this point.

In fact, he is just changing into a new, dry pair of boxers when he hears John coming up the stairs.

“Hello Mrs Hudson. Is Sherlock in?” John asks as he enters the building.

“Oh, at this point I’d be surprised if he even left his flat.” She replies and goes back to dusting the stair railing.

John finds the declaration odd. Sure, Sherlock isn’t any more outgoing in between cases than before he got ill, but to his knowledge, there is still a case currently on. The first thing that comes to his mind is a flare-up. But normally Sherlock lets him know, usually by text message, and keeps him updated on how he is doing. He feels the guilt returning, still wishing he hadn’t said what he’d said.

Peeking his head in, he knocks on the door as he comes inside. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock, still in the bathroom, buttons up his trousers and opens the bathroom door. 

It only takes John two seconds to see that something is wrong. “What’s up?” He asks and closes the door behind him.

Sherlock looks down at the floor and sighs. “I’m at war with my body again.”

“Mh, what’s it doing?” John decides to play along, hoping the third-person-talk makes it easier for Sherlock to open up.

Sherlock catches on to his approach. “It doesn’t want to hold its water and instead acts like it wasn’t potty trained.”

That kills the amusement for John. “Oh.” He says. That, he hadn’t expected. “Can you, um.. describe it?”

Sherlock subconsciously picks at his fingernails, still not looking up. “One moment I’m fine and the next I suddenly have to go so bad that I c.. I can’t hold it.” He frowns angrily. “But it’s not because there’s too much urine, because there isn’t actually that much, and I also don’t think it’s the retention anymore, because like I said, I’m fine in between.” He looks up at John briefly, and sees him nodding as he takes in the information. It’s that saying, ‘let your patients tell you their diagnosis’. He knows that Sherlock can tell when something new is happening, and knows a thing or two about medical stuff thanks to his job as a detective and also from info posts in the Facebook group. 

“Okay. You’re not going to like what I’m about to say.” John warns.

“I already have some speculation, so just go on.” Sherlock says in a defeated voice.

“It sounds like urge incontinence to me. Which isn’t really surprising, what with the whole autonomic dysfunction.” John explains.

Sherlock only sighs. He takes out his phone and looks it up.

This condition is defined as the sudden urge to urinate, often followed by the involuntary loss of urine. In urge incontinence, the urinary bladder contracts when it shouldn’t, causing some urine to leak through the sphincter muscles holding the bladder closed. Other names for this condition are:

• overactive bladder (OAB)
• bladder spasms
• spasmodic bladder
• irritable bladder
• detrusor instability

An overactive bladder causes your bladder muscles to contract involuntarily. This gives the sensation of needing to urinate frequently even if your bladder isn’t full.

Different conditions and factors can cause symptoms of OAB:

• drinking too much fluid
• taking medications that increase urine production
• urinary tract infections
• consumption of caffeine, alcohol, or other bladder irritants
• failure to completely empty the bladder
• bladder abnormalities, such as bladder stones

Overactive bladder in men

OAB is more common in women, but at least 30 percent of men in the United States experience symptoms of overactive bladder regularly. That number could be higher because men may not report symptoms of OAB to their doctor.

Symptoms of overactive bladder in men include

• an urgent need to urinate
• urinating up to eight times per day

What do they mean ‘up to’ eight times? I’m lucky if I ‘only’ have to go every one or two hours instead of twice in one hour. And that isn’t even counting how many times I have to get up at night.

God, am I a toddler or something? Not even Rosie needs to pee that often, surely.

• and more than once per night

“Once”?!

• experiencing urine leakage
• feeling an urge to urinate that’s so strong it can’t be controlled

Urge incontinence is the result of overactive bladder muscles that squeeze so hard the sphincter can't hold back. With urge incontinence, the urge is so strong sometimes you just can t reach the toilet quickly enough. This often results in large leaks and accounts for the majority of incontinence problems in seniors.

Well fuck me.

Having urinary incontinence is never a good thing, and it can be a signal of a more serious problem. If you think you have it, then you should contact your doctor so that he or she can prescribe medication for you and help you deal with the problem.

*Sigh*.. alright.

“How do we deal with that?” He asks his doctor. Of course the internet is probably full of details, but they don’t necessarily comply with his specific case.

“Well, that depends. How often has it happened?” 

Sherlock keeps his eyes on the phone screen without actually looking at it. He just can’t look at his friend when talking about this sort of thing. “I can’t give you a number.. it.. the first time was when Greg drove us home..” He is suddenly very glad about the complete inability to blush. “And it’s been happening pretty much all day since then.. I mean, every two hours? Give or take..” that he leaks, anyways.

John looks at him sadly. “Did it happen before that, at any point? It’s just.. usually it doesn’t just become so severe from one day to the next.” Not without a traumatic injury to the spine or brain, anyway.

Sherlock subconsciously gnaws at his lower lip in thought. “Yes, I think so. Sometimes.. maybe once or twice a month? Only really small amounts, so I just never thought anything of it, cause of the whole retention thing.”

John nods understandingly. “I know it sounds odd because it’s the complete opposite, but those two things can happen simultaneously, sort of switching it up. Especially when it comes to dysautonomia. You’d be surprised how many people with neurological disorders suffer from these types of incontinence. I see it especially in patients with multiple sclerosis. It’s very common, you know.”

Sherlock nods. “I’m also pretty sure that we can cross off ‘bladder irritation’ while we’re at it.”

“Painful?” John asks sympathetically.

Sherlock nods again. “But not in an infection kind of pain. Just.. irritated, in every sense of the word.”

“Hmm.. I mean, we could do a urine sample at the hospital and maybe an ultrasound, just to be sure.” 

Sherlock shrugs. “I have nothing to lose.”

“Speaking of losing…” John trails off and Sherlock can already tell that he isn’t going to like what he has to say next. “If it’s not an infection that’s causing this, you might really have to think about incontinence pads to absorb leaks. If it’s the nervous system doing this, there isn’t much we can do, treatment wise.”

Sherlock screws his eyes shut for a moment, then sighs. “As much as I hate it, I think you’re right.. it can’t continue like this.”

Chapter Text

“No.” 

“Sherlock-”

“I said No! I am not letting that.. that asshole touch me again!” 

John gives the urologist a sheepish look. “I’m sorry-”

“No no, it’s quite alright, Doctor Watson.” The urologist holds up his hands, not even looking at Sherlock. “I can go and see if Doctor Fledge is free.” He offers.

John nods and turns to Sherlock. “Do you want a woman to do it?” 

Sherlock huffs. “If she’s competent, fine. I still don’t see why you can’t just do it, yourself, John.”

“Because, for the last time, I am a former surgeon, not an urologist or a cardiologist. Yes, I had training, but I’m not qualified to diagnose or prescribe anything when it comes to this, so please just behave for twenty minutes.” John scolds.

When the urologist leaves to find his colleague, John asks his obviously moody friend. “What’s with you and Jenson?”

“Is that his name? I find ‘bastard’ fits him better.”

John frowns at him. “You called him an arsehole not even two minutes ago. And seriously, what is up with that? I know you call people stupid, idiot, moron, the list goes on. But asshole and bastard? What did he do to you?” He asks seriously.

But Sherlock doesn’t reply, just keeps his body turned away from John with his arms crossed over his chest.

There is a quick knock on the door and Doctor Fledge enters, a friendly smile on her face. “Hello.”

John gives her a greeting nod. He doesn’t interact much with the urologists at Bart’s, but they are all at least a little familiar with each other.

“Mister Holmes, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She regards him, and her friendly personality seems to melt the ice at least enough for Sherlock to stop shielding himself off. He doesn’t reply, but he at least looks at her, so that’s something. At least John hopes so. “What can I do for you? What brings you here?”

They wait for a moment, but apparently Sherlock is still not in the mood to talk, so John steps forward. “He’s having some problems with controlling his bladder, so I offered to at least take a urine sample and get a quick ultrasound, just to make sure it’s nothing serious.”

Doctor Fledge nods in understanding and takes a little plastic cup and lid from a stack. “One sample please, and try to empty your bladder as much as possible for the scan.” She instructs as she holds it out for Sherlock to take.

Irked by the way she phrased it, he takes the cup and heads into the adjacent bathroom. While he unzips so he could take care of his task, he can hear muffled voices through the door. Straining his ears, he listens as much as possible.

“..doesn’t understand much about autism, I’m afraid.” The female doctor says sympathetically. Of course, the only thing these stupid urologists talk about, is that! 

“..don’t know what happened between them, …  really can’t recall a single time where Sherlock called someone an ‘arsehole’, to their face. So I know it must have been pretty bad.” John’s words make the annoyance dissipate almost instantly. He actually sided with me. Without knowing what happened.

This shouldn’t surprise me. Why does it surprise me?

“All I can say is, I’m sorry about whatever must have happened. I swear he’s got a really good reputation, but if I learned anything from my son, it’s that he wouldn’t be making something up or behaving like this for no reason.” Her son? Oh god, please tell me she isn’t one of those people who compare adult autistics with small children, I think I’ve had about enough of that.

“Sherlock? Everything okay in there?” John’s voice is suddenly so much louder, startling him.

“Y-yes. Uhh, give me- give me a minute.”

“We can leave for a bit if you need some more privacy!” Doctor Fledge calls.

John takes it as a good idea. “We’ll go out into the hall for a bit. Just tell us when to come back in.” He says, and then Sherlock hears the door open and close, and it’s quiet. 

Taking a few calming breaths, he tries to slow down his racing heart, which he hadn’t even noticed until now.

And then, before he even pulled himself out, he feels his irritated bladder painfully contracting again, a quick spurt soaking into his underwear. The sensation is so familiar at this point that it’s distressing him even more how he doesn’t even care anymore.

It’s okay. This is why I’m here. This is why I’m doing this. 

Reaching in to finally get his penis out, he makes quick work in collecting the sample and emptying his bladder, making the effort to really push out what he could, like he’s consciously been doing all week.

Reluctancy returning, he finishes up and forces himself to open the door to let the others back in.

John and Fledge are laughing when he opens the door, and instantly feels like he’s disrupting a good moment. John immediately notices him and motions for Fledge to follow him back inside.

Fledge fetches a sticker and writes ‘S Holmes’ on it before sticking it on the cup and placing it on a tray with other samples.

“Alright. I’m going to need you to lower your trousers a bit for me.” She explains and points for Sherlock to take place on the exam bed. 

Sherlock hesitantly complies, then lays himself on his back. He knows that his ribs have become more prominent, thanks to Anderson’s remark, so he keeps his shirt down as much as he could get away with. Fledge meanwhiles snaps on a pair of gloves.

“I’m just going to feel around a little, yeah? Let me know if anything hurts.” 

Despite the warning, Sherlock’s stomach muscles are immediately tense when the rubbery gloves make contact with his bare skin. At least that way his stomach isn’t as sunken in. Fledge giggles. “Oh my, do you work out regularly?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, suddenly feeling extremely overwhelmed.

Fledge seems to notice and removes her hands. “Take some deep breaths for me, I want you to feel comfortable.”

John smiles at her from where he’s watching. She is definitely a great doctor. He knows that Sherlock is in the best of hands with her, and quickly realises what an utter disaster this would have been with Jenson.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock does as she instructed, mentally telling himself that everything is alright. 

When he opens his eyes again, he is noticeably less tense, and she calmly asks him “can we continue?”

Taking one last deep breath, he nods at her.

He does tense up a little again when she starts prodding, but slowly manages to relax enough for her to make progress. “Prostate doesn’t feel enlarged from here, so that’s good. Any pain anywhere?” She asks Sherlock, who shakes his head.

“Alright. Let’s take a look at your bladder, then.” She says as she takes the gel and probe from the machine. “This stuff is really cold.” She warns before applying some of the gel on his abdomen. Sherlock doesn’t even flinch, he’s used to it from the many heart echoes, and his own hands tended to have a constant freezer temperature if held against other parts of his body.

“Okay.” She types something on the keyboard, then starts pressing the probe uncomfortably into his skin. After moving it around a little and taking screenshots, she comments. “Everything looks good so far. I’m not seeing anything worrying.”

“That’s good at least.” John says. “Not much urine, either?” He asks in regards of retention.

“A little bit. Not enough for me to be concerned. I know that you have to drink a lot of water, Mister Holmes, so it could also just be the kidneys working quickly.” She removes the probe, much to Sherlock’s relief, and hands him some paper towels to get the gel off his skin. “I probably don’t have to explain how drinking a lot of water leads to needing to use the bathroom more, but in your case I wouldn’t recommend on cutting back on that.”

“So what do we do instead?” Sherlock asks as he sits up, and he realises that this is the first time he’s said anything in her presence. Fledge just smiles at him.

“I’ll have the labs test your sample for any signs of infections and other things that don’t belong in urine, like blood or proteins, but if all that comes back negative, treatment options may be pretty limited.” She explains with a sad but sympathetic smile. “Incontinence of any kind is not a disease on its own. So we always have to try to treat the cause. Of course, you could see about exercises to strengthen the pelvic muscles, and maybe even bladder training, give that a try. But in your case it might come down to medication, which is also very difficult to find the right one.”

Despite not having expected much different, Sherlock is still a bit downtrodden at the news. He can’t help but wonder if this is how it’s going to be from now on. And possibly even getting worse, with more and more issues arising, taking away his barely just fought back quality of life again and again.

John and Fledge can see his mood dropping rapidly. Sharing a quick glance with John, Fledge proposes “if you want, I could give you a number of a health care facility that provides high quality incontinence pants that you just wear like normal underwear. Can’t even tell the difference from outside, trust me.”

Sherlock swallows thickly, closing his eyes to fight off tears. It’s all becoming too much, too real. He’s slowly losing control over his own body. What’s going to go wrong with his body, next? 

“Sherlock?” John asks. “Do you want the number? You don’t have to call them right away, or at all. It’s just an offer.”

Fledge takes a business card from a holder on the desk. “Here. You don’t have to make a decision right away. Just know the option is there.”

Sherlock looks at the card for a moment, before taking it from her, his movements robotic.

“I’ll put a note in your file for an appointment in two days, so you can decide on the time at the front desk.” Fledge says and clicks something on the computer. 

“Come on.” John says and waits for Sherlock to get up.

They walk out through the hallway that leads to said front desk, when Sherlock suddenly feels like his heart has stopped beating, and not a moment later the world goes black, and he lands on the floor unconscious before he can even think about warning John.

John gasps and immediately kneels next to him, checking on him. “Sherlock?” 

Two assistants rush over. “Do you need a crash cart?”

John checks Sherlock’s pulse and breathing, and shakes his head. “It’s alright. He has dysautonomia, that happens sometimes.” Though it seems to happen a lot, lately.. 

With the help of the assistants, John manoeuvres him into recovery position and checks the time on his watch. “Can you fetch Doctor Mertens from cardiology for me? He’s his doctor. I think something is going on with him.”

“Absolutely.” One of them says and gives the cardiology unit a quick call.

Sherlock is lucid and more or less awake again by the time Mertens arrives. John has him sitting on the floor, keeping his fingers against Sherlock’s wrist to monitor his heart rate, which still feels a bit too slow for what he’s used to with Sherlock.

“Well this is a surprise.” Mertens says as he comes over. “What happened?”

“He just passed out completely randomly. He told me that he’s been passing out while he was laying down, lately.” John explains.

Mertens hums and kneels before Sherlock, gently lifting his chin to check his eyes.

“I suggest weaning you off the Ivabradine, then see if that’s what’s causing it.” Doctor Mertens says.

“You want me to get off my meds??!” Sherlock asks incredulously. “Do you want me to die?!”

John throws him a look that says ‘you dramaqueen’. “You won’t die. It won’t be pretty, I give you that, but if the Ivabradine is now causing these episodes of syncope, we have to replace it. You’re at acute fall and injury risk, so you’re not allowed to be out on the streets on your own anymore, either way.” 

“Well I refuse. With these meds I can sort of live how I did before. I’ve been on it for too long to suddenly get weird side effects.” Sherlock argues.

His cardiologist nods. “While it is true that it’s uncommon, it doesn’t exclude it. For now we have to find out what is causing you to pass out like this.” John marvels at how calm Doctor Mertens is.

“Then put another holter monitor on me or something, but I am not going off my meds. You can just forget that.” 

Mertens relents. “Alright. I shall have it arranged, but I hope you understand that you’re not leaving the hospital any time soon.”

“What?”

“Sherlock.” John warns.

“I’m having you admitted until further notice.” Mertens clarifies and walks off.

Sherlock huffs and watches him go. “I can’t believe this.” He grumbles and leans back on the chair. He notices John watching him and glowers at him. “This your fault.”

John blinks confused. “Eh, what?” 

“I shouldn’t have come to this stupid hospital. Now they’ll chain me to the bed again.” Sherlock mutters, without even realising that he has thought that last part out loud.

“Nobody is ‘chaining’ you to a bed.” John rolls his eyes. Sherlock freezes for half a second. “Be glad that you have a doctor who cares enough about you to try to help you for once. It can’t continue like this, what if you pass out like this while crossing the street? Or walking stairs? Or hell, in the bathtub. The last time you passed out like this, you told me that something is wrong. And now we’re going to work out what that is, and hopefully find a way to fix it.” 

Sherlock sighs and gets up. He’s a bit disoriented and doesn’t really know where to find the exit.

“What are you doing?” John asks, watching Sherlock’s seeking eyes.

“I’m going home.” 

“Did you not hear-”

“-to pack a few things. Honestly, John.”

“Wha-- you are not leaving the hospital!” John scolds. “Call Mrs Hudson or Mycroft to bring you clothes.”

“But I’ll be right back.”

“Sherlock, damn it, what if you pass out like this, and someone runs you over with their car? You stay here or so help me.” John snaps, the last part loud enough to echo slightly in the hall.

Sherlock finally accepts his fate and sits back down in the hard plastic chair. He takes out his phone and starts typing a text to his brother. After the message is sent, he grumbles “they can pay for the most expensive tech, but don’t have an extra 50 cents for chair cushions,” shifting on the, to him, painful chair.

John doesn’t grant that with a reply.

Of course, no such episode happens while he’s wearing the device, souring the mood for everyone.

“I say we keep you here for another week. If it happens again, I advice we implant a loop recorder.” Mertens suggests.

Sherlock’s eyes widen. “Surgery?”

“Sherlock..” John warns.

“No. Uh-uh, forget it. Surgery is what got me ill in the first place.”

“I understand your concerns. Really I do. But we have to find out what is causing these episodes, so we can hopefully treat them.” The cardiologist tries to reason. 

Sherlock is visibly anxious at the idea. “What if it makes me worse?” He asks in a broken voice.

John desperately wants to say that he’s worrying for no reason. He wants to tell him that that won’t happen. But the truth is that nobody knows that. And he knows that Sherlock knows that, which is not helping with his anxiety. 

As fate would have it, Sherlock doesn’t have a single such event again, and after staying for a week and being more or less force-fed by the nurses and John’s “if you want to get out of here, you need to keep your strength up”, Mertens allows him to discharge himself, if he promises to immediately come back, should he pass out again, and then they would see about how they would proceed.

He also wanted to see him again in six weeks, to see how he’s been doing symptom wise, if no more such syncope would happen.

Sherlock leaves, feeling detached from his body. He could have just said that this is my own fault. There is nothing physically wrong with me. I just haven’t kept up with the stamina building exercises, and that will take months to rebuild. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Clearly I shouldn’t have become so lazy and have let myself decondition so much.

Failure at my own expense. Literally.

Chapter Text

While he had been at the hospital with the holter monitor, he had just always gone to the loo at the first urge, to minimise embarrassing situations to the best of his ability. While he was there, he got the results of the urinalysis, which of course came back negative for all sorts of infections, which sadly means that his issues are solely from his malfunctioning autonomous nervous system. Because what isn’t, these days?

But now, back at home, he’s a bit more careless, and as a result, has a lot more laundry washing to do. Seeing how the issue isn’t going to just resolve itself, he starts researching a bit.

And of course almost all of the articles are always about women having this problem. Sherlock is starting to wonder if they gave him the correct gender at birth, with how many girls diseases he apparently has. Looks like Mummy got the girl she’s always wanted, after all.

Bladder training in urge incontinence 

Incontinence is a medical condition and set of diseases that affects between 4% and 8% of the population or the lives of almost 400 million people worldwide.

While it is a very common affliction, it can have a severe impact on the quality of life in the patient.

Bladder training is a very effective way to treat, and sometimes even cure, bladder incontinence.

 

Retraining your bladder

Stay hydrated! If you’re incontinent, your first thought may be to restrict fluid intake, but the higher the concentration of your urine is (because of dehydration), the more it will irritate your bladder.

Don’t go pre-emptively, as that only teaches the bladder to want to empty even sooner.

Don’t seek a bathroom at the first urge. In urge incontinence, you may experience very strong urges to pee, but those only last a few minutes before the bladder calms down again. 

Hint: mental distraction and physical positions can help you deal with those urges. Sit down on a chair and lean forward when the urge hits, and wait for it to pass.

 

So apparently, other people don’t instantly wet themselves if they can simply 'wait for it to pass'. Wonderful. How is this supposed to work? 

He thinks back to John’s and the urologist’s words, that there may be nothing they could do about it besides medication in the absence of an infection. 

No. I just.. I just have to push through this. When life gives you lemons, you throw them right back at the sucker. Or how ever that stupid saying goes.

He continues to read.

Don’t eat acidic foods or drink beverages with caffeine, as these irritate the bladder further.

You may want to start bladder training whilst at home, preferably near a bathroom.

How is that supposed to help? If I just stay right outside the bathroom the whole time, how will that help take my mind off of it? Stupid articles. Who wrote this nonsense?

Sherlock curses the entire world, and especially that stupid page, while he strips the soaking wet and disgustingly smelling fabric from his lower half. ‘Waiting it out’ hadn’t worked out at all, as he couldn’t regain control whatsoever and it just continued to flow out of him despite his best efforts. He needed a new tactic, and fast.

Didn’t John talk about potty training Rosie soon? Maybe he can train me, too. He thinks bitterly.

When exactly did I start comparing myself to a two year old? He wonders seriously and turns the washing machine on.

When he checks the meds inside his backpack, mostly because he couldn’t find anything else to do, the business card of the firm that specialises in absorbing undergarments falls out, and his eyes get stuck on it. He doesn’t want to need this kind of thing. He is an adult, a (sadly) famous consulting detective, he should be in control of his stupid transport. 

And just to make matters worse, when he takes out his phone to look for more articles, he finds that he has a text from Lestrade about a case.

He groans at the thought of leaving the house and probably ending up completely pissing himself in public. No thank you.

Can’t. - SH

He gets a reply some 30 seconds later.

Greg Lestrade 
Flare?

Sort of..  keep me updated on how it’s going, I’ll see when I can help out. - SH

Greg Lestrade 
Alright. Take care.

Sighing, he puts the phone back down. The article had said not to restrict water intake, but… maybe that was his only chance to function again.

As he strips off another pair of soaking wet underwear, he is starting to accept that this simply isn’t working out. At least not like that, because he’s just going to run out of clean underwear.

Begrudgingly he takes the business card and starts typing in the number on his phone and rings it.

“HCA Healthcare UK, how may I help you?” A kind woman answers.

And that’s when Sherlock discovers a major problem.

He physically couldn’t reply. His brain has lost connection to his vocal cords. 

“Hello?” The woman calls out, and Sherlock presses the end call button, feeling the anxiety course through him like a shockwave.

Damn it. 

Okay, new plan.

Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he snaps a quick photo of the business card and sends it to his brother. As much as he hates having to ask favour after favour from his brother, Mycroft at least got the job done – not like him. Just recently, Mycroft had made quick progress on the spam haters, and discovered that all those people were part of a Reddit group thing called "illness fakers", where they were talking utter bull crap about Sherlock and other people and share their contact informations, so they could harass them from all angles.

Apparently, some people’s sole purpose in life is to make other people’s lives hell.

Mycroft was in the middle of a meeting when he received the message.

S. H. sent a picture 

S. H.
Can you call them for me?

Mycroft looks up at the many important people around him. No one has taken notice of his lack of attention.

Mycroft
Why aren’t you doing it?

S. H.
I tried. Gone nv.

Mycroft mentally groaned. The ‘nv’ stood for non-verbal. It tends to happen a lot if Sherlock needs to call a stranger on the phone. He still feels incredibly proud of his brother for trying to call them, himself.

Mycroft
In a meeting.

He replies in sort of an apology, and to let Sherlock know that it could take him a while to make arrangements. 

S. H.
No hurry.

Mycroft can’t stop the eye roll. He knows his little brother well enough to know that he wouldn’t have even considered calling that number himself, if it wasn’t necessary. He’s been updated on Sherlock’s current health problems, so he’s not out of the loop. 

It wasn’t until he’d called the hotline 4 hours later and talked everything through with a worker to set up a plan for Sherlock, that Mycroft suddenly realises that Sherlock had asked him for help, and actually trusted him to solve this for him, in a hopefully satisfactory way. 

At first he’d felt the pressure on his shoulders, hoping that he was making the correct choices with the many options he had gone through with the worker, but now he feels an odd pride filling him. Sherlock had reached out to him, about a rather private and (regrettably) embarrassing problem.

It kind of leaves the question why Sherlock hadn’t simply let John take care of it, but Mycroft wasn’t going to question his brother’s intentions.

Two days later, the package arrives. Sherlock holds up one of the absorbent pants with unease. I don’t have a choice. This is just temporary, as soon as I get the stupid organ re-trained, I can stop wearing them again. He reassures himself and starts to undress in the safety of the bathroom.

After John heard from Greg that Sherlock was possibly in a flare, he went to check up on him. By now he was expecting to find Sherlock stuck in bed, or trying to sleep off a migraine, or maybe even find him on the floor, unable to get up.

He definitely hadn’t expected to find Sherlock on the sofa, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around them, face pinched in obvious discomfort.

“What’s wrong?” John asks him when he takes in the odd position.

“I’m fixing the stupid incontinence, what’s it to you?” Sherlock snaps as he glares at John. The pain was definitely making him irritable.

“I am concerned about your health!” John snaps back at him.

“What health?!” Sherlock snaps right back, before realising that he just yelled at his friend. “I’m sorry. I..” he hugs his legs tighter to himself. “It hurts..” he whimpers before hiding his face.

The admission has John do a double take. Sherlock almost never so much as mentions being in pain – and John knows that Sherlock is (almost?) always in some amount of pain. For him to say that something hurts isn’t like when his patients complain about having a headache. For Sherlock to say that something hurts is usually more at a hospital-visit-level of pain. 

“Go to the bathroom..!” He says, still feeling dumbfounded.

Sherlock shakes his head, his eyes are squeezed shut. “It won’t work if I give in.”

“Okay look. I know you want this to be fixed. But holding it when it hurts is never a good idea. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to hold it ‘till it hurts?” John asks sincerely. 

“No..” Sherlock answers honestly.

“Please, just go. I’m serious, I doubt this is helpful.” 

Sherlock sighs but uncurls himself and carefully climbs to his feet as not to accidentally pass out if he rushes and gets up too fast (like it may or may not have happened a few times, *cough cough*) John watches him make his way to the bathroom, taking note of his hunched and tense posture.

When Sherlock gets back, he is decidedly less tense, but looks just as displeased as before.

“Better?” John asks timidly, still watching his friend in concern.

Sherlock slumps on the sofa with a tired sigh. “That was barely ten minutes, you know. I can hold it much longer, now.”

John frowns at that. “And are you always in this much pain?”

Sherlock sits up straight and glares at him. “What does that matter? I don’t wet myself all the time anymore. I’m making progress.”

John sighs and briefly looks up at whatever gods are up there, to please give him strength. He takes a deep breath before telling Sherlock the cold, hard facts. “It’s not normal to be in pain. Pain is the body’s alarm system, to tell you that there is something wrong. You’re not supposed to ignore and endure pain for god knows how long, just because you can. There is a reason why you’re in pain, you know. To warn you before you severely injure yourself.”

Sherlock’s death glare slowly softens as John’s words sink in, and he realises that he really might be doing more damage than repairing as he first thought. He looks down sadly at his lap. “I don’t like it when things are out of my control..” he admits in a low tone.

John’s face softens at the admission. “And I understand that, believe me. I know this whole situation absolutely sucks. I know you already had enough symptoms to deal with, but we both knew that you might get more problems over time. And regrettably, that time has come, and we have to figure out how to best deal with it, without you hurting yourself unnecessarily.”

Sherlock only nods mutely, too ashamed to look at John. I just yelled at my best friend over something as stupid as a bit of discomfort. I need to have better control if I don’t want to lose him. Pain is nothing new to me, it’s practically all I know these days. I have to get a grip on myself..

They had talked it out, but even with John reassuring him that he’s not upset with him,.. the moment John was gone out the door, all of his self hatred finally managed to surface. 

He may have forgiven you this time, but don’t expect him to give you another chance if you mess up again. John is just too good-hearted for you. Eventually, he will leave as well.

He sniffs and ruffles through his curls. His hands come back with loose strands tangled around his fingers. He could tell that his hair was thinning, which isn’t much of a surprise, what with how much hair he’s always got to clean up after washing it. In fact, it’s taking him longer to clean up the many lost hairs than the actual act of washing. 

“You’re shedding worse than Toto!” His mother had complained when he’d been a teenager, when he’d been too dizzy to clean up after himself and gone to lay down in his room. 

“His name is Redbeard!” He hears his younger self’s yell echo in his head.

He hadn’t caught on to her distress back then. It had honestly just been a matter of time before his family had confronted him. His parents not understanding why he would do this to himself, yelling at him to start eating, and Mycroft’s shocked expression when he’d asked him in soft french “what’s hurting you so much?” when he’d found him curled up beneath his bed, hiding away his skeletal body, after he’d run away from the table, away from the food they wanted him to eat.

He never replied to his question. Not back then, and he still couldn’t, today, if Mycroft would ask. 

He didn’t want to disappoint his brother any further, afraid that he would push him away and turn his back, as well.

Sherlock walks over to the fridge, where he’s got his next scheduled cardiologist appointment pinned with a magnet. Making sure of the date and time, he calls the number and waits.

It takes three tries for him to get through.

“Hello, this is Sherlock Holmes. I have an appointment on November 16th at 10.15 that I would like to cancel.”

“Oh, would you like to reschedule?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. Just cancel it. I don’t need it. Give it to someone else who actually needs it.” He says, voice tight. He slides down on the floor as his eyes fill up with tears again.

“Are you really sure?” The poor lady asks.

“Yes. Not like anyone will care anyways whether the stupid thing is beating or not.” Sherlock mumbles to himself and hangs up as he’s overcome with sobs, the feelings of hopelessness finally spilling over. He’s simply out of shape, that’s all. There’s nothing else wrong with him. He doesn’t need a doctor to waste time on him to know that.

His phone, laying discarded by his side, rings with the number from cardiology. He ignores it. He wouldn’t go in, because there’s no reason to.

He is perfectly fine, why couldn’t other people see that? He wonders as the sleeves of his dressing gown grow wet and cold with tears.

Stop crying. You know what you have to do.

He wishes the intrusive thoughts would just stop torturing him, but he still gives in every time, like they’re always right and he’s always wrong. 

He wipes at his eyes before getting back to his feet, holding on to the fridge’s handle for a moment while he waits for the dizziness to pass, and goes to collect his workout items.

Chapter Text

While Greg is rambling on about.. whatever, really, Sherlock overhears Sally and John talking, over in the corner. “Thanks. Yeah, I’ve been working out.” John proudly gestures to himself, runs his hands down his front.

“Gotta say; that really paid off. You look good!” She compliments, gesturing to John with a grin. “I first thought you got ill or something. The weight’s just dropped off you, I was getting a bit worried.”

“Haha no, I honestly feel better than I have in a long time. It’s incredible what a difference ten pounds can make. Gotta be able to keep up with chasing suspects, since Sherlock is… you know..”

Greg snaps his fingers in front of Sherlock’s eyes, startling him. “Hey, you could at least pretend to want to be here. I know listening to this stuff is boring, but we need your input on this.” He scolds him, like a father telling their child to focus on their homework.

“Sorry..” Oh how badly he wanted someone to notice how much he was struggling and fighting a losing battle with himself, how sick he’s feeling and how sick he is making himself. But as always, people only have eyes for the others when they happened to lose some weight. He feels disgusted when he remembers the many comments of praise that Mycroft had received when he’d finally had the discipline to stick to his diet and work out more. How it was noticeable that he had lost weight and how amazing he looked. All while Sherlock had been standing right next to him, going three days without food and feeling ready to collapse at any moment, yet he had somehow always been in the shadow with his battles.

Am I… jealous? Of other people getting attention? Sherlock frowns at himself. How petty have I become? I’m not an attention whore.. am I?

“Sherlock?” Greg gets his attention again, looking concerned and expectantly this time. “You got anything?”

Sherlock blinks and realises that Greg must have kept talking to him. And now all eyes were on him, and he had been too busy thinking about himself, like the selfish bastard he is, to focus on the case. On his job. 

When he doesn’t reply for a while, John steps forward. “Hey, you okay?” He asks him in a low voice. 

No. I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay in months. I don’t know how much more I can take before I break. But nobody can see that, because I’m invisible. I don’t matter unless I make a breakthrough on these stupid cases. Of course, he couldn’t say any of this out loud.

“Fine.” Sherlock replies in the same tone, then turns back to Lestrade. “Sorry, my mind was elsewhere. Please continue.” 

Greg eyes him suspiciously. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.” He keeps his eyes on Sherlock a moment longer before turning back to his ramblings. 

While John and Greg are discussing medical details of the victim, Sherlock walks off. Sally has been keeping a watchful eye on him all day and has definitely noticed how weird he has been acting – weird for his standard, anyways. She finally approaches him. “You okay?”

Feeling like he got caught red handed, he straightens up and pretends like nothing is the matter. “Yes.”

But when she gets a better look at his face, Sally looks a bit scared. “You don’t look it. At all. What’s going on?” 

Sherlock ignores her and looks over to John, who is still talking to Greg and apparently hasn’t noticed his disappearance, yet. 

“Don’t ignore me.” Sally chides, though her voice is full of concern. “What’s the matter with you today?”

Making a face, he stops watching John. He looks seriously at Sally. “I don’t know.”

Sally raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know.”

Realising how that must have sounded, coming from him, Sherlock elaborates.

“Yes. I don’t know. I know that something is wrong but I don’t know what.” He sighs frustratedly. He doesn’t even understand himself anymore.

“Maybe some fresh air will help?” She suggests hopefully. They really need him to work his magic, this case is driving them all nuts at this point. The last thing they need is for Sherlock to fall ill now.

Sherlock shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

She nods. “Greg!” Sally calls over. Once she sees him looking her way, she takes out her walkie talkie. “Me and Sherlock are gonna go outside.”

“Alright. Everything okay?” Greg asks through the device.

Sally gives Sherlock a short glance. “We’ll see.”

Putting away the walkie talkie, she motions for Sherlock to follow her. “Come on.”

Sherlock follows her out the back, where they sit down on a wooden bench. Apparently it’s the smokers corner, judging from the heavily used ashtray on an outer windowsill. Placing his backpack down against the bench’s leg, he pulls his legs up against his chest and leans back against the backrest, mentally wincing at the hard wood against his bony back, taking some deep breaths.

Sally watches him, for some reason feeling more worried than before. After sitting in an awkward silence for a few minutes, she asks “better?”

Sherlock wishes he could say yes and just go back to working on the case, but the reality was a lot different. He could feel his heart still racing at around 120, refusing to slow down despite his deliberate, calming breathing techniques. He feels overheated and sweaty, and lightheaded and nauseous at the same time. Not to mention incredibly tired.

“Sherlock.” Oh right, she asked me a question.

He blinks his eyes open and glances at her worried face. “Yes, fine.” He puts his feet down and moves to get up again. “Let’s just finish this case.”

But when they both get up, his vision goes black and he feels that familiar pull of gravity, and he immediately regrets it. “Okay bad idea-” he mutters quickly, and Sally immediately catches on and grabs his arm to stabilise him.

He blindly reaches out to her with the other hand, finding her shoulder after a few failed attempts. He knows that he is breathing much too quickly, but he can’t help himself when his heart is now racing much quicker, now that he stood up, and the pre-syncope makes him panic that he’s going to pass out for real. Again.

Finally his vision returns, and he awkwardly frees himself from Sally. “Sorry about that.”

Sally just shakes her head. “God, don’t apologise. Are you sure you can help like this?” She sounds very worried, probably because of his desperate hold on her shoulder a moment ago.

Sherlock nonchalantly leans down to take his backpack again. “Don’t really have a choice, do I?” When he stands up straight again, he almost loses his balance when the shift in position makes him dizzy. Sally quickly grabs his arm again until he stops swaying. 

“Seriously, if it was any of us, we’d get sent home.” She comments.

“Yeah, well-” before he can finish his usual ‘you need me because I’m better than you’ banter, there are suddenly gunshots firing, one of the bullets is flying past the building and landing to their right. 

They both immediately take cover, Sally putting a finger in front of her lips to make sure Sherlock understands that they have to be absolutely silent.

They hear another round of shots being fired, Sherlock is quietly flinching at the loud noise, drawing his knees up to his chest again and covering his ears. Sally is meanwhile cocking her own gun and scanning the area as she crouches next to him, ready to jump up and shoot at any moment. 

There is a lot of yelling from police officers demanding whoever is shooting to put down their weapons – to no avail. So the police officers are starting to shoot back at them.

“Who is stupid enough to shoot at a police station in broad daylight?” Sherlock grumbles and Sally shushes him. “What? There’s no one back here.”

“You don’t know that.” Sally whispers.

Suddenly Sherlock hears a rustling sound coming from their left. He nudges Sally and nods his head in the direction. She holds her gun towards it, ready to shoot.

But against their expectations, nobody makes a sudden appearance or starts shooting at them. All that happens is a quickly growing smoke cloud, coming from the left. Without thinking, Sherlock unwraps the scarf from his neck and wraps it over Sally’s nose and mouth.

“What are you doing?!” She snaps in a whisper.

“Protecting you. What’s it look like?!” Sherlock growls and only covers his own face with the crook of his elbow, his hand gripping the back of his shoulder to help it stay firmly in place. 

Soon they can’t see anything because of the quickly spreading smoke. Whatever it is made of is irritating their eyes and airways, but they can’t move until they get the all clear. 

They sit in a tense silence, both keeping their eyes and ears alert. They don’t hear anything anymore, no more shots and no shouting, but they haven’t gotten the all clear, and neither has another officer tried to reach Donovan to ask for her report. It was, in all sense of the word, the calm before the storm.

Sally eyes her accomplice for a split second. “How’s your you-know-what? I hope you’re not freaking out.”

Understanding her concerns, Sherlock whispers back truthfully, voice muffled. “I’m perfectly calm, oddly enough. I hope you’re aware that this isn’t the first time I’ve been in a situation like this.” 

“I don’t know whether to be relieved or concerned.” Sally replies. 

Sherlock huffs quietly. “You and me both.”

They still don’t hear or see anything, and Sally finally has to rub her irritated eyes. “Ugh, what is this smoke.” She asks rhetorically.

Sherlock takes off his arm to take in the smell, instantly regretting it when he can barely suppress the cough attack that threatens to break their cover. 

Sally notices the change in posture immediately. “Sherlock you idiot, are you trying to kill yourself?!” She snaps in the low whisper they’ve been using.

But Sherlock can’t reply, or else he will be stuck in a nasty coughing fit. He isn’t sure how long he can keep it at bay as it is, the particles of whatever are burning in his lungs. His best guess right now is zinc chloride, mixed with something else. It’s hard to focus. His brain is reminded of how his lungs had burned when he’d inhaled the smoke from the barn fire and- don’t think about it, focus on what’s happening here.

Sally wishes they could just go inside the building, away from this stupid smoke, but for all they know, whoever started the shooting could have gotten inside and is just waiting for them to open the door. Yeah, not gonna happen, not on her watch.

Suddenly Sherlock tenses beside her, fingernails digging into his thigh. 

“Oh god, please don’t have an attack now.” Sally pleads, only glancing his way for a fleeting moment every so often.

Sherlock clenches his jaws together. No, he isn’t having an attack of that kind. It’s not a vasospasm, but it’s still a spasm, alright. Tensing his thighs, he thinks I thought it was getting better. Why now, of all the times and places? The last thing I need is to face the other officers with wet pants when this is over.

When the spasm ends without his underwear getting wet, Sherlock lets out the breath he was holding and shakes his head to Donovan’s question. Though if this ends up taking much longer, I can’t promise anything.

The smoke finally starts clearing up a bit, making it possible to make out the wooden bench again. It’s a small change, but it makes him feel a lot less claustrophobic already. 

And then, shots. Shots and more yelling. Many shots are being fired, sounding much closer this time, causing both to be on high alert once more.

Sherlock can’t help but think of John, hoping that he is safe somewhere. He can feel his heart rate speeding up ridiculously fast at the thought. “Okay.” He gives a soft cough, then takes a few quick breaths. “Now I’m panicking.” 

Sally doesn’t say anything, she just takes a hand off her gun to quickly retrieve a little metal box from her pocket, and hands it over to Sherlock. 

He checks the label. Peppermints. But can I trust that it will be inside what it is labelled as? 

He throws her an uncertain look.

“They’re safe. Trust me.” She says without looking at him.

Taking a deep breath – as deep as his lungs allowed without threatening to break out into hacking coughs – he removes his protective arm from his face and opens the box before popping one of the tiny white pills into his mouth. He feels his mouth watering almost instantly, and all he can think about for a moment is the sharp taste. 

Before he can hand it back to her, she whispers “keep it. You might need it again.”

Knowing that she is probably right, he just keeps the box in his one hand and covers his face again with the other arm. 

The only part they can vaguely make out from the shoutings is “stand down!”, so that’s what they keep on doing. Sometimes they hear running steps coming closer, which makes both their hearts beat faster, but nobody ever comes back here.

Half an hour has passed since the first shots were fired, and Donovan has to shift her legs to keep the circulation going and avoid muscle cramps.

And Sherlock can definitely sympathise. His entire left leg has already fallen asleep from sitting in one position, and to make matters worse, his bladder is bitching again, and this time there’s no holding back. He fidgets and tenses, breathing strained, but his clothes are quickly growing wet and warm, spreading almost up to his right knee as he keeps his legs against his chest. His hands turn into tight fists around the metal box and his shoulder when he finally manages to cut the stream off. It really makes no sense to him anymore at this point; he’s perfectly fine, not so much as feeling like he even has to go, and the next moment he’s wetting himself like a little child.

Sally eyes him, takes in his odd behaviour, trying to make sense of what is wrong with him. Her eyes fall to the wet stain on his trouser leg. The acidic smoke has probably made her noseblind, but the dark stain definitely gives him away. Not that she would comment on it.

Then, both jump when the walkie talkie gives a sound. “All clear. I repeat: all clear. Sergeant Donovan, do you copy?”

She pockets her gun and takes the device in her hand. “Copy.”

“Is Holmes still with you?”

“Yes, he’s with me.”

“You guys unharmed?”

“Smoke inhalation, otherwise we’re okay.”

“Copy. Meet at room seven. Over.”

“Copy.” She slides the walkie talkie back to her belt and gets to her feet, then holds out a hand to help Sherlock get to his feet as well.

He hesitates, refusing to meet her eye.

“Listen. This will stay between us.” She says pointedly, finally talking in a normal volume with him again. “Now come on, you have to be seen by a medic.” 

“No.” Both their eyes widen at how raspy his voice is, making him realise that she does have a point. He puts away the peppermint box, then takes her hand to pull himself up, still trying to protect his face with the other arm.

She wordlessly takes his backpack up. “Now come on.” She commands and they go inside, finally away from the smoke.

Once they’re in clean air, they both uncover their faces, and Sherlock firstly coughs out everything that’s been irritating his lungs for the past twenty or so minutes. The noise is attracting attention from the other officers that are around, and Sally tells them to find John Watson, knowing that the stubborn idiot wouldn’t let any other doctor near him anyways.

Once he gets his breath back (for now), Sherlock heads over to the men’s room. Sally watches him go, partly hoping that he just got caught short or something earlier, but at the same time unconsciously knowing that something weird must be going on with him.

Inside the men’s room, Sherlock is trying to get the fabric as dry as possible. The whole thing is so familiar that he’s getting a sense of deja vu, back when they only just found out what was wrong with him and he had suddenly wet himself a tiny bit.

It has definitely become worse, now. The damage is a lot bigger, compared to back then, as the many filled washing machines had proven during his attempts at retraining himself. 

He thought he had gotten over this. He hasn’t had lapses in control like this for two weeks now, which is why he had stopped wearing absorbent underwear.

Despite feeling like he doesn’t have to go at all, he manages to pee just a little bit, but he figures it’s better to make sure, than to be in the same position again an hour later. He’s just flushing the toilet when he hears the door open. 

“Sherlock?” It’s John.

Looking down to make sure you couldn’t really see the wetness on his crotch area and leg, he gets out and washes his hands in the sink. 

“Sally said you two were outside with a smoke bomb and you inhaled some of it.” John says, and for a moment Sherlock panics when he said the words ‘Sally said’. Why does it even matter to him if she told John about the other thing? He will have to talk to John about it, anyways.

“Do you know what was in the bomb?” John asks when it’s clear that Sherlock isn’t going to say anything about his earlier statement.

“It-” Sherlock aggressively coughs into his elbow, turning away from John. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “It must have been zinc chloride, with s-” he has to cough again, which makes him annoyed and John concerned. “Something else, can’t say.” He says quickly before erupting in another coughing fit.

John nods in understanding. “They’re taking your scarf into the labs to check, just to make sure it’s not anything worse.”

Sherlock only nods, not trusting to say anything anymore without coughing his lungs out.

They walk out and Sherlock retrieves his backpack from Sally. He just wants this nightmare to be over already.

“You can’t leave.” An officer says.

“What? Why?” Sherlock rasps out, wincing at the pain in his lungs.

Sally, who has been talking to her colleagues, steps forward with a frown. “Because this guy was asking for you.”

Chapter Text

Being put in a cell reminds him of the Moriarty trial fiasco. Even if this cell is much more spacious and even has a shred more privacy – thanks to only the door being metal bars – it still feels like a sick punishment.

“I’m the target here, why do I have to be locked away?” He rasps the demand, feeling like something is seriously going wrong here. 

“Exactly. You’re the target. We don’t know why they are after you, and until we know that the danger is over, we have to keep you safe.” Greg says as he takes Sherlock into an empty cell. “It’s a common procedure.”

Sherlock wants to point out that he could just stay at his brother’s place again, but the last time he stayed there, it proved to be not as secure as everyone had liked to believe, and Sherlock seriously didn’t want a repeat of that. 221B, Greg’s and John’s place were also out of the question by default, because of the other people living there.

“Once everything calms down a bit, we’ll go over the security footages together.” Greg offers. “For now we have to get you and Sally checked by the medics.”

John joins Sherlock inside the cell, and Greg makes room for the two medics, who are carrying a lot of equipment.

“What is all this?” Sherlock asks John.

“You’ll be put on oxygen after they do a few tests. Standard treatment for smoke inhalation.” He explains.

I know. Sherlock thinks to himself, remembering how he’d had that same treatment when- no, don’t think about it.

The mentioned tests turned out to be just a tiny bit invasive, involving a couple swabs in his nose and throat, saliva and mucus samples, and a couple quick skin swabs, plus a blood and urine test. The latter of which he declined.

“You have to do it.” One of the medics scolds when Sherlock refuses to pee in a cup while surrounded by strangers, in a police cell with almost no privacy.

“I don’t have to go, I used the loo when we came back inside.” Sherlock explains before breaking out into another coughing fit. His throat was seriously starting to hurt from the coughing.

John finally calls it quits. “Okay, first you’re finally getting the oxygen. We can do the urine sample later.” He throws the medics a glare. “He’s let you do the more important tests. That’s enough.” 

After setting up the machine and getting Sherlock the very annoying cannula under his nostrils, the medics go to torture Donovan next. 

It’s only when he takes some deep breaths with the oxygen, that he notices how difficult it had been to simply breathe. John notices how much more relaxed he is becoming. “Better?” 

“Much.” Though now the exhaustion definitely hit him.

Greg comes back to them. “Alright kids, we’re ready when you are.”

They go into the media room, John is helping Sherlock carry the portable oxygen tank and plugs it into an outlet. The monitors already got the security footages ready to be played, so Sherlock eyes his friend up and down. “Are you okay? With the guns I mean.” He whispers. Even though the flashbacks have become much rarer, the last thing he wants is for John to get triggered by the sound. The actual shooting must have been bad enough.

“I’m good.” John whispers back with confidence.

Sherlock just nods and takes a seat diagonally behind Greg, not wanting to stand for much longer. When he checks the screens, he notices how one camera had a perfect view of where him and Sally had been. It’s at just the right angle that it should have perfectly captured his little ‘bladder episode’, he realises with mortification.

“What’s wrong?” John whispers when he sees Sherlock cringing.

Greg didn’t hear him and plays the videos, pointing to the screen that shows the front entrance. “There, do you recognise him?” He turns on the chair to see Sherlock’s reaction.

Sherlock leans forward a little to get a closer look, and Greg zooms in a bit more to show the face up close. Not only did that moron openly shoot at a police station in broad daylight, he also did nothing to conceal his face. But even though you could see almost every small detail, he doesn’t recognise this man.

He shakes his head, he hasn’t seen that man before in his life.

Just then, Sally walks in with her own oxygen tank, apparently in the same position as Sherlock. She keeps fiddling with the cannula in her face, apparently just as bothered by it as Sherlock is.

Greg welcomes her. “Hey Sally, perfect timing. We just started with the footage. Do you recognise him, by any chance?” He points to the screen.

Sally furrows her brows. “Isn’t that Jack Franklyn? From that case, what, 3 years ago?” 

Greg whips his head around to look at her, then stares back at the screen. He rolls over to another screen and opens up the file of Jack Franklyn. After a few clicks, the pictures of his face pop up. “Blimey, you’re right.”

“I recognised him by the little dent on the side of his skull.” Sally says as she points to said indentation on the file photos.

Sherlock frowns. “What was he in for?” He looks at John, who shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. They both look up at their police partners.

“It was a simple case, just an attempted burglary. We caught him right at the scene, didn’t fight us or anything. Refused to pay the penalty, so he went into custody. I think he’s been free for six months now.” Greg explains as he skims over the file.

“It was during your.. absence.” Sally adds. 

Something didn’t add up. “You said he was asking for me.” Sherlock points out.

“He was.” 

“What did he say? His exact words.” Sherlock demands.

Greg thinks for a moment. “I want Sherlock Holmes. I think that was the only thing he said, in general.”

John gives Sherlock a knowing look. 

Sherlock glares at him. “It’s not connected. Why would it be?”

John crosses his arms over his chest. “But what if it is? This guy has a gun.”

“So? So do you, and Sally and George. Doesn’t mean I make you all suspects.” Sherlock argues.

Greg just sighs, he won’t bother correcting him on the name. “What are you two even on about?”

Sherlock points to John. “He thinks that this is the guy who shot Astra.” 

“Who?” Sally asks.

“My horse.” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“..you have a horse?” Sally asks confused.

“Yes. I’ve had her for almost twelve years, now. The point is that she’s a secret for exactly this reason.” 

Sally nods understandingly. 

Sherlock continues. “That was months ago. She has recovered a lot. The shooter has never turned up at the stable again.”

“Yeah, because he was busy figuring out a plan on how to get to you.” John says.

Sherlock groans, which turns into another nasty sounding coughing fit that makes everyone wince. 

“I think you should be resting.” John says in a subdued voice.

Taking deep breaths with the oxygen, Sherlock recovers much quicker. “I’m fine. And if you’re so sure about this guy, what do you deduce is his motive? What does he want from me?” 

John is completely taken off guard. “Uhh..” He shrugs. “You told me you get a lot of death threats on a regular basis, maybe this is just one of those lunatics?” 

Greg looks up in shock at the revelation, and Sally is mirroring his concern.

Sherlock suddenly has another coughing fit and doubles over in his seat.

“Okay, you need to rest.” John commands and gets up. “Greg, keep us updated if you find something out,” he says and helps Sherlock back to his feet, before carrying the oxygen tank again.

Even asleep, Sherlock’s breathing is very shallow, strained. John watches him like a hawk, wishing they had a pulse oximeter. He regularly checks Sherlock’s pulse, not liking how it’s always above a hundred when he counts the beats against his fingertips. Of course he could just keep checking it with Sherlock’s watch, but he’s worried about arrhythmias. His body is under a lot of stress.

Sadly his sleep is only short lived, waking up barely two hours later because of his lungs forcing him to cough. He immediately sits up, and John winces at the painful sounding, hacking coughs that seem like they just won’t stop.

When they eventually do, he’s absolutely breathless, and John carefully rubs his back in an attempt at comforting him.

“I-” Sherlock is interrupted by a few more coughs. “I want to shower.”

“I don’t know if Mrs Hudson has come by yet with your things.” John replies.

“Hoo hoo!” Comes the familiar call down the hall.

John grins. “Speak of the devil. Or I guess landlady, in this case.”

Sherlock doesn’t react to his joke, and John gets up and leaves the cell. “Perfect timing as always.” He regards her with a grin, taking the bag from her.

“Oh John, I wish there was more I could do.” Mrs Hudson says in a low voice. “How is he?”

John looks back over his shoulder towards Sherlock’s cell, then turns back to her, biting his lip. “He’s been better. But uh..” he holds up the bag, “I’m sure this will make him feel better. He just requested a shower.” He smiles kindly at her.

The reassurance worked wonders and she happily leaves the boys to it.

The shower went as well as could be expected. John tried to make it as short as possible by helping, but they needed to bring the oxygen tank inside the bathroom before he could even think about drying him off, because Sherlock was literally gasping for air after a rather long coughing fit that almost caused him to pass out.

“Your blood oxygen is really low.” John murmured thoughtfully while Sherlock breathed. Mrs Hudson had brought everything: meds, pulse oximeter, blood pressure monitor, charging cables and of course fresh clothes.

And of course the doctor had noticed the wet underwear, but he hadn’t commented on it, a fact that Sherlock was more than silently grateful for.

They had more important problems to deal with at the moment.

He woke up in a breathless panic, trying and failing to get much air into his lungs, making disturbing choking noises. In his confusion, he pulls away the tubing from his face, gasping for air that just wouldn’t come. For a terrifying moment he actually wondered if there was no oxygen left.. wherever he was. It does look vastly different from the hospital room he had been in as a child, but the taste of the pure oxygen still lingered in his throat and nose, and his lungs were on fire, just like they did back then. He couldn’t tell which was the past or present, which was real or just memories.

John was startled from his own sleep by Sherlock’s ragged, gasping breaths, and was up on his feet and unlocking his cell door in two seconds (they had both gotten keys so they could get out in cases of emergency, like right now), and unlocking Sherlock’s cell before the guards had even reached them. “Sherlock! Sherlock you need this.” He picks up the discarded tubing and tries to put it back under Sherlock’s nose, but the detective is fighting him and repeatedly slaps it away from his face.

“Sherlock damn it you need this. Let me help you, everything is okay.” He tries his best to stay professional, and in the end manages to put it back on Sherlock’s face while one of the Yarders holds his arms still.

But instead of letting the oxygen do its job, Sherlock continues to gasp for air through his mouth. “Sherlock, I need you to breathe through your nose. You got oxygen to help you breathe.”

Sherlock wildly shakes his head. He couldn’t stand the oxygen anymore, it was constantly pulling the memories he kept locked away, to the front of his mind. His chest hurts so much, he doesn’t want to breathe. It’s taking so much effort from his muscles to try to fill his lungs, and he’s so tired, he just wants a break.

“Sherlock please..” John begs, mentally debating whether he should be mean and hold his jaws shut, to force him to breathe the oxygen he so desperately needed.

He couldn’t even understand why it was suddenly so bad, until he heard a tell tale whistling sound. Sherlock is wheezing, and pretty loudly at that. The commotion earlier had previously masked it, but the sound has become louder now, which is a bad sign. 

He needed a new plan, and fast. “Sherlock, look at me.” He places his fingers on either sides of Sherlock’s jawline and gently forces him to make eye contact. “You are going to need to breathe through your nose. Everything will be alright.”

They stay staring into each other’s souls for a moment longer before Sherlock pulls away and inhales through his nose. He instantly screws his eyes shut, but not so much because of the images that are rushing to his mind again. The moment the oxygen hits his airways, he’s coughing like crazy, and the cough sounds like nothing he’s ever heard Sherlock’s chest make. 

But the sound.. he had heard it before.. as a doctor. But Sherlock wasn’t.. was he? Nah.. it’s just the smoke inhalation. There’d never been any signs before. I’m just reading too much into this, paranoid doctorism. 

John is gently rubbing his back as Sherlock doubles over on the bed, frowning when he once again feels every rib and vertebrae. Sherlock had put on almost all of the weight he had lost, through regular meals and working out to build up on muscle mass again, so he didn’t expect to feel so many hard bones protruding under his fingers once again. He had seen his body just a few hours ago, in the shower. But he now realises that it’s actually a lot worse than what had been visible. He could easily feel his shoulder bones and spine through the clothes, not to mention the ribs (though that was a constant feature, even before he’d become ill with POTS).

Yep. Something is definitely going on. Jesus.

The next day was thankfully better. After John had ended up falling asleep right next to Sherlock in the younger’s cell, they had both at least slept much more peaceful. 

Sherlock’s breathing improved, but the nasty cough and hoarseness were still prominent. At least Sally was cleared to be off the oxygen again, given how little of the smoke she had inhaled compared to Sherlock. She was allowed back at work, but still had to take it easy for a few days.

Much to John’s surprise, she actually visited them a lot in the holding cells. She thanked Sherlock for the, completely self-reckless, move of protecting her, and Sherlock returned the favour. Though Donovan winced at how terrible Sherlock still sounded. 

He sounds like Phil whenever he had a bad attack. She thinks. “Can I get you guys anything from the bakery?” She asks, keeping an eye on Sherlock’s reaction without actively looking at him. He gives John a very brief, nervous glance, like he’s hoping that John would say no. She hates how much she recognises the behaviour. 

John smiles gratefully at her. “That would be great.”

“Anything in particular?” Sally asks.

“Oh, I’m not very picky. Sherlock?” John asks, looking at his friend.

Sherlock turns his head away. “Not hungry.” He replies in the raspy whisper.

“Sherlock.” John warns quietly. 

“I’m on a case.” Sherlock defends.

“Sherlock. I would really like it if you ate something.” John says in such an obviously pointed way that Sally wonders if maybe John knows what’s going on with Sherlock. By now it was painfully obvious to her that Sherlock has a bad relationship with food; his body language and recent events are like an open book – if you know what to look for. And hell, did she know.

“I’m sure I’ll find something.” Sally says with a smile, though on the inside she feels bad for putting that pressure on him.

When the boys are alone again, John notices that Sherlock hardly drank anything since yesterday. He holds out the barely touched water bottle to him. “What happened to staying hydrated?”

Sherlock just turns away from him. He didn’t want to eat or drink anything, solely because of where that leads to: having to use that ugly, poor excuse for a toilet. If he didn’t need the stupid oxygen tank plugged in an outlet and actually had the strength to walk to the staff toilets, he wouldn’t feel such an aversion.

Donovan brought them bread rolls, apple cakes and yoghurts in raspberry and strawberry flavours. She also managed to find small packaged butter and marmalade like they have in hospitals. While John starts with buttering one of the breads, Sherlock frowns at the strawberry yoghurt in his hands like its existence is insulting him. 

Sally is both proud of herself, and also extremely saddened about Sherlock, because she’d known that this was what he would have preferred out of the things she brought. She knows, in that moment, that she’d have to talk to him.

John left him alone to take a shower. When he comes back, he finds Briggs, who is staring with wide eyes as Sherlock and Mycroft are loudly arguing in very fast french, which John couldn’t make out a single word. The only thing he can tell is that whatever they were talking about, it has deeply upset Sherlock.

“What is going on here?” John asks.

Sherlock seems to only have noticed John’s presence, and snaps at him. “Ask my idiot of a brother!!”

But it isn’t Mycroft who replies, too shell shocked and trying to calm down his little brother – to no avail. It’s Briggs who steps forward. “Astra is gone. This was in her box.” He hands over a small, odd looking red flower and a blue post-it note.

IF YOU WANT HER BACK ALIVE

YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME

Noticing John’s confused staring at the flower, Sherlock elaborates. “It’s a Lycoris radiata, ‘red spider lily’, also known as ‘the flower of death’.”

John takes a deep breath. This is real.

Whilst John fears for the worst, Sherlock has finally had enough of his brother trying to touch him and shoves him away from him. “I’m going home. I should be formally dressed for the funeral.” He says in a low, threatening voice as he makes to get out of the room.

“Sherlock, she’s probably okay.” John tries to soothe him.

“I wasn’t talking about Astra.” 

Briggs throws the younger a concerned look. “Then who-?”

“Haven’t decided yet.” Sherlock says and walks out. 

On his way through the building, he couldn’t contain the rage any longer and gave a strong kick against one of the lockers on ground level, leaving a large dent in the metal. 

Everyone looks up at the loud noise, and Greg calls a warning “Oi!”

Sally chases after Sherlock. “Sherlock what the hell?!”

“He got personal. Fine, I’ll give him personal.” Sherlock snaps.

“Oh yes, like he wasn’t personal when he tried to shoot you at the friggin police station.” Sally deadpans.

“He didn’t want to shoot me, he wanted you guys to surrender me.” Sherlock points out.

“How can you be so sure about his motives?! You never even met him!”

“Well I’m about to, now.” Sherlock says and grabs his backpack. “This has now become a case of the Vatican Cameos.” He says in a cold voice, throwing John a pointed look.

“Vati- what now?” Greg asks. 

Sherlock ignores him and tries to walk out, but John blocks his way before he can leave. “Vatican Cameos. It’s our code phrase for ‘battle stations, someone’s going to die'. It’s more of a warning thing between us, for example if one sees a weapon but obviously can’t say so.” The doctor explains to Lestrade, then turns to the idiot who keeps trying to push past him. “You are going nowhere. You’re in no shape to-”

Sherlock growls; actually growls at him. “They have her! Screw what happens to me, I just need her to be safe!” He yells, and has to cough into the crook of his elbow for his efforts.

To say that Sally is taken aback by his words is an understatement. 

“Where do you even plan on going? He never gave you an address.” 

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock asks genuinely, and seeing John’s utter displeasure, he explains. “The building where he broke in three years ago.”

John sighs and lets him through. “Okay but you’re not going alone, you hear me?”

Sherlock gives him a curt nod and they leave the police station together.

Greg and his team are of course following. 

Sherlock is coughing up a lung as they wait for the police cars to arrive. John is helplessly standing beside him, holding onto him to stay on his feet and giving him precise slaps on the back with his hand.

“I don’t know why it’s suddenly so bad.” Sherlock says between coughs.

“Because you’re physically active. Your body needs more time to recover, this was a really bad idea.” John mutters.

“I don’t have a choice.” Sherlock reminds him, before going back to hacking up his lungs.

“I know. I’d still rather get you checked in at the hospital for some x-rays of your chest when this bullshit is over.” 

Sherlock didn’t argue for once, which John took as a very bad sign.

“We have to split up. Because, if I’m right, and I’m fairly certain I am, he will use you John, and Greg, against me.” He pauses to breathe, and John raises an eyebrow at him, silently asking him if he’s really alright. “Sally, I need you to keep an eye and ear out to protect them.” He explains, looking straight at her.

“Why exactly?” Greg asks after a moment. 

Sherlock gives a quick cough before he starts talking. “Because she’s very good at that sort of thing.” He gives her a quick grin which she returns.

“And what about me?” Anderson asks.

“You..” Sherlock coughs again, then huffs in annoyance. “You are coming in with me.”

A collective “What?!” sounds from everyone around him. 

“He knows too much about me.” Sherlock says, pausing once more to try to get his breath back. “But he also knows enough.”

Confused glances.

“Sherlock.. are you not getting enough oxygen to that brilliant brain of yours? Because you’re making even less sense than usual.” John says concerned.

Sherlock shakes his head. “He knows about you-know-who, and he knows that I care about you two. Don’t look at me like that.” He glares at the fake shocked faces. “So he also knows that we,” Sherlock points to Anderson, “don’t get along and won’t feel threatened by his presence, because thanks to your blog, John, everyone knows that I don’t think very highly of him.”

John awkwardly clears his throat. “Get to the point?” And it’s only then that Sherlock realises that Greg, Sally and Anderson are cringing. 

“Sorry.” He mutters. “But that is exactly the point.” He puts a hesitating hand on Anderson’s shoulder, which shocks everyone involved (especially Sherlock is shocking himself). “In this case, our indifferences are coming in handy.” 

The others are starting to understand what Sherlock means.

“I really hope you’re right about this.” Greg comments.

“Oh I’m sure. Just stick to-” he breaks off into hacking coughs and struggles to get a breath in, doubling over and briefly losing his balance from the force of the coughs. John comes over and holds him steady once again, wincing in sympathy as he feels the tense muscles on his bony shoulder. 

His chest hurts when he finally manages to drag in bigger breaths, and he straightens up. “Stick to the plan and.. have your guns ready.” He squeezes out in a hoarse voice, then clears his throat and swallows, still struggling to breathe.

Nobody makes a move, everyone is just watching Sherlock fighting to breathe. It takes him a good twenty seconds to realise that, looking around at the others before waving them off. “Move.” He commands and turns to Anderson, giving him a pointed nod and starts heading in the opposite way that the rest took.

Anderson, for his part, keeps silently glancing at Sherlock, like he’s expecting him to suddenly combust. 

They enter the building and Sherlock halts before a closed door, closes his eyes and forces a couple deep breaths into his lungs. He opens his eyes again and signals for Anderson to wait out here, then finally opens the door and goes inside the room. “You wanted to see me.” He says in the same confident aura that he always acquires when he’s face to face with the killers. 

In this case, Jack is perfectly mirroring it. “I’d expected you to be here sooner. Been waiting for you to finally show up.” He replies coolly. “Where’s your blogger? Or did you ‘up and vanish’ again without him?” 

Sherlock smiles at the reference to John’s blog entries. “John should be around soon – if he catches on to what I told him.” He lies, and very believable at that. His smile vanishes. “What did you do to her?”

Jack smirks. “Who?”

Sherlock slowly walks in a half circle around him, forcing Jack to turn his back to the door. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Do us both a favour and cut the act. I know you’re a highly ranked sniper. You’re intelligent enough to plan this whole thing. You wanted me to come, so here I am.”

Jack glares at Sherlock. “Then I assume you also know what you’ve done.”

Sherlock sighs, and suppresses a cough. “You lost your reputation because you didn’t get to finish your job. You were working for Moriarty and were John’s personal sniper, intended to kill him should I fail to kill myself.”

Behind the door, Anderson’s eyes widen in shock.

Sherlock continues. “The thing got called off after I jumped and was declared dead. But you knew that something wasn’t right, didn’t you? You didn’t try to break into this building those years ago, you tried to plant something. But your plan failed, you got locked up, and I returned, alive and well.” As if on cue, he breaks off into a short coughing fit after that last word, and Jack grins viciously.

Forcing himself to catch his breath, but his voice is still strained, he continues. “You knew about-” he catches himself not to say her name, “-my horse, and how important she is to me, so you went and took a shot at her. But you missed. Either because she moved, or the distance made it difficult to hit her neck. You intended to kill her, but she survived. You never returned to finish the job, since you’d made your point quite clear.”

Jack is slowly clapping his hands, the sound echoing painfully loudly to Sherlock’s ears, and he has to try not to wince. Especially when the noise feels like it’s sending ripples of vibration through his chest, making his irritated lungs itch for him to cough. “Good. I’m impressed. You’re really as good as they say.”

“Now tell me where she is.” Sherlock demands.

Jack smirks wickedly. “I hope you like salami.”

Sherlock’s eyes slowly widen. Of course his first instinct is to flee. Turn around and get the hell out of here, call Mycroft, stop every factory… but he is in the same building as a highly trained sniper, and of course that red dot on his chest isn’t just his imagination. He hadn’t considered an accomplice, stupid stupid stupid!

“As much I’d like to, I just can’t let you go. Not a second time.” Jack says. “Any last words?”

Sherlock sighs. “What, you won’t even wait for John to get here? What a shame for the Vatican Cameos, don’t you think?”

“The what now?” Jack asks, frowning in confusion. But before Sherlock can repeat it (as Jack probably expected, but of course Sherlock wasn’t going to repeat himself), the door is slammed open and Anderson comes rushing in. He smacks Jack over the head with his gun and grabs Sherlock’s arm, dragging him out of the room with him, a fired shot just barely missing the consulting detective. Not a second after they run out, the entire building is engulfed in another smoke bomb, and they run off a little further away, taking cover behind a dumpster where Sherlock almost instantly collapses, chest heaving in rapid breaths.

And just when they thought they were safe, Jack comes around the corner, right up to them, so Anderson is forced to fire some shots and really make sure to hit his head once he’s down with a shot leg, so he’s out cold for good this time.

Once the guy doesn’t get up again for a minute, Anderson turns around to check on Sherlock, who is now trying to cough up a lung again, apparently. He keeps his gun trained on Jack, mentally praying that the others would just finally come. What was taking them so long, anyways?

As Sherlock was panting between coughs, Anderson could hear a loud wheezing with each breath. A sound that is very familiar to him. Lowering his gun, he puts his hand into the coat pocket and pulls out a blue inhaler, then kneels down and holds it out to Sherlock, who only eyes it suspiciously.

“Before you say anything, it’s unused. I always keep one on me, just to be safe, but haven’t needed to use it.” He explains and shakes the can. “I want you to use it, because if this gets any worse, you’ll need to be taken to hospital and Watson will probably kill us both.” He uncaps it, then presses the object into Sherlock’s hand. “Breathe out, then put your lips around the mouth piece, press on the can and at the same time, try to inhale as much of it as possible. Then hold that breath for a few seconds, if you can.” He explains, making the motions in the air to make Sherlock understand it better.

Sherlock listens to the instructions and, after a moment of hesitation (and more wheezy, laboured breaths) he does as he’s told. Cringing at the nasty taste, he manages to hold his breath for all of two seconds before he’s coughing again. 

“It’s okay. Get your breath back, then take another one. One dosage is always two puffs.” Anderson says, and Sherlock rolls his eyes at the last word.

When he’s ready, he takes another 'puff', and is able to hold his breath for a good ten seconds this time. “Good, now pretend that you’re blowing out a candle.” 

Sherlock follows the order without a fuss, and finds that he can breathe so much easier now. He feels like he could use about 80% of his lung capacity now, where he’d only survived on 40% earlier. 

Sherlock tries to give Anderson the inhaler back, but the man gives him the cap instead. “Keep it. You seriously need it more than me, from the looks of it.”

Sherlock frowns but puts the safety cap back on the mouth piece, then pockets it. He looks over to the (probably?) unconscious Jack. “Damn Anderson.” He gives a weak cough and pants for a moment. “Never knew you.. had it in you..” He jokes, starting to feel kind of giggly.

“Shut up and save your breath.” Anderson jabs at him, but it’s lacking its usual distaste.

They finally hear quick footsteps approaching. “You guys alright?!” Greg yells.

“Fine!” Anderson yells back.

“Where are you?” John asks next.

“Back here.” Anderson replies and steps before the dumpster, training his gun on the unconscious man in front of him again. 

The others finally discover the little alleyway and break to a halt when they discover Jack’s limp body.

“Is he alive?” Greg asks cautiously.

“I think so, although I don’t really care.” Anderson replies, his voice completely flat.

Sally and Greg share a silent glance, then nod at each other, and they go to either sides of Jack and start lifting him. Anderson puts his gun away and helps the others lift the – sadly still alive – man to their car.

John crouches down to Sherlock’s side to check on him. “You okay?”

To his surprise, Sherlock starts giggling a little. “Oh I’m fiiiine, I’m brilliant.” Then he gasps. “Oh! I have to call Mycroft!” He suddenly remembers and tries to take out his phone, but his fingers are shaking severely. 

“Oh jeez.” John comments when he sees the shaking. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, yes, fine. Good.”  Sherlock says quickly, then blows out a breath “hoooo… oh! By the way, someone has to let that riding club know that the riders and horses aren’t sick with a virus or bacterial infection. Jack probably had a side job of inconveniencing them. Tell them that they have to replace the substrate of their training areas. The leftovers of the smoke bombs get thrown up when they ride over it, and end up inhaling just enough to cause symptoms, but not enough to be traceable. Simple, but clever.” He rambles.

“Alright..?” John frowns. “Seriously though, you’re acting.. strange..” He looks Sherlock up and down for a moment. “Is this just from the adrenaline?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes. Yes. Maybe. No. Wait.” Sherlock puts his hand into the pocket again and pulls out the inhaler to show it to John, before his clumsy, tremulous hands drop it. “Ah damn, clumsy, f-f-friggin-”

John picks it up and stares at Sherlock with wide eyes. “Did you take this?”

“Hm? Yes. Yes.”

“How much?”

“Just two. He said two ‘pufffffs'.” 

John curses under his breath. Let’s hope it’s just the ‘euphoria’ side effect and not a weird reaction. And more importantly, let’s hope it contains what it says. “Sherlock, who told you to take this?” He was in close contact with a criminal, after all. But John quickly finds out that he needn’t worry about that.

“Anderson.” Sherlock replies, before quietly repeating the name to himself in various ways. “Aaaaandersoooon. Annnndersssson.” Then he breaks off into another coughing fit.

John groans and briefly presses the palm of his hand against his forehead, looking down at the salbutamol inhaler as he wonders what to do now. Hopefully just experiencing the ‘euphoria’ side effect and nothing worse. Doesn’t exactly warrant a hospital visit… hmm..

Sherlock suddenly winces, and John turns his full attention to him again. “What’s wrong?”

“Mmmhhhh..” Sherlock whines in reply and screws his eyes shut.

“Sherlock, talk to me. Are you having chest pains?” John asks concerned. If he’s having a bad reaction to the spray, after all… I might just kill Anderson.

But Sherlock is shaking his head, takes John’s hand with his trembling ones, and presses it over his heart, knowing that John will feel it.

“Are you having arrhythmias?” John asks with worry when he feels the familiar, irregular beats, and Sherlock nods pitifully. His heart is stumbling quite fiercely for a moment, with at least five extrasystoles at once.

“He’s having what?” Sally asks, startled, as her and the other police officers come back over to them.

“Extrasystoles. Unpleasant but nothing to worry about.” John says as he stands up and presents the inhaler to everyone, glaring at Anderson. “Did you give this to him?” 

“Well, yes.”

John groans. “Seriously? Do you have any idea what you could have just done to him? You are never to give others your medication, even if they have similar symptoms!”

Anderson glares back at him. “Well what else was I supposed to do?! He couldn’t breathe!”

“Yes! And maybe he couldn’t bloody breathe because his heart rhythm was in a-fib! Or maybe he gave himself a pneumothorax! You can’t play doctor and simply assume how the patient will react, you could have killed him!”

“John..” Sherlock says from behind him, more or less standing and holding himself up with the dumpster. “Don’t blame him, he was helping..” he winces again and his knees give in for just a second, making everyone think he’s going to pass out, but he remains standing thanks to his firm hold.

“We have to get you to A&E, your body might be reacting badly to it.” John explains, throwing Anderson another death glare. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Nooo.. I’m fine, John. I’m much better, I can breathe again.” He suddenly grins goofily and giggles again. “I can breeeaaaathe~”

The Yarders frown in various stages of surprise and confusion, but John only sighs and steps forward, moving Sherlock’s arm around his shoulders to steady him. “Yes, alright, breathing is awesome. Now come here so we can at least get you home before you end up passing out.” 

But Sherlock stops dead in his tracks after two steps and shouts “WAIT!”

“What?!” John demands.

“Astra!! Oh my god!” Sherlock yells and pulls his arm back to himself, then searches for his phone in his pockets. Since his hands are still trembling so much that he almost drops the phone, he decides on Plan B. “Hey Siri.” He says, gripping the phone in both hands to avoid dropping it.

“Yes?” The AI replies.

“Call Mycroft on speaker phone.” He says and doubles over a little, and John immediately pushes him down to sit on the ground. 

Everyone listens in as the line connects. “Sherlock?” Mycroft says surprised, since Sherlock almost never calls.

“Mycroft, locate every butchery that produces horse meat and find Astra before they turn her into horse salami!” He commands, his voice growing more tight and emotional with every word.

Chapter Text

Mycroft found Astra, completely unscathed thanks to a very nice butcher, who had refused to “harm such a beauty”. He’d hid the mare in his own stable, among his cows until the elder Holmes came around and asked about a white horse.

After explaining the situation, the butcher only shrugs. “Ye know, I’ve had some wilder pranks played on me and me animals. I knew something was off about that chap. Offered me a big sum o’ money for cuttin’ ‘er up. Didn’t stick around to watch the dirty work. Most people can’t stomach it, ye know? But something jus’ felt.. wrong. So I hid ‘er.”

Once John allowed Sherlock to discharge himself from the emergency room, because he didn’t have any worse reactions to the salbutamol, he immediately demanded to see her. Mycroft had her brought back to Briggs’ stable, with not a single scratch on her.

John accompanied Sherlock to the Hyde Park Stables, where ‘the boy and his horse’ were finally reunited. Sherlock immediately has his arms wrapped around her neck, pressing his face into her mane, needing to breathe in her scent to be able to believe that she is safe. 

He pulls away from her, sniffing, and gives her a once over. “Did they- did they- did they hhh-hurt you?” He stammers, running his hands over her body to look for scratches, but finding none.

“Sherlock, nobody hurt her.” Mycroft answers, which he had told his brother multiple times already. He was admittedly very concerned at hearing the familiar stutter again from his brother, but keeps his face schooled.

To prove to her human that truly nothing bad had happened to her, she playfully nudges his chest.

Letting out a shaky breath, he runs his hand down her nose. “Okay. Good. Okay. That’s-.. that’s-.. that’s-.… good, okay.. good.” he mumbles to himself, eyes never leaving her.

John took Sherlock to Bart’s hospital next, because the cough wasn’t getting much better and he soon started wheezing again with every exhale. By that point, in the waiting room, John had already formed the diagnosis, but waited for the test results. He also really didn’t want to admit that Anderson had been right, and John had yelled at him in his panic and fury.

Sherlock was eventually called into an exam room, and the moment he laid eyes on the scale, he turned to John and told him to just wait out there, since the room was rather small.

John hadn’t thought anything odd at the request and went back to the waiting area. The room really is small, with barely enough room for a patient and nurse to fit in it.

“Alright Mister Holmes, I just need to get your height and weight before you sit down.” The friendly nurse tells him. He lets her get his height and takes off his shoes before nervously stepping on the scale. He weight is similar to when he had his last stint with the drugs and ‘atypical eating disorder’, and part of him is scared, and part of him is exhilarated. 

He sits down in the chair and the nurse clips a pulse oximeter to his right pointer finger, then works on wrapping a blood pressure cuff on his other arm while the oximeter measures.

Sherlock giggles at the very high heart rate of 156bpm. “Ignore the pulse, I have POTS, this is normal.” He tells the nurse in advance, who then looks on the reading herself and remarks “oh. Oh, okay.” She smiles.

Sherlock isn’t sure if she knows what he meant, but he’s content with not getting any stupid remarks for once.

She takes his blood pressure, “132 over 81, that’s alright.” She comments before removing the cuff again.

Sherlock frowns a bit at the unusual reading, his blood pressure tended to stay on just 107 over 70, and likes to drop below 90 over 60. But then he remembers that the liquorice he keeps eating daily, raises the blood pressure. 

“Saturation at 95 and Pulse 138.” The nurse mumbles as she writes everything on a sheet of paper.

“Alright, you can go back to the waiting room for a bit and we’ll get you for the tests.” 

The tests, which Sherlock quickly decides to call ‘poison inhalation’ and ‘torture chamber’, leave him dead tired, constantly coughing and battling for breath, and caused a dull ache in his chest. He mentally urges the medication, that they’d made him inhale afterwards, to work quicker, as he sits bent over with his elbows on his knees next to John. He’s growing very annoyed by the sounds he’s making with every breath, drawing the attention of other patients on him.

John keeps supportively rubbing his back. He’d asked how it went, but Sherlock still didn’t have the air or spoons to say a single word, just wheezed and coughed.

Finally, just when he could breathe easier again, he gets called to the office of one of the pneumologists. John offered to come in with him, again, but Sherlock shook his head. He couldn’t risk them saying anything about his weight in John’s presence. “I’ll be fine.”

John reluctantly agrees. “Okay. I’ll be right here.” 

It turned out to have been a good decision to go in alone.

“How dare you accuse me of ‘starving myself’! I have POTS, P-O-T-S, you know what that means? That it’s basically impossible for me to be at a healthy weight. Not that I’ve ever had that, my whole life. Sorry, but you don’t know shit about me.” Sherlock snaps, arms crossed over his chest until he’s overtaken by another coughing fit from his outburst.

The pneumologist stays irritatingly calm. “Mister Holmes, your BMI is suggestive of cachexia. So whatever reasons you may have to starve yourself, I suggest that you stop, because you’ll need all your strength to keep your lungs healthy.” He says, then looks at his computer. “Now, your test results. Your lung function is at the low end of normal, and the bronchial challenge test was positive for asthma.”

“I’ve noticed.” Sherlock grumbles, coughing again. 

Once again, the doctor stays completely calm and collected. “I’m going to prescribe you some necessary inhalers.” He points to an assortment of different inhalers on his desk. “One will be a steroid, to keep the inflammation controlled, and salbutamol for acute attacks. The question is, would you rather have a powder or regular spray?” 

Ignoring the way the crooks of his elbows itched at the word ‘powder’, Sherlock only shrugs. How would he know? 

The pulmologist makes the decision for him, writes the prescriptions and shows him how he needs to use the inhalers. “If you’re uncertain, there are descriptions with pictures in the insert, and step by step videos on YouTube. I would also recommend using a nebuliser for at least a week, to help your airways recover and the irritation to go down.” 

“I think I’ll manage.” Sherlock mutters. He’s so bloody tired, he has to fight to keep his eyes open.

When he gets back out, John is waiting for him in the hallway, Sherlock’s coat draped over his arm. “And?” He asks curiously.

“Asthma. I have to get inhalers and a ‘nebuliser’.” Sherlock grumbles, annoyed at everything, and puts his coat back on.

John lays his arm around his back and guides him out. “It’ll be okay. We’ll just get these filled real quick and then you can go home, take them, and rest.” 

Sherlock really isn’t surprised that John knows exactly what Sherlock wants to do when he gets home. 

As much as he hates the nebuliser, it’s a lot better than the pure oxygen that was forced on him. He also had to admit that it is helping his bronchi quite a bit, though he’d rather live without.

Once he’s better, Sherlock quickly discovers that the salbutamol inhaler gives his heart rate a bit of a boost, so he sometimes takes a couple of ‘puffs’ a few minutes before he starts exercising. Not only is it helping him breathe a lot better (he hadn’t known how much he’d been struggling to get enough air when he exercises until it’s so much easier now, with the inhaler), but he also burns a lot more calories when he uses it. 

There was just something so satisfying about literally being able to watch the active calories counter get higher by the second.

But as was always the case with him, once one problem is solved, a new one arises.

“Sherlock… what’s wrong?” Mrs Hudson, bless her soul, asked as she brought Sherlock his favourite tea. Of course she had noticed that he hasn’t been doing well, and heard him thumping upstairs when he exercises. 

“No- noth- no-thhhing. I- I- I- c- I--” he shakes his head, eyes stinging with frustrated tears so he clenches them shut.

Out there are people with real, debilitating problems. And he’s sitting here, crying over his own pathetic inability to just talk like a normal human being. 

He couldn’t understand why it was suddenly back, or why it was so bad all of a sudden. A few weeks ago he was just stammering a little, and now he couldn’t form a damn word.

What is wrong with me?!

John didn’t understand it. Ever since Sherlock had gotten Astra back in one piece and Jack Franklyn was locked up for good, his stutter has become progressively worse. John is getting worried, but Mycroft reassures him that Sherlock has always had that stutter, and it’s just decided to show up so much now because of the stress. 

He tells John to just give Sherlock the time he needs to say what he needs to say, to not interrupt him or try to finish his sentences for him. John replied by asking him if he seriously thought he would do that. Mycroft became oddly subdued after John asked that, which the doctor found a bit strange, but the Holmes had hung up on him before he had a chance to ask anything.

Still, the elder Holmes keeps a watchful eye over his brother, and when his team reports that Sherlock hasn’t eaten for three days now (but at least taken all his medications as prescribed), he decides that the waiting game is over. He needed to pay his little brother a visit.

“Did you eat anything today?” The elder asks, in a no-nonsense fashion.

“Yes.” 

“Alright. Tell me what.” He’s seizing his little brother up.

That shut him up. Sherlock turns away from his brother, he couldn’t face him.

“You’re slipping.” Mycroft states in a low voice. 

Sherlock immediately scoffs. “My horse was- was- was shot at, could have- could have- c’ul..  d-di-died from a colic, and then she gets a-a-ab-abd-ab-abducted, taaaaa-ken to a-a-a fff-rigging butcher and almost turned in-into-into-into horse salami,” he stumbles wildly around the syllables, a very bad sign. “And now I’m- I’m- now- hhhrrr!” He growls in frustration, which isn’t making it any easier to talk. “Now I haaa-ve as- as-‘ma too. C-cut me so- so- some slack.”

“I have. I know that you’ve been struggling ever since you got ill.” Mycroft points out, keeping his voice soft and calm.

Sherlock swallows thickly. He takes a deep breath and speaks very slowly as not to stutter again, his vocal cords audibly straining and his voice pitch going up and down without control. “I’m.. always.. naaauseous, and.. sss-sometimes.. throw up.. without.. wanting to. It’s not my-my-my-my fault.” He hesitantly turns to look at his brother, the mental walls are finally crumbling down. 

“And I understand that. I don’t blame you, I never blamed you for it. But it is getting out of hand.” 

Sherlock turns his head away again, teary eyed. “I haaa-ve it.. under-under control.” He snaps, though it’s missing the fire.

Mycroft sighs quietly behind him. 

“I d-d-d-do.” Sherlock promises, even though they both knew exactly what it means when he claims that he has everything 'under control'. Feeling put on the spot, he guiltily looks down at himself, runs his hands over his chest, feeling the bones prominently. Clenching his jaws he turns around to his brother again, hands hanging loosely by his sides. “Okay maybe- maybe- mm.. I’m sss-struggling. A li- li- a little.” He almost chokes on his admission.

Mycroft nods, watching his brother with sad eyes. 

At the very least, his brother was aware of it. But it doesn’t ease Mycroft’s worries in the slightest.

Just because you know you’re colourblind, doesn’t mean you can see the colours.

Greg wants his input on a case, and at first, Sherlock had refused. He didn’t want the other officers to make fun of him for stuttering so badly if he doesn’t take his sweet-time to consciously form the words before saying them, and then try to minimise it when he stutters anyways. The simple act of talking has now become a full time job. 

Trying to get the words out, and having to switch to different words and even having to re-formulate his sentences because he gets stuck or a certain word proves to just be impossible to pronounce, is taking so much energy. 

If he had to describe it, he would say he felt like a sat-nav that has to constantly re-calculate the position of the vehicle, the route keeps changing every two seconds, and the vehicle is moving at 200mph. He needs to spend way too much focus on something as mundane as talking, and it’s tiring him so much that he would rather stay silent.

After Papa Greg reassures him that he’ll tell the others to just ignore it and give him the time he needs, Sherlock had of course relented, because he didn’t want to be seen as a coward, despite feeling very much unwell as it was.

At the Yard, Sherlock is pacing back and forth in the evidence room, trying to think.

He isn’t feeling well. Not at all, actually. But he needs to solve this stupid case before he could feel sorry for himself and pretend to not exist for a while.

He doesn’t even notice when Sally comes inside the room, closing the door behind her. She stands in his way, making him stop. Holding up a small bowl with salted crackers, she asks “want some?”

Sherlock looks away. “No thanks. Need to think.” He turns away from her and resumes his pacing, having an even harder time to focus on the case now that Donovan is watching his every move. “What’s up with you, then? You don’t eat anymore.” She says softly, eyes showing deep concern. It was unnerving.

Sherlock scoffs and stops to look at her. “I never eat at- at the Yard, and even less while- while- while on cases.”

“I know. But you’ve lost weight. Even I can tell.” 

Sherlock looks down at his hands for a moment. “I have issues with- with-” he briefly growls in frustration, “with digestion. Autonomic ner-ner-nervous system is f-f-f-fucked, remem-mem-member?” He half jokes to try to get her to leave him alone.

Sally looks grimly at him. “I think there’s more to it, though. I get that you don’t want to talk about your problems with me, but please at least talk to John about it.”

Sherlock glares at her. “I don’t have to- have to- ta-aa-lk to anyone, because the- there’s noth-noth-thing to talk about! I don’t have a ‘p-p-problem’, thank yyy-you very m-much.” He snaps, but she holds her ground perfectly.

She looks him straight in the eyes. “I used to be bulimic, with anorexic tendencies. [Pause] Didn’t see that one, did you?” She asks ruefully. “I know what it means to turn down every offer of food and saying that you’re fine, while you’re silently losing weight and fighting a losing battle with yourself.”

Sherlock only stares at her in shock. 

Sally sighs and places the bowl on the table. “I’ll leave them here, in case you want some later. Just try, okay? Even if it’s just one, or a half, or just a bite. Don’t starve yourself anymore.” She pleads and leaves him alone.

Once the door is shut again, Sherlock runs his hands over his face. Did this seriously just happen? The first person besides Mycroft to notice is Donovan, of all people? Well, still better than Anderson…

He eyes the crackers, feeling nauseous from just the sight. They’re those ‘healthy’ oat crackers, so gluten free, but he couldn’t stand the taste or texture. He turns away in thought.

She really was bulimic, wasn’t she? How else could she tell? How else could she say what she said?

Sherlock had never understood what drives bulimics to overeat and then throw it back up. He’s never seen the point of forcing yourself to eat if you were just going to make yourself sick directly afterwards. He felt more logical in that regard: just don’t eat in the first place. 

His mother’s angry words rang in his head again, from his last interaction with her. “What, are you bulimic, now? Is that why you’re a skeleton?” 

Of course, she never understood his issues and knew even less about the different types of eating disorders, but the accusation still stung.

He moves his hand towards the crackers, but then pulls it back to himself before it touches the offending food items. No, I’m okay. I don’t have to eat anything. Nothing at all.

John suddenly comes in, startling him half to death. “Oh, sorry.” He apologises when he sees the fear on his face. Sherlock glances at the crackers one last time before turning away from them, as if the very sight is putting him off. 

Before John can comment on the strange behaviour, Sherlock starts explaining the little progress he’s made, very displeased at himself. 

“How about we just leave it there, for today. It’s already half past five, I’m starving.” John says.

Sherlock points to the bowl of crackers. “Help yy-yoursss-self.”

John laughs. “I meant real food. An actual meal. You know what we haven’t done lately?”

Sherlock doesn’t give a single guess and just waits for John to tell him, although he has a feeling what he is about to say. A very bad feeling, that is.

“We haven’t eaten out at Angelo’s in ages. Think the last time we were there was the 'celebration dinner' when you solved the Schall case.”

“I didn’t solve it..!” Sherlock spits out between tightly grit teeth before he could stop himself. And if you keep distracting me like this, I won’t get this one solved, either. And then nobody will want me working on cases anymore at all, when they know that I’m useless.

John is watching him with concern. “Yes you did. The outcome was less than ideal, yeah, but you still solved it.” He points out.

Sherlock just shakes his head. “John, if you are only going to keep dis- dis-tracting me, I am going to have to- to- to ask you t-to leave. Have your din-ner at Annngelo’s. Digessss-tion slows me down, we’ve been- been over t-this.”

John looks at him suspiciously at those words. “What happened was not your fault. Are you feeling guilty again? About the Schall case? Is that why you want to get this one solved so badly?” 

“I don’t have f-feelings of- of- of guilt!” Sherlock snaps. His stomach clenches at his own proclamation – a complete and total lie.

“Then what is your motivation, pray tell? Because to me it looks like-”

“Okay fine, let- let- g- let’s go.” Sherlock interrupts him, grabs his backpack and moves past him out the door.

John rushes after him and sees Sherlock impatiently waiting for him before the exit, so he quickly tells Greg that they’re leaving, before joining Sherlock.

They ride in the cab in silence. Sherlock is deliberately focusing on his phone, and John takes his cold shoulder as his sign to leave him alone.

Sherlock pays the cabbie, which is.. uncommon. But John figures he’s just probably used to traveling alone and therefore, paying has become his habit.

Sherlock pockets his phone before they go into the restaurant. He chooses a table in the corner that’s furthest away from the other people who are loudly conversing. 

John simply follows him, and once they’re seated, Angelo is at their table. “Sherlooock, John! So nice to see you.” He welcomes them, laying a hand on either man’s shoulders and squeezing. 

John grins at him while Sherlock grimaces. The firmness actually hurt on his bones.

Angelo releases them. “What can I do for you? The usual?”

“Sounds good to me.” John nods, looking over at his friend. “Sherlock?”

I’m not hungry. “Uhh…” 

“The usual?” Angelo repeats, in the same energy as he always says everything else. 

Good enough. He takes a steadying breath and just nods, putting on a fake smile.

Once Angelo is gone to prepare the food, John leans closer to Sherlock. “What’s wrong?”

You mean besides my terrible stutter that makes me sound like some half brained idiot? He thinks bitterly. “I’m fine.” 

John tilts his head, eyes not leaving Sherlock. “It’s just that you’re acting.. strange. On edge. Are you not feeling well?” He asks quietly, feeling a bit guilty about forcing Sherlock to stay away from his home for longer.

Sherlock only looks down at his lap.

“Do you want to just go home?” John asks.

Yes. Let me go home and never get out of bed again. I don’t want to exist.  

But he knows that if he just goes home now, he’ll just torture himself with guilt for disappointing John and making him worry and feel guilty for preventing Sherlock from going home, and then he won’t get any sleep and only feel even worse tomorrow.

So he shakes his head. 

“Are you sure? Don’t just say you’re okay when you’re really not.”

John, please shut up before you make me cry in public.

John continues. “It’s just dinner, not the end of the world.” Of course he means that he wouldn’t mind if they just cancelled it, if Sherlock felt too unwell. But Sherlock always has to take things literally.

He gets a painful smile on his face. You have no idea.

Angelo brings them the drinks and food, which Sherlock only picks at and moves it around on his plate. He eats small pieces every now and then, more just so John won’t ask more questions than because of hunger. 

Thankfully John wasn’t paying much attention to him, respects it that Sherlock wants no conversation so he doesn’t ask anything, and he still doesn’t have a clue when Angelo takes their plates back and packs up the leftovers. When they get up, Sherlock tightens his stomach muscles to keep his stomach as flat as possible, suddenly feeling horribly self conscious with other diners looking up at him. He only has bowel movements every second day, so on day one he feels and looks ‘bloated’ (at least in his eyes), and worries so much about getting another ileus that he more or less drinks iberogast, in such large amounts that it could be considered substance abuse. 

Of course it’s only caused by the lack of eating anything substantial, but to Sherlock’s disordered brain, it’s his fault. He isn’t exercising enough, that’s why his digestion is so slow. Nothing else to blame.

He’ll give his leftover bag to Mrs Hudson when he gets home. It will make her happy and he wouldn’t have to worry about it going bad. It was a complete win-win situation.

He felt pretty confident in himself, so he stepped on the scale without any clothes on, only for the numbers to wipe the smugness right off his face.

He had known that he’d gained some of his weight back (as muscle mass), with how much he’s been exercising. But he hadn’t expected it to be this much.
It’s the most he’s weighed since he first got sick, which was still a far length away from a normal, healthy BMI.

But to him, that number was too high.

Way too high.

Never mind that he’s been building up quite a bit of muscle mass. No. It didn’t matter to his mind. All that matters is the number, and it keeps repeating in his head, taunting him.

He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to tear his hair out. He wants to hurt himself. He wants to throw everything in his sight.

He looks into the mirror and his eyes fixate on the fat on his upper arms. He can practically watch his arms grow thicker, more squishy, more fatty. And then, his entire body becomes this way. 

He feels nauseated at the sight, and has to swallow against the stomach acid that started to burn his throat. 

He has to cover himself, his own reflection was staring at him so tauntingly, laughing in his face.

You darn idiot, how could you?! Stupid, stupid, stupid! He mentally screams at himself and he has to bite his lip to keep from crying as he pulls on his dressing gown to hide his disgusting arms from his sight.

He couldn’t bear the sight of his own body.

He spends half of the night lying awake and thinking about all of his recent failures, which there are a lot, and around 5 am his thoughts started to dig up embarrassing memories from his childhood, because he’d started thinking about his stuttering, which kept replaying over and over in front of his eyes. And all he can think is all I do is fuck everything up, why the hell am I even still here?

“Sir?” Anthea peeks her head into his office. 

“Yes, what is it?” Mycroft asks, already knowing that it’s about his brother.

His PA comes inside the room and closes the door behind her. Her voice is gentle and filled with concern. “Sherlock hasn’t eaten or left his flat in two days.” 

Mycroft lets out a long sigh. “Have them install cameras in his bedroom and bathroom again, and tell them to actually make an effort in keeping them hidden, this time.” 

She nods and sends off a message to the other parts of the team. When she looks up from the phone screen again, her boss is walking past her.

“Sir? Are you going to the kitchen again?” Anthea asks hurriedly.

“And what if I am? It’s my kitchen.” He deadpans and keeps walking.

“We both know why you’re going there.” She says back in the same tone.

Mycroft pointedly ignores her and stalks out into the hallway. Anthea runs after him.

When she catches up to him, he’s already in the kitchen, pulling out various food things from the fridge and piling them next to the sink.

“Mycroft.” Anthea warns. “How many times has it been? Three?”

He shuts the fridge and looks at her. “Five.”

“In exactly how many weeks?” She retorts.

“This isn’t part of your job.” He snarls and turns away from her, looking through the pile of food instead.

“What? Caring? Mycroft, you cannot go on like this. This isn’t okay.” She tries to reason and lays a hand over his, stopping his plans instantly.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“You will lay awake with heartburn all night and blame yourself for your brother’s actions. Tell me how any of this is no big deal.” She challenges.

He didn’t have an answer to it, so they start to put everything back into the fridge, together.

“If I catch you one more time, I’m going to have you admitted into a clinic so you can finally get your feelings sorted.” She says quietly, and he knows that he has to take her word for it.

No matter how much he tries to argue, he knows that somewhere along the years, something started to go wrong with his brain.

One day he will just have to accept that Sherlock isn’t the only Holmes brother with mental health and food related issues.

Maybe he isn’t so much above all these goldfish as he always thinks himself to be.

Chapter Text

It’s not my fault that eating always makes me feel horrible. Sherlock thinks as he stares at the piece of freshly made strawberry cake that Mrs Hudson had brought him. And I don’t really get hungry most of the time, which makes me forget about eating, too.

He knows that he’s just giving himself excuses. He knows that he’s actually struggling with the whole concept of eating food. But he had it under control – he really did… at first. Sure, it’s been on and off for a long time now. He may have simply not eaten just because he could, sometimes. When nobody would bat an eyelid when he said that he’s not hungry and declined offerings. 

It’s not about his looks or numbers, really, not at all. A bit of a game, maybe. After hardly eating anything for an extended period of time without meaning to, his body gets into this mode of self loathing and feeling like he deserves all the symptoms. Feeling dizzy and lightheaded, unable to sleep for hours, body aches, always being cold.. though ever since he got POTS, he has all that anyways, which is seriously messing with his mind. 

He looks away from the cake. I don’t deserve to eat this.

When evening rolls by, he is pushing out the half of the Ivabradine pill like usual, when a thought makes him halt in his movements. If you don’t take it, your heart rate will be higher and you’ll burn more fat. 

For a moment, he actually considers putting it back into the blister pack. 

But then he snaps out of it, surprised at his own stupidity. I need these meds, what the hell am I even thinking?! 

He quickly takes it with water, then his brain remembers the piece of cake again. It would be a shame to let it go to waste. 

Putting away his meds, he makes his way over to the kitchen, takes out the cake from the fridge and sits down at the table. Picking up the fork that he’d left there earlier, he reluctantly starts eating it, because he has it under control.

Ten minutes later his stomach is churning as he paces around the living room in circles, which is quickly making him dizzy in the process.

His eyes keep getting stuck on the empty plate that previously held the piece of cake. Now there’s only crumbs left, and Sherlock couldn’t believe that he actually ate all of it.

To what purpose? What did you do to deserve eating that? I’ll tell you what: absolutely NOTHING!

I don’t deserve Mrs Hudson’s kindness. I really don’t.

That’s not kindness, it’s pity. Now stop standing around like this and start burning it off!

Shortly after, he’s in his bedroom, alternating between running in place to get his heart rate up, and doing all sorts of sit ups and crutches to get his guts moving more quickly.

He has to pause every two to three minutes, too out of breath with his heart racing too fast. And every time he lays there, he keep screaming at himself that he’s so pathetically out of shape that it’s just embarrassing at this point.

No matter that he’s actually chronically ill, with ‘fatigue’ and ‘exercise intolerance’ being one of the major symptoms of POTS.

He keeps going for hours, deep into the night. Every time he needed to take a short break in-between relentless exercises, he just wanted to cry at how little stamina he has. No wonder John started working out at the gym, there was no way Sherlock was ever going to chase, much less apprehend, criminals. 

I’m useless. 

He avoids looking in the mirror when he quickly washes off the sweat at 1am by rubbing his skin down with a wet flannel, before drying off and getting dressed again. His entire body is trembling and his hip, knees and ankle are absolutely killing him, his stomach muscles are sore and his back stiff and painful at every movement, but he doesn’t deserve anything less. He actually prefers the physical pain, because now the thoughts have finally gone silent.

When he’s done brushing his teeth and is working on rinsing his mouth, he suddenly feels stomach acid coming up his throat, making him gag.

And just for a moment, he doesn’t care. Hell, he even thought about sticking his fingers down his throat to help get it up, even though he probably had nothing to bring up in the first place. The cake would long since be digested.

What the hell is wrong with me?! He thinks in utter shock. Normally he tries everything in his power to not throw up. He looks at himself in the mirror, his own frantic eyes staring back at him. This is getting out of hand. I have to-

…tell someone? Where did that suddenly come from? 

John would hate you if he knew. And then he would leave. And never speak to you again. Because he’s sick of being around you and your nonstop medical drama.

He wishes to pick up his phone. To just send him a text, since he feels like he couldn’t make a sound at the moment. But the anxiety is winning out. John has probably had enough of my stupid, constant drama. 

He doesn’t have to know. If you tell him, all that you’ll do is make him constantly worry about you at best, and break off all contact with you at worst.

Though honestly, it’s about time he finally realised what a complete nut job you are and get the hell away from you.

Sherlock feels like crying, again. I have it under control. Nobody needs to know about this. I have it under control. 

I have it

under

control.

Even as he cries himself to sleep, he keeps repeating the mantra over and over in his head.

The Yard has gotten another.. peculiar case.

“What’s  the point of this building? There are just.. stairs, no offices.” John wonders when they enter the very tall building.

“Tower running. People come here to climb stairs for fun, apparently it’s a great workout and burns a ton of calories.” Greg explains. “Great view when you’re at the top.”

“Oh. Interesting.” John comments. 

Yes, interesting indeed. Sherlock thinks and looks up at the 900 or so stairs. 

“Sherlock.” John calls from the side, where they are waiting at an open elevator. 

Oh. Sherlock is mildly disappointed, but follows the others into the lift.

It really is a tall building, and it takes almost two minutes for them to reach the top level, where apparently a homicide had occurred over night. 

While he scans the area, he makes the mistake of looking downwards from the large windows. He really doesn’t know why he even bothered, there was absolutely no way anyone would have climbed up the wall from outside. All he manages to do is make himself almost die from the instant panic. 

He stumbles back in his dizziness, away from the windows and crashing into none other than Anderson, of all people. “Oi!” The forensic officer exclaims and is almost thrown over as well, but he regains his balance and instinctively grabs hold of Sherlock in the process.

Of course all eyes are on him, now, and Sherlock wants to die from shame. He pulls himself free of Anderson’s grasp and pretends like this did not just happen.

“Christ..” he hears Anderson mutter under his breath in shock, and he doesn’t need to look at him to know that he’s being stared at. 

Thankfully, Anderson feels no need to broadcast Sherlock’s decreasing weight and progressing skeletal-ness like last time, just stares at the detective for a long moment in disbelief before returning to what he has been doing before Sherlock rudely interrupted him.

“You okay?” John asks, giving him a concerned look.

“Fine.” Sherlock grumbles and takes a better look at the corpse. It sadly doesn’t tell him anything interesting, which only makes him feel even more useless.

A while later, they ride back down in the lifts. Sherlock is absolutely itching to exercise, but he needs to be alone for that. He feels like a starved mouse that just wants to get to the cheese, but an invisible wall is blocking its path. So close, and yet, so far.

Except, when they finally reach the ground floor, he gets an idea.

“Sherlock, you coming?” John asks when he notices that Sherlock had stopped walking, assuming that maybe he’d figured something out.

“Uuh yeah, in- in a minute. I have to go back and.. chhheck something out, you guys can g-g-go on without me.” He says, not waiting for anyone to reply and gets into the lift that they had just come out of, pressing the number 14 so nobody would be suspicious about his actual intentions if they think he’s going to ride back up to the top floor. The wait is already making him antsy enough, he isn’t sure he would have survived riding all the way up to the 42nd floor again without going crazy with this need to exercise. 

Getting out on the 14th story, he walks over to the stair case. He places a hand on the railing and hesitates, looking up at the many many many MANY stairs. Do I really want to do this?

Taking a deep breath to push the doubts away, he starts climbing the stairs. He pushes through all sorts of symptoms, and makes it to the 20th story before he quite literally collapses, heart racing like crazy and completely out of breath. His ankle, knees and hip are utterly killing him.

God, I am so out of shape.

Working through the police networks to find out about the victim and hopefully finding a connection to the murderer is proving to be harder than they had all thought. The strange thing is that there are hardly any injuries, apart from a few bruises. No toxins in the blood, no signs of a struggle, and weirdly enough, nobody ever saw how they died. Someone just randomly finds the dead body at the top floor, no other person in sight.

Something is very strange about this case, and it’s making Sherlock more antsy than he already is. And the constant staring from the other officers is not helping!

“My god, what? Why are you all looking at me like that?!” Sherlock exclaims, finally having had enough of the staring.

John clears his throat. “Your eye.”

“My eye?” Sherlock asks incuriously and takes out his phone. He tries to open the camera, but it appears that his fingers don’t have enough circulation going through them for the touchscreen to follow his gestures. He groans in annoyance, time for plan B. “Hey Siri.” He waits for the orb to appear. “Open ss-selfie camera.”

If he’s getting more weird looks for using the AI for something as simple as this, they could just go f*ck themselves, because he isn’t going to explain.

When the front camera is finally activated, he quickly notices what John meant. His right eye was doing the ‘angry looking blood vessel thing’ again. It’s been happening a lot lately, his right eye more often than the left. 

“Oh, that. Just ignore that.” He says, but the stares don’t stop.

John has an especially odd look on his face. Something mixed with concern. “You don’t seem surprised.” The doctor comments. “How many times has this happened?”

“I don’t know? It’s been happening every now and then for a few weeks.”

“In one eye or both?”

“Both. Why are you so interested?” Sherlock wonders.

“Because pink eye is-”

“Pink eye?” Sherlock scoffs at the name.

John rolls his eyes. “Layman’s term*. Episcleritis is an inflammation. Now, we haven’t had much windy weather, the room air isn’t dry, and you haven’t been working with chemicals- you haven’t, have you?”

“No.”

“So, developing episcleritis once is normal, twice is coincidence, but recurrent is a sign to look deeper.” John may have good intentions, but his rant is causing the police officers present to act like Sherlock is contagious. 

He glares at John for his efforts. “Will you ss-stop diagnosing me and ff-finding prohh-blems where- where- there are none? I-I-It just ha-happens randomly every now and th-then, my eyes just probably get d-d-dry.” He growls, getting tired of John always reading too much into everything lately. “Everyone gets thaaat, so just stop reading into- into- into ev- ev- evy- every little thing!”

Sally is throwing him a knowing look, and it finally pushes Sherlock over the edge. He flees from the room without looking back. He’s sick and tired of everything.

He finds the vacated office from Lestrade, which isn’t necessarily the best hiding place, but he just wanted his peace for a few minutes.

He knows why his eyes become so irritated, or at least he’s pretty sure of it. He knows that malnutrition has been suspected of playing a role in it for a couple of years. That, plus his malfunctioning nervous system, and the new chronic inflammation of his bronchi, it really wasn’t surprising. When he’s exercising, his heart rate and blood pressure go up from the adrenaline, which probably furthers inflammatory processes like that. It really isn’t a big deal. John just needs to stop worrying so much and focus his doctorism on his actual patients.

The eye thing is annoying, and makes him look like he’s on crack, but that’s really about it. He is used to worse pain, and he’s always photosensitive, so he ignores the mild discomfort.

If he could live with this little side effect, then John would just have to learn to suck it up.

His peace gets disturbed by a knock on the door. Thinking that it’s John, he calls “come in!”

But when the door opens, it’s not John. Sally brings him another bowl of crackers, but sits down at the table this time. 

“What do you- you want? I need t-hhho think.” Sherlock complains.

“I would like you to eat something while you’re here.” Sally says, virtually radiating self confidence. 

“Why?”

“If you want to prove to me that you’re fine, eat a cracker.” She challenges.

Sherlock instantly scoffs. “Why sha- she- should I do that? You’ll believe whaaaatever you wa- want, any- any- w-way.” 

Sally just pushes the bowl closer to him. “Just one cracker. Can’t be that difficult.” 

He’s feeling cornered, and she knows it. “Digestion s-s-slows me down. You want this case ss-solved faster? S-t-top distr-acting me.”

Sally only looks at him with a raised eyebrow, the challenge is now definitely on.

Seeing how he could only leave and look for another empty room at the Yard or do what she’s asking (which is just ridiculous, really), he glares at the darn crackers. 

His eyes flit up to make eye contact with Sally. “Fine. You want to- want to- wa.. see me eat?” He growls and aggressively takes up the whole bowl with one hand, picking out a single cracker that’s already missing the tip of a corner. Hesitating again, he briefly looks at Donovan again, who is staring up at him with wide eyes, and before she could open her mouth to say anything, he stuffs the cracker into his mouth determinedly. “There, I’m eating.” He snaps, which doesn’t portray his anger all that well with his mouth full.

And just when Sally thought it couldn’t get any worse, there’s a quick knock on the door before John opens it. He looks relieved for a second, before frowning suspiciously, then puts on a poker face. “There you are, I’ve been looking for you.” He says to Sherlock, eyeing the bowl, and basically this whole situation he has burst in on.

“I’m just.. gonna leave you two.” Sally says awkwardly and gets up. She throws Sherlock a quick look that says ‘sorry’ before rushing past John and out the door. She really hadn’t meant to put Sherlock into that situation.

Sherlock places the bowl down quicker than was necessary, hastily chewing the dry cracker and forcing himself to swallow it.

“Do I want to know what that was about?” John asks hesitantly. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Just a st-stup-pid dare, we got carrrr-ied away.”

He tries to ignore the look John is giving him. He obviously knows that something is going on, and Sherlock would really prefer if John never figured out what exactly that is. 

“Okaaayyy… well, Greg just got a call. Looks like we got another victim.” John explains, trying to change the topic, thankfully.

“Another at the tower?” Sherlock inquires.

“Yup. Again at the top level, too. Seems like our murderer wants them to get one last view.” John jokes.

“Hm. What are you going t-hho name this case, then? ‘Where the- where the- the sky is- is the- is the limit’?”

“I was thinking more of ‘the last sightseeing tour’.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him and starts walking out into the hall. “Why see- sigh- shee- shytee-- d-d-d-da-damn it…! Why the l-l-la- last looking tour? I doubt they whe- were all t-hhourists.”

John shrugs. “Sightseeing isn’t exactly off limits for those who live here, you know? But whatever. It was just an idea.”

Something twinges in Sherlock’s chest at John’s dismissal. It definitely wasn’t the first time they’ve argued about John’s case titles, and it never affected Sherlock when John got passive aggressively defensive. This time, it has enough of an effect as to reduce Sherlock to a painful silence until they get to the tower, not daring to say anything else that might upset John, and in turn, himself.

Once again, there are no wounds, no signs of a struggle, and no witness. 

Everyone is looking expectantly at Sherlock, who desperately wishes he could tell everyone about his brilliant deductions and what they have to do to solve this. 

But he is, to his dismay, just as lost as them.

His failure rate has increased significantly ever since he got sick, but it isn’t getting any easier to listen to Greg apologising to the owner of the Tower.

“Should I shut it down? If the killer only targets people here, I don’t want to risk any more deaths.” 

Greg is about to say yes, but Sherlock jumps forwards. Call it intuition, but he knows that if they lock this place up, they aren’t going to catch the killer at all. “No!” All eyes turn to him again, and he unconsciously tenses his stomach muscles, stands up straighter. “You have to keep it open.” He says, with his utmost effort to keep his tongue under control.

The owner frowns at him. “And what, pray tell, is your reasoning?”

Thankfully, Lestrade comes to his rescue. “Trust me, he knows what he’s doing.” Although he gives Sherlock a questioning side glance, silently telling him ‘you better be right about this’.

“We need hidden cameras, everywhere.” Sherlock says.

A few people scoff. “Have you seen this place? How could we possibly put that many cameras without any cables visible? Forget it!”

“Well we can’t put a police officer on- on- on every floor, either!” Sherlock argues back.

“Hey hey hey! Calm down, all of you!” Lestrade yells with his arms in the air. “We will discuss this like civilised people or you lot can leave right now and don’t set another foot in here, is that understood?”

A collective round of mumbled yes-es sounds. 

“I’ll camp out, stay at the Tower.” Sherlock offers.

“And do what? Stay at the top floor?” Anderson questions.

“No. Obviously.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “If they know that someone from the police is standing guard, they’ll just use a- a- a different floor. There are definitely enough, here.” 

“Well, whatever you got planned, you aren’t doing this alone,” Lestrade says sternly. “We had an agreement. So, choose your partner.”

Sherlock could feel John’s eyes on him at the word ‘partner’, but he was out of the question long before Sherlock even said he would stand guard. John has a family, so he won’t risk getting him into danger. Plus, John would make him eat, same as Lestrade, and Sherlock couldn’t have that distraction as well. His thoughts and urges to exercise in this place were enough of a distraction as it was.

He was already fighting the urge to run up those stairs, to push himself past his own limits, to see if he’s gotten a bit more stamina.

No, he knows exactly who he will choose to stay with him. “Donovan.” He nods at her.

A couple odd looks are thrown his way again, but he only has eyes for her. She returns his eye contact, giving him a knowing look and nodding.

John frowns at them. “Well look at you two.” He mutters.

“Jealous?” Sherlock asks smugly. “Don’t be, you’re ss-still number one. I just have my- my reasons.”

“Mmhmm, and what would those be?”

Of course the question gets ignored. Honestly, what else had John expected?

“So, you haven’t told him.” She comments when they’re alone. They’re first camping out at the ground floor, so they could see everyone who enters the building. Since there is really nothing besides toilets, stairs and lifts, they’re sitting behind each other on the stairs, out of the way so people could go past them. Sherlock envies every one of these people who get to run up those stairs without a care.

“No.” 

“You didn’t have to turn him away from this, just so we could talk, you know?” She says, amused. “He’s going to think you replaced him with me.”

Sherlock gives her a sideways frown. “He knows that he can’t be replaced.”

“Aww, that’s.. actually really sweet.”

“You know that we were never a couple, right?” Sherlock asks, watching a group of people enter the building.

Sally chuckles behind him. “Yeah, I know. It’s kind of sad, though.”

“Hm? What is?”

“Well, how you guys never got together. You two seemed to be doing each other so well, is all.”

“Well, not every friendship has t-to- to t-te- turn into a- a- a 'romance'.” He spits the word like its very existence is offending him.

“Hmm.. you haven’t had a lot of friendships, though, have you?” She asks in a quiet, soft voice.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t really keep a t-rrrack record of wh-who does and d-doesn’t hate my guts.”

Sally chuckles at that.

“What?” He demands.

“Friends aren’t people who just don’t ‘hate your guts’, Sherlock.”

He frowns at the ceiling. “I’m fairly sh-sure that they ex- exclude one an- an- another.”

She just giggles and shuts up when more people enter the Tower.

“I didn’t get along with other pe- people.” Sherlock mutters when those people disappeared in the elevator.

“You mean at school?” Sally asks, her voice soft and caring.

Sherlock gives a minimal nod. “I was always bullied, for pretty much every reason they th-thought of. It just never ss-stopped, being made fun of, excluuuded and att-hhacked was all I ever kn- knew. It got to a- a- a p-hhoint where I felt like the- felt like- like the way everyone treated me was j-juuustified. Obviously sssomething must have been terribly wrong about m-me to make them a- act this way.”

Sally is shocked into silence. In all honesty, she had always assumed that Sherlock would have been a bully, not be bullied. The way he always ‘attacks’ people by exposing their secrets the moment they get the upper hand had always rubbed her the wrong way. Of course, it’s a defence mechanism. Attack is the best defence, literally.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I- why I b-bri- brought it up.” Sherlock murmurs.

“No, sorry, don’t be. I just.. I’m sorry.”

“Why did you call me ‘Z- Ze- Zombie Boy’?” Sherlock asks, changing the subject.. somewhat.

Of course he would remember that. “Honestly..? I miss.. you. Like, the old you.” She sighs. “Ever since you got sick, you haven’t made fun of me.. or announced who I’ve slept with.. and you almost never insult Anderson anymore. It’s like part of you – I mean your personality –  just died with it. And.. I’m sorry to say it but you do have that zombie look. But that was still completely uncalled for of me, and I’m sorry I said that. I really regret saying that.” 

“..regret, to the point of- of bi-binge p-hhurging?” Sherlock asks quietly.

“Almost.” She replies honestly. “I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed on the entrance. “You’re a l..lot stronger than me.” He mumbles, more to himself.

Sally gives a soft sigh. “Je souhaite que tu puisses te voir.” (“I wish you could see yourself.”)

Sherlock doesn’t give any response.

The day passes without anything spectacular happening. Everyone that had come into the Tower has left it again, alive.

Sally had briefly left Sherlock alone once, to grab some food. She had offered to get him something while she’s out, but of course he declined. She hadn’t tried again, after that.

At some point, Sherlock had taken out some liquorice to snack on. Sally of course knew why he’s doing it, but kept her mouth shut. At least he actually ate something, and he didn’t eat enough in her presence to abuse it for its natural laxative effect.

In the end it was mostly just a waste of time, and the Tower got locked up at 10pm. They both went home, and would return the next day at 8am.

Sherlock couldn’t say how many times one of his limbs had fallen asleep, and he’s pretty sure that his buttocks are now square-shaped from sitting on the very hard staircase. It hurts. And his knees felt stiff and inflamed from not moving them enough for hours, and then get the massive strain of climbing stairs.

Cases used to be a lot more fun. Now they’re just boring and uncomfortable and he really needed to stop whining so much.

He eats two hard boiled eggs before going to bed.

“Hey, Sally?” He asks the next day while they’re alone.

“Yes?”

“How did you.. how did you stop?”

“Stop what?”

“The binge purge cycles.” He clarifies. His stutter was surprisingly a lot better today, practically non existent – safe for the tense feeling in his throat. It makes him wonder if he ever actually had a stutter to begin with, or if he’s just a complete hypocrite with imposter syndrome.

Donovan sighs softly. “It wasn’t easy. I felt like I would lose control with anything food related that I could get my hands on. I became afraid of myself. But.. I started to realise that I didn’t need to fear myself, or food. I started to just serve normal portions, forbade myself to get seconds, and stayed away from bathrooms after eating, because really, this wouldn’t solve anything. All I would get is rotting teeth at 30 years old and maybe oesophageal cancer.” She explains.

Sherlock nods. “When did you start?”

“18.” She replies without a second thought. “You?”

Sherlock is silent for a while, but not because he doesn’t want to answer. He just doesn’t know the exact time it got out of control. “I don’t know the exact age.. but uh.. I guess 17?” He says quietly.

Sally nods to show him that she heard him. 

“How long were you… bulimic?” He asks curiously.

“About six years. I.. hid it for a pretty long time.” She says, then laughs. “A ridiculously long time, honestly. But-”

“Wait a minute..” Sherlock interrupts her and checks his watch. “Two people have been up there for two hours.”

“Maybe they’re just taking their time?” Sally suggests.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Come on.” He gets to his feet, bum already sore again from sitting on those darn stairs. His rump would be permanently moulded into a square by the time this case was over.

Sherlock mentally wills the lift to just get up faster – to no avail, obviously.

When they get out at the top floor, they find the two missing people, dead on the floor. “Damn it.” He curses and turns away, glancing at the stairs. He desperately needs to exercise, to get this inner tension to go away. But he knows that he can’t.

Sally sighs and gives Greg the call.

“How could this happen?! You said you would keep an eye on everything!” The owner yells at Sherlock and Sally.

“I know that this wasn’t a favourable outcome-” Sherlock starts.

“Favourable outcome?! I don’t want more dead people! I told you that from the beginning, Mister Holmes!”

Sally steps forward. “Sir? I was with Holmes the entire time. If you want to blame someone, blame me, too.”

“Yes, but it was his stupid idea!” The owner yells and Sherlock winces at the volume.

A few of the forensics officers start to laugh. “Did he really just say that?” Someone calls, and they all burst out laughing.

Lestrade hides his face behind his hand, utterly embarrassed. When the laughter doesn’t die down fast enough for his liking, he turns to the idiots and calls “children, behave!” They finally quiet down and work on taking their pictures. 

Greg’s apologies fall on death ears, the owner just huffs. “Is everyone who works at New Scotland Yard an unprofessional imbecile?”

Yes. Sherlock thinks.

“I want this case to be transferred to a more professional police station.” The owner declares, and Sherlock wants to scream, because that means he’s cut off from the case for good.

“Understandable. I shall see to it right away.” Lestrade says formally, giving the owner his most apologetic face before pulling out his phone.

He’s not even trying to keep it? Is this really happening? Sherlock thinks, panicking. Looking around, none of the other Yarders are speaking up. This is really happening.

He pushes himself through and starts rushing down the stairs, no real plan in his mind. He just knows that all he wants is to work out until he passes out, then get back up and exercise again until he passes out again, and keep at it until he doesn’t have the energy to get up again or dies from cardiac arrest, whichever came first.

He hides in the bathrooms until everyone else has left the tower, then runs up the stairs to the 10th story, takes a break, then continues up to the 18th story, where he collapses flat on his side, weakly turning over to lay on his back as he desperately tries to catch his breath. He doesn’t want to know where his heart rate was even at, he’d deactivated the alarms. He didn’t want limits to slow him down, he wanted to give it his everything.

His bones and joints ache so badly, his hands are trembling, his legs feel like quivering jelly, and his lungs are just burning. He has to repeatedly cough between quick pants, and slowly starts to feel his skin growing damp with sweat.

“There you are! Jesus, Sherlock..” Sally’s voice rings in his head and the room starts to spin. She crouches down on one knee at his side, and lays a hand on his chest without asking. “Oh my god..” she comments when she feels the erratic, strong beats against her hand. She could swear she felt some out of rhythm in between, if it could even be called a rhythm at that speed. If she counted right, she reached 50 to 51 beats in 15 seconds. So something a bit over 200 beats per minute.

“You have to breathe more slowly.” She says urgently.

Sherlock wants to tell her to try to do that if she were in his shoes, but obviously can’t say anything with his way too quick breathing. Plus.. he wonders how many people at his age even reach over 200 beats per minute (since his stunt that led to his heart attack, he has a pretty good idea what 200bpm felt like), if they aren’t olympic athletes or have some arrhythmic condition or something.

When his breathing has finally calmed down a tad, Sally takes one of the many cups with water, which are offered as refreshments on all floors, and hands it to him. “Drink. You’ll get dehydrated and then John will kill me.”

And then me. Sherlock adds in his head and, with her assistance, downs the cup. He has to take breaks between sips to breathe, because his heart rate was still a very long way away from reaching a ‘normal’ range.

He feels the familiar static build up in his chest and grimaces.

“What’s wrong?!” Sally asks, worried that he gave himself another heart attack.

He takes her hand and holds it against his ribcage again, just in time for a series of arrhythmias to make him almost pass right out. He was probably only still conscious because he is half laying down.

“Jesus… do you need me to call an ambulance?” She asks.

He shakes his head and gives a weak cough when the staticky feeling tickled his throat too much. “Not necessary.”

“I’m taking your word on it, you hear me?” She warns, not removing her hand from his chest.

He nods, and then a spark erupts in his brain. His eyes go wide and he looks at Donovan with his trademark ‘I figured it out’-look. “Oh! They had arrhythmias! It’s a copycat of Schall!” 

“What? But why?”

“Potassium. He or she must have.. slipped it into th.. drinks!” He exclaims before coughing again when his heart stumbles again.

“The dri- did I just poison you?!” 

“No, I always get these. It can’t be in all of the drinks, but I suspect-” he has to pause to catch his breath again, feeling his heart beating faster again from his excitement. Sally waits with concern until he can continue. “I think that they’re.. only in the drinks from.. the top floor..” 

“Okay just calm down, please.” She says in concern.

“Call Lestrade!” Sherlock commands.

“I will once you stop having a heart attack.” 

“I’m not having.. a heart attack.” He rolls his eyes at her. “Get me.. my bag.” He had thrown it off his shoulder and away from him before he collapsed, and now it was out of his reach.

She stops holding her hand against his chest and leans over to get him his black backpack.

His shaking hands fumble with the zippers and his meds case, before placing one of the nitro pills under his tongue and laying back down on his back.

“You said you weren’t having an attack.” Sally says warningly.

“‘M no(t), (i)t’s t(o) lo(we)r th(e) pulse.” He lisps. Everything starts spinning again and he screws his eyes shut, pressing his arms and legs against the floor in a futile attempt at not feeling like he’s falling and floating at the same time.

In hindsight, maybe he should have warned her that he could pass out when his heart rate and blood pressure drop, but seeing how his blood pressure was probably just as high as his pulse (systolic wise), he should be alright. Probably.

“Promise me you won’t die in the next two minutes while I give Greg the call?” She asks hesitantly.

Sherlock just nods and gives her a thumbs up, and just keeps laying there while he waits out the occasional stumbles of his heart.

Chapter Text

“We had the cups tested and found one that contained a very large amount of potassium, and two in the bin that had traces of it. But we can’t prove that that’s what killed them.” The female officer from Metropolitan Police informs them through video call. After Sherlock demanded to be allowed to assist (anonymously), since he’d figured it out now, the other police station granted him this one call, with Greg and John present (just to make sure that Sherlock wasn’t rude).

“I assure you, they must have had severe hyperkalemia, which caused the cardiac arrest.” Sherlock says. John nods beside him.

“Yes, but the issue is that you can’t pinpoint how elevated the potassium levels had been at the point of death. If what you are saying is true-” 

John squeezed Sherlock’s arm to keep him from interrupting her.

“-what exactly are we working with, here?”

“A copycat.”

“A copycat?” 

John squeezes his arm again, and Sherlock makes a hand gesture off camera to get John to back off. He knows what he can and cannot say, thank you very much.

“You know who I am. You must have heard about the trial.” Sherlock says simply.

“The.. what was it.. 60 something deaths?” 

“64.” Sherlock corrects instantly. The number is basically burned into his soul. 

“But you never found out how she did it, that’s why the whole case was dropped.” She doesn’t mean it in an insulting way, but Sherlock still swallows painfully at the reminder. John gives his arm a lighter squeeze this time – not a correction, but an action of comfort. Greg gives Sherlock a brief, concerned glance.

“I did, eventually. Not fast enough to get her to justice, but..” he says slowly, monotonous. He shakes his head. “I can say with a hundred percent certainty that what you’re dealing with, here, is a copycat. The killer doesn’t target anyone specifically this time, not to my current knowledge. But the rest is the same. Works in the medical field, same choice of drug, doesn’t need to be present for the murders.”

“Hang on, works in the medical field? When did you figure that one out?” John interrupts.

Sherlock looks at him over his shoulder. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Greg lets out a tired, long sigh. “Sherlock.” He chides under his breath.

“They needed to have medical knowledge and easy access to large amounts of potassium. The difference is that this person doesn’t work on humans.” Sherlock rambles.

“How do you know that?” The officer on screen asks.

“What do you mean they don’t work on humans?” John asks puzzled.

Sherlock gives him that look that says ‘are you really so daft?’ 

“Look at when the murders happened. Every Tuesday and Thursday in the mornings. Now, a normal doctor wouldn’t have the time to drive to the Tower, ride the lift all the way up, place a few too large doses of potassium in selected cups, then go to work. They also can’t be a surgeon because what surgeon operates only in the afternoon on two days of the week? That also excludes anaesthetists, who would have a much better understanding of the effects of hyperkalemia.”

“So if it wasn’t a human physician, what else are they?” John asks, still confused.

Sherlock stays silent, just stares at John. “Really?” Turning his head, he only finds more confused looks. “Oh god, can you figure anything out by yourself? I basically told you the answer!”

“Sherlock!” Greg scolds. “Just tell us so we can catch them faster.”

“It’s a vet!” Sherlock yells back at the DI.

“Oooooh, of course..” John mumbles, feeling stupid. 

“So. You can either put a camera at the top floor, which might prove very difficult what with there being no outlets anywhere, place some undercover officers to keep watch and handcuff them once they saw him or her place the drugs, or you could ask the nearest veterinarian clinics which of their workers has late shifts on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I will leave that up to you. Good day.” He says quickfire before getting up and leaving the office.

Out of sight, he briefly leans against a wall to let the black vision and dizziness wash over him from getting up so fast. He runs his hands down his face in annoyance. Nothing is going right anymore, and this stupid Schall case is going to haunt him forever.

To eat or not to eat, that is the question. 

He was actually feeling the slightest bit hungry, and had a carton of boiled eggs waiting in the fridge for him, but still he hesitates.

Because he feels like he disappointed everyone. Even Mrs Hudson had given him this sad look when he came back home yesterday, asking how the case was going, and he had to tell her that unfortunately the case got transferred to another police station because he’s failed again. She had then more or less dragged him into her kitchen, made him his favourite tea again, and started talking about the neighbours having adopted a kitten and how it has destroyed their curtains when they’d left the house for an hour. Sherlock had then claimed to be tired (he really was) and gone upstairs, and at first laid down in bed. But the thoughts and ill feelings and self hatred had eventually forced him to exercise till the brink of collapse before he could finally fall asleep.

Using his last bit of energy, Sherlock turns his back on the kitchen, goes to the living room, moves the coffee table away from the sofa, lays down on the carpet with his feet up on the sofa seating and proceeds to do sit ups that way, until his muscles hurt too bad for him to so much as lift his arms.

Feeling completely fatigued when he could get up again some ten minutes later, he just changes into his dressing gown, since he won’t be leaving the flat anymore any time soon, and curls up in his bed to sleep for a few hours.

In the evening, Mrs Hudson comes upstairs to him, brings him his favourite tea once again, plus a light yoghurt with raspberries and blueberries, and stays by his side while he slowly eats it, talking about what the characters in her favourite TV show have been getting up to. And for a short while, he wasn’t tormented by his own thoughts, and even laughed a real laugh when she tells him all about how two of the characters remind her a lot of him and John.

But at night, when he’s alone again, he fights against the urges to stick his fingers down his throat until the yoghurt is back out of him, and to exercise all night long because he deserves to be too sore to move in the morning.

His eyes tear up when he thinks about how he doesn’t want to be alone, but he also couldn’t call someone or go downstairs to Mrs Hudson, because he doesn’t deserve the comfort.

He silently cries himself to sleep at 2am.

During his usual morning routine the next day, he completely freezes. He was pretty sure that it wasn’t a normal thing to feel your pelvic bones from the inside whilst wiping your butt. He had, when he was so badly underweight last year, so it was a shock to be able to feel his bones this way again. Surely he wasn’t that bad again, right..? He hastily finishes up and looks at himself in the mirror. Really looks at himself. 

Ignoring the ever growing dark shadows around his eyes, he can definitely tell that his facial features have become more pronounced. His neck looks so small and long, and his lower jawline prominently stands out in a stark contrast.

Fiddling with the hem of his pullover (he was feeling extra chilly this morning, despite the last bouts of summer heat of the year), he gnaws at his lip as he watches his mirror-self. Finally he pulls it up, exposing a slightly concave stomach thanks to hardly eating the day before, all of his ribs and the hipbones sticking out sickeningly. His skin instantly prickles from the cold, making him shiver.

In his disbelief, he sucks in his stomach, feeling and seeing his ribs stretch out further, laying his free hand against the skin he feels the concaveness against his palm. He could easily slip his fingers under his ribs with how exposed they are.

He drops his pullover in shock, covering himself back up, a hand flying over his mouth in distress. The reminder of when he’d been on drugs, and especially afterwards, when this whole mess had first started and he used food restrictions as a way to punish himself for wanting to shoot up, was staring him painfully in his face.

He turns around and eyes the scale, terrified of what it would say. How could it have gotten this bad again?

The thought to call John crosses his mind again and he bites his lip.

There is nothing you will gain from telling him. Talking about it doesn’t make it disappear. Stop being such an attention whore, I thought you were fine. Get over yourself and start eating. You are fine .

In a different part of London, Mycroft’s meeting is being interrupted by a frantic Anthea. She ushers him out of the conference room and into a more private area of the mansion. He doesn’t need to ask what has her so riled up. “What’s he done this time?”

Anthea has a tablet in her hands and shows him screenshots from the camera in Sherlock’s bathroom. The angle has a perfect view of the mirror, Sherlock has his back to the camera. His very bony back.

“Shit.” Mycroft curses under his breath and looks away, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself down. “Not this again. Anything but this.” He whispers to himself, briefly hiding his eyes behind his hand. Of course he’d known, but he still kept hanging on to that little thread of hope that it wouldn’t escalate again. He regards his PA again. “How old are the pictures?”

“Ten minutes ago. Samuel was watching it, and immediately sent me the screenshots.” Anthea replies, feeling utmost sympathy for her boss. She knows how much he’s been worrying about his brother for exactly this reason. To the point of making himself ill.

Mycroft sighs deeply. “Call John Watson and ask him to come here. The meeting should be done in twenty minutes.” He needs another moment to put on a facade like nothing is worrying him, before he goes back to the conference.

Anthea nods and goes to fulfil her task, glancing back in her concern.

To say that John is a bit worried to be picked up from work and taken to Mycroft’s mansion would be an understatement. Nothing good ever comes from it.

Anthea welcomes him, and even the usually stoic PA looks uneasy. Sherlock isn’t in the building. John is expecting the worst. 

“He should be done any minute. Can I get you a cuppa?” She offers. 

John takes a moment to decide. At this point he is bloody nauseous with worry. But at least it would give him something to do while he waits for the elder Holmes to appear. He nods at her. “Ta.”

One fresh cup of tea later, Mycroft comes out with a couple gentlemen, who simply take their leave and don’t even so much as acknowledge John’s existence. 

“Come inside.” Mycroft says tiredly and motions for the doctor to follow him into the now empty conference room. Anthea comes in as well, tablet pc in hand.

John just takes a seat at the first chair in front of him, and Mycroft and Anthea sit down next to him. Feeling his nerves absolutely frying at their demeanour, John places the cup of tea on the long table, looking expectantly at Mycroft.

The man sighs. “I had hoped I would never have to do this, but here we are.”

John’s stomach is in such a tight knot at the words. “Mycroft.. is Sherlock…” he can’t bring himself to say it.

Mycroft understands what he means. “No, he is alive. Though if he keeps getting worse, he might as well be.” He takes the tablet from Anthea and hands it to John unlocked.

The doctor instantly recognises 221B, and for a moment wants to ask Mycroft why the hell he has a camera in the bathroom, when his eyes get stuck on the mirror’s reflection of Sherlock’s front. “Oh… god…” 

“My brother has been struggling with eating ever since the fire...” Mycroft starts, knowing that John understands what he means with 'fire'. “But it was only when he got clean from his drug habit, that this particular.. issue started.” He keeps explaining the situation as John can’t look away from the tablet, he’s paralysed with shock and fear. “I don’t know the reason, he refuses to tell me. But he has reassured me that it’s not about looks or numbers. He doesn’t actually want to lose weight, he just doesn’t want to eat and the weight loss is just the result from it.”

John finally blinks and looks at Mycroft. “How… how long has.. I mean..” he looks back at the screenshot. “That doesn’t happen over night.”

Mycroft looks down at his lap. “I have noticed him struggling since he got sick with the dysautonomia, but the past four months-”

“Four months?!” John exclaims. How have I not noticed?!

Mycroft gives him a pointed look. “I can’t say for sure what the trigger was, but I suspect it started around the time Astra got shot.” 

John goes pale. Of course..! Four months.. oh my god, how has time passed so quickly? “I have noticed him refusing to eat a few times, but you know how it is.. I didn’t think any of it, just blamed his usual nausea and that he just didn’t like this and that..”

“I didn’t ask you here to blame you.” Mycroft says seriously. “Quite the contrary. I.. have some important business to attend to, in a different state, and have to leave for a long period of time on Monday. I can’t help him, so I need your help.”

John’s eyes widen. “But- how do I help him? I can’t just shove food down his throat. That’s not how it works. I can’t force him to eat.”

Mycroft nods. “You don’t force him, that only backfires. Ironically, the less pressure is on him to eat something, the easier it becomes for him to 'recover'. But he needs to know that he’s getting into the danger zone again. Tell him that, he knows the code words.”

John scrunches his nose at the whole code words thing. “What is it with you two and always speaking in codes?” He shakes his head. “What does 'danger zone' mean?”

“He had to go inpatient and had a feeding tube down his nose.” Mycroft says flatly.

John’s eyes widen at the mention of a feeding tube. He remembers having that conversation ages ago, for different reasons back then, and Sherlock reacting… badly. 

Mycroft mistakes his reaction and explains. “He wasn’t able to eat on his own anymore, so he had needed the intervention.”

“And you don’t know why? If it isn’t about his looks or counting calories, then what makes him… I mean.. this is serious.” 

Mycroft shakes his head. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“What’s his diagnosis? I mean, when he was inpatient, they had to call it something. Does he.. throw up?” John asks hesitantly, eyes flitting between the tablet screen and Mycroft back and forth. His mind goes back to the incident when Sherlock came home from working with his idol and promptly threw up the moment he got home. Sherlock had told him that he hadn’t induced the vomiting, that he’d actually been fighting to keep it down. Had that been the first warning sign that John had blatantly ignored? Granted, it was because of chicken, but John couldn’t help the suspicion.

“No, not to my knowledge. He hates it. They referred to it as 'atypical eating disorder', or EDNOS I think was the acronym.” Mycroft disrupts his spiralling thoughts.

John just nods and swallows thickly. Sherlock has always been thin. Ever since I’ve known him. What if he’s been secretly struggling and starving himself from time to time and I never realised it? “Digestion slows me down” and all that. He basically told me, on the second day of meeting him!  “How do I talk to him about it? Like, how do I bring it up?” 

“Normally I would say 'let him come to you', but I think by now it’s clear that he isn’t going to do that. He’s probably telling himself that he has it under control, even though it’s obvious to us that that’s not the case.” Mycroft says. “The next time you see him turning down food, you need to talk to him. He won’t run off.”

John raises an eyebrow. “How do you know he won’t run away?”

“Because One: he doesn’t have the energy to do so, and Two: he knows that he needs help, especially if you tell him danger zone.” 

John decides to just take his word for it. After all, Mycroft had more experience with it than him.

At least John could hope so.

During a sleepless night, John decides to do a bit of research on it, because he honestly doesn’t know more than what they had been taught in med school, and he feels like he needs to be prepared. Because Sherlock isn’t your ordinary case, with or without chronic illnesses.

And that’s where it gets interesting. He remembers something he’d heard at a conference. It was ages ago, but the memory is now at the front of his mind, like it holds the answers to everything.

“Those with chronic illness or chronic pain are at much higher risk of developing an eating disorder, because in some ways, food may be the only thing they have control over. It often develops as a way to control symptoms or side effects from medication.” The words of the psychiatrist are ringing loud and clear in his head. He had taken it as a wake up call, back then, and could proudly say that he may have even saved 25 patients because he hadn’t looked away when the blood tests pointed towards malnutrition, and the patients lost or gained more weight than was healthy. Even when they weren’t ‘severely underweight’, as a lot of medical professionals apparently needed in order to give someone a diagnosis of anorexia nervosa. 

Sometimes he genuinely wonders if they don’t even consider the fact that there are multiple different types of eating disorders, and that the patient shouldn’t be close to death in order to finally get help.

Shaking his head, John types into google “chronic illness and eating disorders”.

There are many articles about this exact thing, and John’s chest feels heavy. 

He clicks on one page.

For some individuals with chronic illnesses, abnormal behaviors with food may result of many of the symptoms they may be experiencing. For other people struggling with a chronic illness, finding control in some aspect of one’s life, such as food and weight, can become a hyper focus, especially when external circumstances or health feel as though they cannot be controlled or predicted.

Eating disorders, such as anorexia, bulimia, or binge eating disorder, can co-occur alongside another chronic illness for multiple reasons. A person who is also struggling with a mood disorder, such as depression, may be at increased risk for also having an eating disorder. Understanding the potential connection can be especially important for health care providers who treat individuals with chronic illnesses.

 

“Finding control, hyper focusing,” definitely sounds like Sherlock. Though I’m not sure about the symptoms. Starvation would just cause the body to work even harder. He should be getting even more symptoms from it.

His eyes linger on the mood disorder part. Definitely not the first time I’ve suspected that he’s depressed, but knowing him, he would probably raise his walls even higher if I dare to bring it up. He is still functioning well enough, but for how much longer?

It’s the next paragraph that almost brings John to tears.

When a disease feels unmanageable or a person begins to feel hopeless because of their chronic condition, disordered eating behaviors that might also be present should not be ignored. Drastic or sudden changes in eating habits, weight, and the overall feeding relationship can be red flags for something more severe.

I thought it was just the gastroparesis and overall slow digestion.. what is it about Sherlock that always makes me so darn blind to everything?! I’m supposed to be a doctor!

Is that it? Does he feel hopeless, like nothing will ever get better, so he’s committing a slow form of suicide? Is that his motivation?

Oh god, Sherlock… why do I always fail to help you?

Knowing very well that beating himself up wouldn’t get him anywhere, he decides to look into the specific eating disorders that he felt matched Sherlock the most.

INTRODUCTION TO EATING DISORDERS

Anorexia Nervosa (AN): Restriction of energy intake relative to an individual’s requirements, leading to a significantly low body weight in the context of age, sex, developmental trajectory, and health status. AN is usually accompanied by disturbance of body image, an intense fear of gaining weight, lack of recognition of the seriousness of the illness and/or behaviors that interfere with weight gain. 

Nutrition issues in AN: The diets of individuals with AN are typically low in calories, limited in variety, and marked by avoidance or fears about foods high in fat, sugar, and/or carbohydrates. Initially there may be no obvious indicators of malnutrition because of the body’s ability to maintain biological homeostasis even when food intake is inadequate. Regardless of current body weight, eventually starvation leads to a host of complications including negative energy balance, weight loss, inadequate macro- and micro- nutrient intake, organ system failure, and death. Individuals with extreme and extended food restriction should be evaluated for the potentially fatal refeeding syndrome (see Refeeding Syndrome Section). In children and adolescents, interruption of expected growth and development is common. As AN progresses, signs and symptoms of starvation become more evident. ICD-10-CM Code

F50.0 F50.01 Restricting Type

F50.02 Binge-Eating/Purging Type

He remembers Mycroft saying something about “atypical eating disorder”, so he checks the section that mentions something about that.

Other Specified Feeding and Eating Disorder (OSFED): OSFED is the diagnosis for EDs that do not meet full criteria for one of the above diagnoses. Individuals with OSFED engage in specific disordered eating behaviors such as restricting intake, purging and/or binge eating. Examples are: Atypical Anorexia Nervosa (significant weight loss and food restriction though BMI for age and gender is in normal range or higher), Bulimia Nervosa (low frequency or limited duration), Binge Eating Disorder (low frequency or limited duration), Purging Disorder (recurrent purging in the absence of binge eating), and Night Eating Syndrome (recurrent episodes of night eating, such as eating after awakening from sleep or by excessive food consumption after the evening meal). ICD-10-CM Code

F50.89

PRESENTING SIGNS AND SYMPTOMS

Individuals with EDs may present with a variety of indicators or without obvious physical signs or symptoms. The following behavioral, physical, and neuropsychiatric signs are commonly found in EDs. These signs stem from the consequences of restricted food or fluid intake, nutritional deficiencies, binge-eating, and inappropriate compensatory behaviors, such as purging and excessive exercise.

Cardiorespiratory

• Weakness

• Fatigue or lethargy

• Hot flashes, sweating episodes

• Hypothermia, feeling colder than others 

• Presyncope (dizziness)

• Syncope (fainting)

• Chest pain

• Heart palpitations

• Orthostatic hypotension (a decrease in blood pressure when going from sitting or lying to standing)

• Bradycardia (heart rates of 50 bpm or lower)  

• Tachycardia (heart rates of 100 bpm or greater)  [John rolls his eyes at that.]

• Dyspnea (shortness of breath)

• Edema (swelling)

Gastrointestinal

• Epigastric discomfort

• Abdominal bloating

• Lack of appetite/hunger

• Early satiety

• Gastroesophageal reflux (heartburn) 

• Hematemesis (blood in vomit)

• Hemorrhoids and rectal prolapse

• Constipation

Endocrine

• Amenorrhea or oligomenorrhea (absent or

irregular menses)

• Low testosterone

• Loss of libido [John wonders if this is why Sherlock’s so uninterested]

• Infertility

• Stress fractures due to low bone mineral density/osteoporosis

Dermatologic

• Lanugo hair

• Hair loss

• Carotenoderma (yellowish discoloration of skin)

• Russell’s sign (calluses or scars on the back of the hand)

• Poor wound healing

• Dry brittle hair and nails 

John wishes he knew about the lanugo hair, but with Sherlock’s obsessive whole-body-shaving, he has absolutely no idea. Maybe that’s why he keeps shaving, to hide all outward signs. 

He’s 100% sure about the hair loss at least. Sherlock sheds worse than an old dog in the spring, sometimes.

Neuropsychiatric Signs

• Body dysmorphia

• Depression/Anxiety

• Obsessive/compulsive thoughts and/or behaviors

• Memory loss

• Poor concentration

• Seizures

• Insomnia

• Self-harm

• Suicidal thoughts, plans or attempts

John is especially not pleased about this last part of the long list, because he honestly couldn’t deny that Sherlock has them. And that thought terrifies him. 

Depression? Yes. He’s been suspecting it for a long time, but he doubts that Sherlock would take antidepressants and he definitely won’t see a therapist. 

OCD? Also a definite yes. John has witnessed a ton of rituals over the years. The first few, he had asked Sherlock why the hell he does something in a specific way or order, or has to do a certain thing after being more or less forced to do something he didn’t want to. Like how he has to wash his hands in the bathroom sink after getting them wet with the water from the kitchen sink. Or how he will sometimes check all the windows, like he expects to find traces of someone trying to break in. Or how he always lays out the equipment for his experiments in a very specific order and can’t simply continue with the other tools if he can’t find the one that comes before them – this goes for both laying them out and packing them away again. John had once dared to throw them all in the box by carelessly swiping them off the table and straight into the box, because Sherlock hadn’t cleaned up after himself and John had needed the space on the table for cooking. Sherlock had gotten so upset at him that he couldn’t say a single word, just made a distressed noise and locked himself in his bedroom for the rest of the day, doing god knows what.

And let’s not forget about the door knocker. Although that could also just be some weird Holmesian thing, since both brothers did it, in different ways.

Memory loss and poor concentration could be blamed on the reduced blood flow to the brain, AKA the brain fog. 

Seizures are thankfully a no. 

Insomnia? Hell yes. Since long before he got sick.

But self harm and suicidal thoughts and or ideation? He is scared shitless that the answer might be yes.

He takes a few deep breaths and scrolls further down.

BODY IMAGE CONCERNS 

Body image concerns (BIC) include over-evaluation of shape and weight and their control, body avoidance (e.g., avoidance of mirrors, weighing, wearing tight clothing, and being photographed), and body checking (e.g., obsessive weighing and shape checking, including pinching or touching body parts of concern, looking at mirrors and reflective surfaces, measuring body parts, and assessing the tightness of clothes or accessories) (Pellizzer, et al., 2018). In addition, when individuals repeatedly compare themselves to unrealistic cultural body ideals, they will experience an increase in negative emotions, including shame (Cassone et al., 2016).

BIC are associated with EDs, except in ARFID, in which no evidence of body image disturbances is a distinguishing characteristic. The DSM-5 (American Psychiatric Association, 2013) outlines the BIC in EDs: dissatisfaction with weight/shape, overvaluation of weight/shape, preoccupation with weight/shape, and fear of weight gain. In AN, one’s experience of body weight or shape is altered so that perception of body size is exaggerated (Keizer et al., 2013). This distortion has an excessive influence on self-assessment, as body weight and shape is over-valued. Even after significant weight loss, many individuals with AN feel generally overweight, or are concerned that certain body parts are too large. 

While he is unsure about body dysmorphia, John doesn’t immediately disregard the idea. There is still way too much that Sherlock isn’t telling him.

Anything could be a possibility.

And that thought scares him.

Against his better judgement, he looks up “anorexia in men”.

As recently as a decade ago, clinicians believed that only 5 percent of anorexics were male. Current estimates suggest it’s closer to 20 percent and rising fast: More men are getting ill, and more are being diagnosed. (One well-regarded Canadian study puts the number at 30 percent.)

But many afflicted men feel too stigmatized to go to a doctor—and many doctors don’t recognize the early, ambiguous symptoms. "It is not what a primary-care physician will consider at first glance," says Mark Warren, founder of the Cleveland Center for Eating Disorders. "Often it won’t be what they consider at fourth or fifth glance."

"Most men with eating disorders are living with them quietly and painfully," says Warren. "I would guess at least three-quarters of them don’t get any treatment. They’re suffering without help."

Anorexics may not look the way they want to look, but they always look the way they feel.

John feels physically sick to his stomach at that last quote. 

Anorexia is diagnosed on the basis of three criteria: self-induced starvation, a morbid fear of fatness, and the suppression of sex-hormone production. Along with those symptoms, an anorexic either has a body-mass index below 18.5 or has lost more than 30 percent of his ideal body weight.

A male anorexic tends to conform to a particular personality type: "anxious, obsessive, persevering, and perfectionistic," according to Arnold Andersen of the University of Iowa. He is desperate to please and hypersensitive to rejection and humiliation. The illness typically takes root during adolescence, and it is almost never the first, or only, way he tries to deal with social, sexual, or academic anxiety: He may also use drugs, or cut himself, or have OCD. A young man faces a heightened risk if he was overweight in grade school and teased for it, or if obesity or eating disorders run in his family, or if he participates in a sport that emphasizes speed or weight control (such as wrestling, distance running, or cycling), or if he’s gay, as are an estimated 18 percent of male anorexics.

Use drugs.. John thinks. He really doesn’t like how this article is basically describing Sherlock’s personality to a T.

The neurological roots of anorexia remain elusive, but one promising avenue pinpoints a region of the brain’s gray matter called the insula. Among its functions are satiety and bodily awareness. When there’s too much norepinephrine (a stress hormone) in the insula, as there is in the brains of anorexics, these senses are distorted: Anorexics feel full when their stomachs are empty and see a fat person when they look in the mirror. Their pain threshold is elevated. Their fight-or-flight response is permanently switched on. Anorexics exist in a state of near-constant panic, and for reasons no one understands, that panic attaches itself to food.

John knows for a fact that Sherlock has way too much norepinephrine (noradrenaline) thanks to the POTS, so this doesn’t really surprise him.

Anorexia has the highest mortality rate, between 5 and 10 percent, of any mental illness. Half of the deaths are by suicide, the other half from medical complications. The illness lasts an average of eight years in men, a third longer than in females, probably because men wait longer to seek treatment. Twenty percent of recovered anorexics die before reaching their life expectancy. Like a layer of soil that reveals a long-ago period of drought, the organs of an anorexic’s body seem to retain the scars of being starved.

He doesn’t know how long it has been with Sherlock, but part of him doesn’t even want to know the answer. A single day feels already too long.

Without potassium, the muscles of the heart weaken and develop rhythmic abnormalities that can be fatal, particularly if the patient is a relentless over-exerciser. Bones deprived of calcium lose their density, causing osteoporosis. The condition is insidious and hard to treat. You may think you’ve fully recovered from a five-year bout with anorexia, but without your realizing it, your bones have begun to rot. At 40, stepping off a curb, you might suffer a spinal-compression fracture, losing inches of height. The disease can also cause irreversible cognitive damage: The brains of severe anorexics are often indistinguishable on MRIs from those of Alzheimer’s patients.

John winces at that. He figures that Sherlock doesn’t know about this, otherwise he would have already managed to stop it.

But then he sobers up. He knows that it’s never that simple. It’s a severe disorder that kills so many people every year. Literally every page about anorexia or eating disorders in general, always features that lovely quote of “anorexia nervosa has the highest mortality rate of any mental illness”. He knows they are only trying to raise more awareness and hope to reduce mortality rates this way, but right now it feels like the whole world is taunting John. He was too blind, too ignorant. Even though he had seen the screenshots of Sherlock’s.. ahem, current condition, he is still in the denial phase. He doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want this to be the current reality. 

What if help is coming too late? What if John isn’t even of any help? Sherlock already had a heart attack and his body can’t handle the enormous stress and strain of an eating disorder on top of it.

The thought of possibly losing Sherlock breaks his heart. A lonely tear slips from his eye, trailing down the side of his face and soaking into the pillow.

Mary shifts beside him, so he turns off his phone’s screen. 

He stares at the ceiling in the darkness, thinking about everything he’s read, everything that basically describes Sherlock, every moment where he had been too ignorant to see, and too caught up in his own world to observe. 

God, how many times have I said some stupid comment about Sherlock’s weight? No wonder he eventually snapped and yelled at me to shut up.. 

He thinks about picking up his phone, just to send Sherlock a text message. He knows that that wouldn’t help anything, but he wishes he could take back everything he’s said regarding food and Sherlock’s weight in his ignorance.

I’m so sorry.

At 3am, sleep is still far away from happening any time soon.

Chapter Text

“You look tired.” Mary comments the next morning while Rosie is playing with her toys in her room.

“Didn’t get much sleep.” John replies honestly, rubbing his hands over his face in an attempt to wake himself up.

“Is it the nightmares again?” She asks concerned.

“What? No. No it’s.. it’s Sherlock.” John sighs and looks her dead in the eye. “You were right, he’s.. he has an eating disorder.”

“Oh John.. I’m sorry.” She whispers out, placing her hand on his arm. 

“I looked up some stuff about it last night.. couldn’t stop thinking about it. How did I not see it? I’m a doctor.”

“Because he didn’t want you to see it. What was that saying that Mycroft kept telling you? Nobody deceives like an addict, right? And eating disorders are just that, an addiction. You didn’t see it because he wouldn’t let you see it.” Mary says like it’s public knowledge.

John groans. “But you saw it. Because you two always know the worst about each other.”

“John..”

“No, sorry. I’m not angry at you, just mad at myself.”

“John-” she sighs. “I saw the signs because I knew what they were. I lost my best friend to anorexia, John.”

“..you never told me about that.” He takes a trembling breath. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I promise. Just… I didn’t want that to happen to you, too. It’s not a pretty death, it’s just heartbreaking and.. frustrating, because you just want them to eat, to get better. You want to yell at them and sometimes even slap them for the things they say and do, but then you remember that they truly believe it when they say they’re fat and disgusting and nobody loves them and how they don’t deserve to get better.” 

John has to close his watery eyes. “What am I going to do? Mycroft said I have to confront him, but I don’t know how to. I really don’t.” He looks at his wife again. “I tell patients that they have cancer or that their dad had a stroke and taken severe damage to the brain, at least once a month. But I can’t ask my best friend ‘I know you have an eating disorder, want to tell me about it?’ Tch, I’m a joke.”

“John!” She takes his hand into her own. “You will figure it out, okay? When the moment comes, and trust me there will never be a ‘right’ moment, you’ll know what to do. You know him, and you’re probably the only person on this planet who he trusts.”

“.. I wish I had your confidence.”

He’s been fighting with himself about whether or not to get something to eat. Even just a little bit.

But he always chickened out at the last second, never so much as touching a packaging or wrapper. Never mind how his vision always goes black every time he gets up or stands back up after bending down/crouching to look for something different in the cabinets.

But no matter how much he thinks maybe this, or just a little bit, he can never muster up the courage to touch any of it. It’s honestly just pathetic at this point.

He’s definitely paying for it at night, when he’s shivering from the lack of energy, utterly exhausted, and half of his joints and bones hurting so badly that he’s curling in on himself under the blankets, the Dysautonomia pullover that John gifted him for Christmas is doing nothing to warm him up.

The next day they’re at the Yard to interrogate a suspect from a different case, and Sherlock was asked to be part of it. Maybe it was Greg taking pity on him, or John, or maybe Mycroft. John and him had gotten the quick run down of the case, which might have even been an 8, but Sherlock couldn’t care less. He was freezing, constantly feeling so darn dizzy, he hasn’t eaten anything since that yoghurt that Mrs Hudson had brought him, and he just wanted to go back home, curl up under the covers, and stop existing until he apparently froze to death, at the end of summer. Yay for him.

He and John are just watching and listening, since they don’t let Sherlock interact with suspects anymore. Also yay for him.

Greg and Sally are in the interrogation room, asking questions, and Sherlock keeps an eye on the body language of the guy on the other side of the table.

After a few minutes, Sherlock shakes his head and knocks on the glass screen. Sally comes out to them, and Sherlock immediately says “it’s not him, let him go.”

“What? But he was about to bloody confess!” Sally hisses.

For some reason, Sherlock was even more short fused than usual, and snaps back at her all of his deductions and how they don’t fit the suspect in the other room, in one single breath, stumbling so hard over his words in the process that John and Sally start to prepare for the detective to pass out from lack of oxygen.

“Okay fine, it’s not him.” Donovan says begrudgingly and goes back to tell Greg.

Sherlock sighs frustratedly and runs his trembling hands over his face.

“You okay?” John asks quietly behind him. 

“Fine. I’m fine.” Sherlock quickly says, and John is so, so sick of that word.

“Uh-uh, we’re not doing this again.” The doctor argues sternly, giving Sherlock that look.

“Doing what?” Sherlock questions, playing innocent.

“You, saying that everything is ‘fine’ when it’s obviously not.” 

Their banter gets interrupted when Greg has the innocent guy taken back out. The DI sighs tiredly. “Great, back to square one with that one.” He looks hopeful at Sherlock. “Got any more brilliant ideas up your mind?” He asks without judgement.

The consultant seems to take that as a very personal insult, though, and glares at Lestrade. Then he closes his eyes and sighs. “We know that the guy is smart, very smart, so obviously he knows better than to get caught so easily.”

“Are you alright?” Greg’s sudden question catches him off guard.

“Yes? I’m fine.” 

John rolls his eyes behind him and turns his back. What he doesn’t know is that Sally is watching each of their reactions with great interest. 

“Listen, the last thing we need is you ending up bed bound for a week because of a flare or whatever. If you’re not at least 60%, I want you to go home and take a break.” Greg scolds softly, making John want to kiss him – completely platonic of course, he is just so glad that he’s not the only one who knows that something is up.

“I’m not having a flare! I’m fine!” Sherlock yells, feeling completely invalidated at the insinuation. “You lot need me, you’re not getting anywhere with this case.”

Is Sherlock… annoyed at being needed on a case? John wonders in shock. Sally mirrors his reaction, but Greg apparently didn’t catch on.

“We’ve solved cases before you came along, remember? Yes, they get solved much faster with you on them, but running yourself into the ground again over a case isn’t worth it.” 

“Oh so what, are you going to cut me off, again?” Sherlock challenges, sounding like that’s exactly what he wants – to John and Sally.

Greg holds his ground. “If I have to.”

Sherlock looks around at Sally, John, and the other officers who have become interested in their rather loud argument. When nobody seems to offer any support, he snarls at Greg “fine then, have fun solving your stupid case alone!” And then he pushes past everyone blocking his way and leaves the building, John chasing after him. 

“Sherlock-”

“Don’t.” 

“Seriously, we need to talk.” 

But Sherlock isn’t listening and just keeps walking down the streets in quick strides. He’d snatched a hidden pack of cigs from some unsuspecting officer when Greg told them about the facts they had so far, and he was itching to take out a cigarette and smoke. Or maybe two. Possibly five. Surely no more than ten. 

Maybe he could give himself nicotine poisoning. He hasn’t smoked in ages.

John has to jog to keep up with his pace. “Sherlock just- dammit can you stop for a minute?!” 

“No.” He can’t. If he stops now, and has to ‘talk’, he knows that he won’t be able to keep his emotions under control. And he has honestly had enough of crying in front of John. 

But before Sherlock can accidentally walk into a driving car at a street crossing, John quickly grabs his arm in a vice grip and pulls him back.

“Wh-” Sherlock startles when the car passes by right in front of him. He hadn’t seen it coming, too focused on his thoughts.

“Now, listen to me okay?” John asks, trying to enforce eye contact. He lowers his voice so no strangers could overhear. “You’re reaching danger zone.”

Sherlock immediately straightens up and looks away. Oh, so that’s what this is about. And there is only one person on this planet where John could have heard of that phrase. Damn you, Mycroft. “My brother couldn’t leave me alone for once in his stupid life.” He growls.

“Look, let’s just get a cab and go to Baker Street.” 

Seeing how he has no way out of this now, Sherlock reluctantly agrees.

They didn’t say a word during the ride, both busy thinking of what they would say once they’re in privacy. Sherlock kept thinking about just opening the car door and jumping out into the traffic, but he knew better than to try anything.

Sherlock doesn’t let on how much pain and discomfort the hateful 17 steps are causing him. When they’re in the flat, John asks “tea?” Then he realises the bloody irony of it. They normally always have biscuits with the tea. “Sorry, never mind.”

Sherlock only sighs and slumps himself down on the sofa. John takes that as his signal to sit down in 'his' chair. 

“So…” he trails off. There is just no good way of starting this conversation, is there?

“How long have you known?” Sherlock asks. 

John looks up in surprise. Well, I can work with that. “Not very long. Mycroft, he uh.. he showed me something, and we started talking about it.”

Sherlock frowns. “When was this?”

“I don’t remember the exact date, but he had a picture of you, in front of the bathroom mirror..” he tries not to go into too much detail.

“The mir-” realisation dawns on Sherlock. “Ooooh…” Really? You actually went there, brother?

“Yeah.. so we talked about it for a while, that’s how I knew about that weird code you two have-”

“Mrs Hudson, go back downstairs.” Sherlock suddenly interrupts with a quick yell, and in his pause, John could hear her steps retreating on the stairs. Sherlock awkwardly clears his throat. “Sorry, continue.”

John understand that apparently Mrs Hudson doesn’t know, and that Sherlock prefers it that way. “Right… well, to be honest with you, I still have no idea how to even go about this-”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“Sherlock. It’s clear to your brother and me that it’s getting out of hand. And what happened earlier with Greg just proves that.”

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, and John thinks he may have actually gotten somewhere with that, but then he looks up and just looks confused. “Who?”

John groans. “Don’t play dumb with me, I know you know his name.”

Sherlock blinks at him. “What? ..oh! No, no, I didn’t mean Lestrade,..” I just wasn’t fully listening because I can’t get the stupid images of the mirror reflection out of my head. But honestly.. how could he say that without making John force him into a mental hospital? 

“Then what?” John asks, still not believing that Sherlock is just acting for show. To avoid the elephant in the room.

“Never mind.”

John sighs for possibly the fortieth time today. “Sherlock.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” The detective says and gets up.

“Sherlock..” John pleads, making to follow him.

“I’m taking a shower.” Sherlock states, and it’s becoming obvious that his walls have rapidly come back up again, shutting John out completely.

Fuck.

While John sends Mycroft a desperate message, he can hear a sudden noise in the bathroom, over the sound of the shower running, sounding suspiciously like someone slipping in the shower. “Sherlock! You okay?” He calls over.

“..yes.” Sherlock doesn’t sound right.

John is immediately on his feet and tries to open the door, only to find it locked. Sherlock hasn’t locked doors, ever, since he got ill, simply because of the risks of someone not finding and/or reaching him in time, should anything happen.

“Sherlock unlock the door!” John yells, starting to think the worst.

“No! I’m- I’m-I’m fa- fine!” And now he’s stuttering again? 

“You are not 'fine', just let me in!” John begs.

There is silence on the other side, the shower has been turned off. Then, finally a reply, though not exactly what John had expected. “I don’t want you to see me..”

“Sherlock, I know what you look like.” I have seen you in much worse condition, even. But he is obviously not going to say that. “What happened? Did you get hurt?”

“N-No. Just.. got surprised.” 

John sighs in relief. 

When Sherlock finally emerges again, fully dressed, John notices something different in the bathroom. “You took the mirror off?” It makes him wonder if Sherlock is even aware what an impact this whole eating disorder thing has on his life.

Sherlock nods without looking at him. “I’m going to see Astra.” He says and puts on his shoes again.

John nods understandingly, smiling sadly at his friend. “I take it you don’t want my company?” He still asks, even though he already anticipated Sherlock’s answer.

Sherlock shakes his head and leaves the flat, briefly halting on his way down the stairs to say over his shoulder “don’t wait for me.”

Sherlock finds her out on the paddock, grazing in the sun. She trots up to the gate when she notices him approaching. Sherlock pets her nose in silent greeting, opens the gate and goes inside the fenced area. “You look better.” He says quietly as he inspects her right shoulder. “Even growing the fur back already.” 

If it weren’t for the small spots where no fur has grown back where the stitches had been, you could almost not tell that she’d been fighting for her life not too long ago.

Astra can tell that something is wrong, and gently nudges him with her head. He looks her in the eye, feeling like he could suddenly see all the anguish that he keeps locked away, resurfacing all at once in the reflection.

He closes his eyes and presses his face against her head, running his fingers through her mane. 

Eventually the pain in his knees became too much. The stairs to his flat had caused them to swell again and walking the whole way to the stables had been a completely stupid idea. But he’d needed to walk. He’d needed the exercise. He was too stressed by the whole concept that John knows. 

Sherlock winces as he slowly walks aimlessly on the grass, Astra right by his side and aiding him by letting him lean against her with his hand. They end up laying down in the middle of the pasture, with Sherlock leaning against her belly, just resting his eyes and not thinking about anything for a change.

He must have nodded off, because when he opens his eyes again, he’s blinded by the harsh ceiling lights from the emergency room. For a moment he completely panics, thinking that he’s been abducted again by some psychopath. In his weak state, he notices a rather pressing problem. One which is more than likely caused by the bag of IV fluids that are currently being pumped into his body.

Looking down at himself, he sees that all he is wearing is that horrendous looking hospital gown, and his underwear. Checking his surroundings, he finds John, who is too busy doing something on his phone to have noticed his awakening. “John..” he has to clear his painfully dry throat.

The doctor looks at him with an unreadable expression, staying silent.

Sherlock tries to push himself up, wincing at the fierce pain in his knees from the action of slightly bending them, plus the feeling like his bladder is about to rupture.

“What are you doing?” John asks.

“John, I need the loo.” Sherlock explains urgently, and John simply pulls out a medical urinal from behind him. Sherlock groans at the sight.

“You are not getting up, so have fun with that. I’ll be back in two minutes, I guess…” John says as he hands Sherlock the item and gets up, pulling the curtain closed to give him a tiny resemblance of privacy. 

His brain still feels like it’s filled with cotton balls, but at least he manages to get his pants down enough to make use of the damned urinal. I think I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to use one of these.

When he’s done, he places the gross thing on the table next to his bed, almost falling over the edge of the bed and crashing against the bed’s safety railing in the process thanks to being dizzy, and then lays back down. Whatever is going on, I feel like absolute shit.

John briefly checks if it was safe, then comes back to his side. “What do you remember?”

Sherlock is taken off guard by the sudden question. He blinks, trying to focus, but comes up empty. “I don’t..” He trails off because he’s lost his train of thought and talking took too much concentration, which he did not have.

John sighs. “You were at the stables. Briggs found you after you’ve apparently fallen asleep, laying unprotected in the sun. Almost gave yourself heat stroke. You are lucky to be alive, to be honest.”

Sherlock is struggling to mentally understand what John is saying, and ends up just closing his eyes in exhaustion.

When he opens them again, he’s in one of the hospital’s rooms, and a bit less confused than last time. He hears a toilet flushing and shortly afterwards, John is walking to his side again. “Hey.”

The oddly calm demeanour is rubbing Sherlock the wrong way. “What happened?”

John explains the situation once again, watching Sherlock intently. 

“What time is it?” Sherlock mumbles.

John checks his watch. “Just after one in the morning. You’re a lot more alert now, at least.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I don’t think you remember anything from earlier. But I suppose it makes sense. You were severely dehydrated.” John explains. “I hope I don’t have to explain why that is a really bad thing for you.”

“Well that explains why I’m so thirsty..” Sherlock grumbles, and John fills up a glass with mineral water and hands it to him. 

“Only drink as much as you think you can handle. Don’t make yourself sick, please.” John tells him and Sherlock drinks it in small sips, even though his body is hungrily demanding that he drink everything at once.

When Sherlock is done and hands back the glass, he notices a bowl with a wet towel in it. John understands his confusion. “We had to cool you down.” He shakes his head. “You’re seriously lucky to be alive. Twenty minutes more and you probably would have died. Briggs told me that Astra had thrown a fit to get his attention, and then brought him to you. He pulled you into the shade right away, then called the ambulance.” He says sternly, making sure that Sherlock understood the dire situation he had been in. The doctor chuckles dryly. “You know, I’ve heard of cancer detection dogs, and dogs barking until someone comes to help their owner, but I’ve never heard of a horse saving its owner’s life. That’s a first.” 

Sherlock hardly reacts. “To be honest, I’m not really surprised.” He mumbles in thought.

“Well, I have to check your temperature again, so please let me at your ear.” John says.

“My ear?” Sherlock asks and John holds up the in-ear-thermometer. “Oh.” Duh.

He lets John check his temperature, and the doctor pulls away when the device gives a loud beep. “Well, good news. Your body temperature is only slightly elevated now.”

“And when it’s normal I can go?” Sherlock asks hopefully.

John throws him a stern look, the most anger that he’s let show since Sherlock woke up. “They’ll probably keep you here for a few days. More like a week, probably.”

Sherlock groans loudly. “A week?!”

“Need I remind you that you could have died?! Sherlock, normal people struggle in this heat. Healthy people die from heat stroke. You can’t even regulate your body temperature. This was so close.” John stresses. “Besides, we’ll see what your blood results will say tomorrow.”

Sherlock glowers at the wall opposite of John. “Can I at least get up?”

“We’ll have to test it, but I think you’re just gonna collapse if you get up.” 

“Hm.” 

John comes walking around the bed, hands him another stupid medical urinal, and steps outside the room.

Sherlock just sighs and accepts his fate.

Ten minutes later the water he had drank had made a sudden reappearance thanks to his rebelling stomach, and Sherlock only just so managed to avoid soiling the hospital bed with it. Even John’s quick reflexes couldn’t save the floor. “It’s alright. I probably should have only let you take a small sip..” He tries to console his upset friend.

Sherlock only moans breathlessly as he slumps back on the pillow. 

“I’ll see about giving you some more anti nausea meds, since they’re apparently not doing their job too well.” John says, sounding apologetic. 

“John..?” Sherlock mumbles, not opening his eyes.

“Yeah?” 

“How come I don’t have a.. whatsitcalled..” he visibly thinks, swirling his finger in the air, then decides on “piss bag?”

John snorts in amusement for a moment, but quickly turns serious again. “You did have one, for about two hours. You somehow managed to pull the catheter out, the moment you were just a bit lucid.”

Sherlock furrows his eyebrows, then glimpses at John. “I don’t remember that.”

“I’m not surprised. You were completely out of it but at least you improved over time. Otherwise they would have inserted another Foley and tied your arms to the bed, to keep you from pulling it out again.” John explains.

Sherlock cringes before closing his eyes, the last thing that registers is John slipping out of the room to see about those stronger antiemetics.

The next morning they get served breakfast, and John could already see the apprehension on Sherlock’s face. “Let me guess, you have no intentions of eating any of this.” John asks hesitantly and points to Sherlock’s tray. 

Sherlock just shakes his head and turns over on his side, away from the food and John. Whether it’s because of leftover nausea or the eating disorder, John couldn’t tell.

“..would you drink a Fresubin? Or at least some tea?” He asks, concerned.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, so John doesn’t push him further.

The nurse offers to leave Sherlock’s tray, but the detective tells her off. 

When they’re alone again, John decides to bite into the sour apple. “Why do you do it?”

“Do what?” Sherlock asks disinterested, still with his back to John. He knows what John is referring to, and he doesn’t want to talk about this. Not ever.

“Starving yourself.” John clarifies. “Is this some weird diet to you? Or a way to control things?” He asks curiously.

Sherlock shakes his head. “It’s nothing like that.” 

“Then why? I just don’t understand why. You’re already skinny, why do you want to lose weight so bad? Do you have some goal weight you want to reach?” John asks. He knows that Mycroft told him that it’s not that, but he wants to hear this from Sherlock. Maybe he could even get a bit more info.

Sherlock angrily sits up and snaps at him “that’s not why I do it!”

John backs off a little. “Then tell me. Please.”

Sherlock presses a curled hand against his forehead, and John suspects he must have gotten dizzy from his quick change in posture. “It’s not that easy.. to explain..”

“Try me.” John pleads.

Sherlock sighs and looks down at his hands, fumbling with the hospital gown that he has grown absolutely sick of. “I just don’t want to eat.” He looks up at John with glassy eyes, before turning back to his lap. “I don’t care about how I look or how much I weigh. I’ve never been overweight. I’ve never been at a normal weight, always just below it. I don’t think I’m fat or whatever other stigma you are thinking of.”

“Okay.” John whispers.

“I just.. I wasn’t lying, about digestion slowing me down. I don’t feel right when I eat. And that’s on a good day.” Sherlock explains. 

“So what’s on a bad day?” John asks.

Sherlock silently fiddles with his hands, his entire posture is radiating anxiety. “It’s just off and on.. I was mostly fine for the past years. I get these thoughts sometimes, that I could just skip a meal.. things like that. But they always passed, didn’t turn into anything more. I could ignore them.”

“But now they aren’t going away.” John concludes.

Sherlock nods, still not meeting his eye. 

“But you get hungry.” 

Sherlock looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Of course I get hungry. Just not in a way like you probably do. I can easily not eat an entire day or two and be fine, while everyone else gets snappy and shaky if they don’t get one of their meals at their usual times.” 

John hums in thought. “I can see your point. Really I do. But I still don’t think it’s as simple as just not wanting to eat. I’ll be honest with you; I don’t know nearly as much about eating disorders as I probably should.” He ignores Sherlock’s frown at the words 'eating disorder'. “What I do know, is that starving, and bingeing and purging, are not the problem. They’re only the symptom.”

Sherlock snorts coldly. “Are you going to psychoanalyse me now? To figure out what went wrong in my fucked up childhood? And I don’t binge or purge.” 

John stays calm and serious. “I already know that what you went through as a child was horrific. Funny that you would bring it up, though. Is it connected?” He asks, feeling smug at having figured something out about Sherlock.

“No.” Sherlock denies. “I may have not eaten much after the fire, but the actual… problem didn’t start until my teens.”

John instantly stops feeling smug and just nods. “What set it off, though? There’s always some sort of trigger.”

Sherlock looks away from him and lays back down on his side. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

John sighs sadly but accepts it. “Alright. Try to rest for a while.”

Chapter Text

His temperature has dropped slightly below normal, so poor, freezing Sherlock was finally allowed to put on his clothes. They took away the IV stand, but kept the cannula just in case.

The staff wasn’t very happy about Sherlock’s refusal to eat, though. John has to argue with them not to involve psych. 

His efforts are almost in vain when the doctor brings Sherlock’s blood results. “Cholesterol is through the roof, severe B12 deficiency, low potassium, and pretty much everything else is lacking too. I have no idea how you are still able to function, to be honest.” The doctor explains sternly, and John just stares at a mortified Sherlock in shock.

“The B12 and vitamin deficiencies we can treat. You’ll need to be put on medication to get your cholesterol levels down, before you have a heart attack or stroke. Your little date with death might have just saved your life.” The doctor continues, and Sherlock gulps at the news.

The plan is quickly turned into action. A couple vitamin shots, the prescription for his cholesterol medication, and an appointment with a nutritionist are taking over his day.

They would check his bloods again in a week, and only then decide whether or not to let him go home. It took a lot of convincing the nutritionist that he does eat, and he’s gotten a meal plan that he would just throw away the second he could go home. 

A couple of times Sherlock has thought about just escaping from the hospital. He didn’t want to be here anymore. 

But then John would give him that knowing look and he laid back down on the bed.

“Your blood pressure is low. Did you eat yesterday?” The nurse asks and opens the velcro. 

“Yes.” Sherlock lies, and John just averts his eyes.

The nurse scribbles it down thoughtfully. She puts a pulse oximeter on his finger and checks his temperature with the in-ear that John had had. “Temperature at 35,2°C, good oxygen, tachycardic.” She mutters as she writes everything down.

John looks up at the last word. “What do you mean tachycardic?” Sherlock is only sitting on his bed, he shouldn’t be over a hundred. He hasn’t gotten above 90BPM whilst resting in ages..!

“John, it’s fine.” Sherlock says and gives him a pointed look.

“No it’s not. With your meds, you shouldn’t be that high when resting.” John argues.

The nurse turns to him with a kind smile. “It’s alright Doctor Watson. It could be from the cholesterol, maybe he’s cold, maybe he doesn’t like me.” She giggles. “It’s generally nothing to worry about, but I could notify Doctor Mertens if you want.”

“No.” Sherlock immediately snaps. The more doctors get involved, the longer I will have to stay here.

The nurse just smiles at him and packs up her trolly. “Breakfast should be there soon.” She comments as she leaves their room.

Sherlock sighs and gets up from the bed on shaky legs.

“What are you doing?” John demands and gets up and to his side.

Sherlock shuts his eyes for a moment when he gets lightheaded, and John grabs hold of his biceps. “I’m fine.” He mumbles to John when he can see straight again. “Just going to the bathroom.” 

“Okay, let me support you at least.” John compromises and helps him walk steady. I want him to get another IV, if his blood pressure is already this low again. 

While Sherlock is in the bathroom, John’s phone vibrates with a text.

Mycroft 
Any news?

John groans inwardly. He’d completely forgotten to tell him.

John
He gave himself heat stroke two days ago. Blood work was all over the place, they’re working on it. 

Mycroft replies almost immediately.

Mycroft 
Is he eating?

John sighs quietly as not to make Sherlock suspicious. 

John
No.

There’s no reply, and John worries that maybe the elder Holmes would pull some strings and get Sherlock a feeding tube.

Sherlock comes back out, holding himself steady with the walls. He looks ready to keel over, so John is quickly by his side and helping him get back on the bed.

“I’ll get you another IV.” John tells him and rushes out when Sherlock is situated on the bed again.

They’re both sitting at the table. Sherlock is picking at his breakfast tray while John is sitting opposite, eating his own, and keeps inadvertently watching Sherlock.

Sherlock, ever the observer, notices John’s staring of course. “Will you stop looking at me? This is hard enough without you staring me down.” He grumbles at one point.

“Sorry.” John genuinely apologises and turns his back, so he couldn’t see him anymore.

Sherlock forces himself to eat a slice of cheese and the three tomatoes on his plate, leaving the mortadella slices and bread untouched. His left leg is jiggling rapidly up and down under the table the whole time.

“Why are they giving me meat if my cholesterol is so bad?” He asks John, looking uninterestedly at the mortadella.

“Because of your B12, I suppose. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.” John replies softly.

Sherlock just gets up from the table to climb on the bed again and lays back down, feeling completely exhausted.

When Sherlock is awake again, John asks more questions. “Do you throw up?”

Sherlock, not quite catching what he is referring to, gives him a confused look.

“After eating I mean.” He clarifies. Mycroft had said that Sherlock doesn’t, but John wanted to have it confirmed.

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. I never have. Not on purpose, anyways.”

“Okay. Good. That’s very good.” John rambles. “Any foods that I should avoid? I already know about the chicken, but do you have anything that you can’t stand?”

Sherlock is quiet for a while, thinking about it. He’d never really thought about it before. He would just.. eat whatever he wanted, when he wanted to. He doesn’t have ‘safe foods’, because he doesn’t have anorexia.

Yeah you have safe foods. You won’t eat any fast food or sweets and desserts, nothing with carbs. You have safe foods, because you’re insane.

Remembering that John is waiting for a reply, he shrugs, and John takes it that he has to change the question. “Anything that you definitely will eat?”

That gets him a much quicker answer. “Eggs. Vegetables. Yoghurt. And sorbet ice cream, but not the crap you get in supermarkets. Ask Mycroft about it.” 

“Alright.” John says, making a mental note to send Mycroft a text about it later. “Will you drink Fresubin if you don’t want food?”

Sherlock still doesn’t look at him, but nods after a bit. “I still have ‘normal’ weight, you know. According to the new BMI formula. It’s not a big deal.”

John doesn’t believe that for a single second, but he decides not to call Sherlock out on being far from a healthy weight. Hopefully he was stable enough for a full physical where they could weigh him, soon. “Well your blood work said otherwise. Plus you need the energy.” He points out, his voice is always so gentle when he tries to make Sherlock see reason. “Besides, every BMI calculation is flawed. A simple number can’t tell you how you’re feeling or doing.”

Sadly, it falls on deaf ears.

“My blood seems to always feature a low B12.” Sherlock points out, completely ignoring John’s lectures. If my body can be stupid enough to act like this and be sick, it can just deal with not getting fuel. He thinks bitterly.

“I’m just saying.. you’re doing a lot more harm to yourself than you probably realise.”

Sherlock huffs angrily and turns on his side, away from John. The other just sighs and takes out his phone, reading through news pages to pass the 'Sherlock sulk' time.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is fairly distracted from his own sulking when his bladder randomly decides to make his life miserable, threatening to wet the bed without warning. It’s taking a ton of effort to make the urine stay in, and he’s surprised that John hadn’t asked him yet about what’s going on, with his sudden fidgeting. I won’t let you do this, body, you hear me? You have humiliated me enough as it is.

Sadly, his thoughts went unheard, and his bladder painfully contracts again. This time, there’s no holding back.

He quickly sits up with a gasp, tries his best to make it stop, but the warm liquid seeps into his clothes. “Oh god- I can’t hold it..!” He shrieks out loud in his utter panic, and John immediately gets up, pulls the blanket away, before dragging Sherlock off the bed.

“Come on.” He commands but Sherlock stays stock still next to the bed, hyperventilating a little as he watches the wet mess growing in horror. “Sherlock. Come on, bathroom, now.” This time there is no resistance when he pulls the other man with him.

“Stay here a mo’, I’ll be right back.” John says when Sherlock is standing in the bathroom, and goes back out to the main room for a moment. Opening the drawers, he is glad to find what he was looking for. Most hospitals thankfully offer all sorts of sanitary products and absorbent underwear, and he finds a size that should fit Sherlock.

Then he picks out a new pair of comfy trousers from Sherlock’s things, and goes back to the loo. “Here, put this on, I’m calling a nurse to help take care of the bed sheets.” He holds out the new items and sees Sherlock’s face become distraught at the white, nappy-looking underwear. “Sherlock. I’m sorry, but it’s time. I think we can both agree.”

Sherlock sighs but nods and finally takes the clothes. John closes the door to give Sherlock privacy, and pressed the nurse call button.

While the empathetic nurse takes care of the bed sheets, John knocks softly on the bathroom door before going in. For a startling moment he doesn’t see Sherlock and immediately assumes he must have somehow sneaked past him and vanished. But then he finds him, sitting curled in on himself in the corner, the clothes were not changed, the fresh ones laying next to him on the floor.

John closes the door behind him and kneels before his friend. “Everything too much?” He asks in a whisper. He could hear Sherlock’s ragged breathing, like he has to force his lungs to work. He hesitantly looks up at John for a brief moment, before looking down at the tiled floor.

“I just feel like.. I completely ruined.. everything..” he says between gasps for air. With the feeling of a strong hand squeezing his soul, he adds “and I have no.. one else to blame… but myself..” before breaking off into quick pants, and John could hear the tell tale, asthmatic wheeze with each exhale.

“I’m getting your inhaler.” He informs him before quickly making his way out, to fetch said object. Bringing it back to Sherlock, he holds it out for him to take, but of course the stubborn idiot makes no move to do so. “Sherlock. Please just take it.”

Sherlock shakes his head and coughs. Don’t you understand? This is what I deserve.

“Sherlock.” John repeats, more sternly this time, and grabs his hand to press the blue object into it. “Use it, now, please.” 

Mentally sighing, since he is physically unable to, Sherlock shakes the inhaler and uncaps it, before bringing it to his lips and inhaling as he pressed down on the can. Pressing his hand against his mouth to suppress coughs, he tries to hold his breath as long as he could, counting to ten in his head before he had to cough and breathe. 

He repeats the process, feeling the invisible, tight band around his chest slowly ease away and allow him to breathe more easily. He hands John the inhaler back and pushes himself to his feet, bracing his hands against the wall when his world goes black for a few long seconds, then makes his way to the sink in order to rinse.

“Can we get you changed now, so that we can talk?” John asks while Sherlock dries his hands.

Now that he is physically able to, Sherlock sighs, but nods.

“I know it will feel weird at first.. if you want, I can wear one too.” John offers.

Sherlock, in the middle of stripping off his wet trousers, frowns at him. “What would that help? Why would you..”

John shrugs, “solidarity?”

Sherlock just shakes his head at him. “No thanks. Besides.. I uh.. I already know what it feels like.”

Well, colour John surprised. Before the doctor could say anything, Sherlock elaborates. “I had that firm.. the one that Fledge gave me the business card.. I had them.. deliver some.. well, Mycroft had them deliver..” he awkwardly explains, not daring to look at John.

Instead of the shame that Sherlock had been expecting, John was over the moon at the news. “Sherlock, that’s great! I mean.. not the part where you need them, but it’s really great that you took that step!”

Somehow the praise only makes Sherlock feel more awkward, so he doesn’t reply and simply focuses on washing his skin before getting dressed in what John had brought him. 

“You know.. incontinence issues are a pretty common problem with anorexia.” John says, only now realising that maybe they’d been walking around the actual problem this whole time. But to be fair.. it is quite difficult to figure out the bigger problem, when you’re only focusing on separate symptoms, one at a time.

Sherlock only hums in acknowledgment.

“Why didn’t you want to use your inhaler earlier?” John asks curiously.

Sherlock looks away from John, pressing his lips together. After he doesn’t reply or so much as looks at John, the doctor decides to switch tactics. 

“Will you tell me more about your eating disorder, at least?” 

This time, Sherlock looks at him, and after a short moment, start talking.

“I was fine for.. four years? Well I mean not 'fine', it’s always there, as stupid as that sounds.. but uhm.. I had it locked away in the cellar.” He explains, and it takes John a moment to realise that Sherlock probably meant the cellar in his mind palace. 

“You could ignore the thoughts, but not now.” John concludes.

Sherlock nods. “Right now it’s like.. we traded places. I’m.. locked in and it’s completely messing with my head.” He claws at his curls in distress. “I’m locked in and I don’t know how to get out of this.”

John gently takes Sherlock’s arms in his hands, lowering them from his curls before Sherlock could rip out any hair. “Maybe you just need someone else to open the door for you.” He releases his grip on Sherlock’s arms.

The moment gets interrupted by a nurse bringing their lunch trays.

Once the nurse is gone, John awkwardly clears his throat. “Well?”

Sherlock sighs but joins John at the table. They both get the same: a thick sausage with sauce and mashed potatoes. Sherlock is already massively turned off by the sight, he hates it when the foods touch one another, and that includes sauce touching anything. He already wants to just get up and turn his back on it, but John is looking at him pleadingly.

So he caves and gets a small scoop of the potatoes – where the sauce hadn’t touched it. The potatoes are okay, he could handle it.

The bigger issue happens when most of the untouched mashed potatoes is gone, and he only has the sausage left. John’s plate is already as good as empty, Sherlock realises with surprise. I didn’t know I was so slow.

“Only eat what you feel like you can handle.” John reminds him, but just the fact that Sherlock is now aware that he is watching, is putting more pressure on him.

Hesitantly he cuts off a small piece from the sausage, tries it, but feels like his throat was constricting, making it impossible for him to swallow. He looks around for a napkin, but finds none. John has caught on and is holding a kidney basin out for him, but Sherlock shakes his head and gets up. He honestly hadn’t wanted to have to do this, but well. 

He goes to the loo and spits it out into the toilet, flushing it immediately so he wouldn’t have a chance to see, and rinses his mouth more thoroughly than was probably necessary. He couldn’t get the meat taste out, though, and it’s making him extremely nauseous, to the point where he once again wants to just shove his fingers down his throat and get everything out. 

This was going to be harder than he thought.

Chapter Text

The dreaded day finally came where they weighed Sherlock. He took his sweet time undressing, feeling way too exposed with John and a nurse in the same room, anxiously awaiting to learn the shocking truth about his current state.

Sherlock isn’t stupid, he knows his BMI was nowhere near ‘normal’. He knows that he’s not overweight, but the insecurity still causes him to tense his stomach muscles to make it appear more flat under the hospital gown that they wanted him to change into.

He takes a deep breath to steady himself, before stepping on it.

He didn’t need John’s sharp inhale to know that it was bad, but he still looked down. His expression gave nothing away, but on the inside, a whole new war broke out.

Look at what you’ve done! They’re going to shove the tube in your nose again, because you’re too broken to eat normally. 

I’m a malfunctioning machine, and I don’t know how to fix myself.

You don’t need fixing, you need to stop eating so you’ll finally disappear. Get dressed, escape from here, and run until you drop dead.

Why am I like this..?

Sherlock pokes his yoghurt with a tea spoon, pulls it out and drops it back into it.

John has been watching him do this for the past half an hour. Sherlock seems to be lost in thought. The words (more like scolding) of the doctor must have really gotten to him.

“Your BMI is at what we call ‘cachexia’, and getting closer to ‘anorexic’. Your weight is so low that your body’s fat and muscle is starting to waste away, because it needs the cells to keep your organs alive. I don’t know what’s causing you to starve yourself like this, but I’m tempted to have you transferred to a psychiatric hospital once we get you stabilised.”

Sherlock places the yoghurt back on the tray, then looks at John with sad, almost pleading eyes.

“What’s wrong?” John asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t mean for this. I didn’t mean to let it get this bad.” Sherlock admits tearfully.

“Sherlock.. it’s not your fault, alright? Nothing about this is your fault.”

“Yes it is. I’m so stupid..!” Sherlock argues before hunching over with his arms pressed against his stomach. 

“You’re not. You’re not stupid, Sherlock.” John says. He couldn’t see Sherlock’s face, thanks to him having it hanging with the curls hiding it, but when Sherlock doesn’t straighten up again, he asks alarmed, “are you in pain?”

Sherlock shakes his head but doesn’t move, either. 

“Sherlock, don’t lie to me.” 

Finally sitting up straight, John could practically watch Sherlock putting on the facade again. “I’m fine, John.” He declares.

Bullshit. John thinks. “What do you think about your weight?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the question, picks up the yoghurt again and starts to finally eat it, pointedly ignoring John.

“Fine, we don’t have to discuss this here, but I have you know that you’ll be staying with us once they release you.” John says.

Sherlock looks up at that, letting the spoon drop into yoghurt again. “What? No, absolutely not.”

“Sherlock.” John chides.

“No, John. I.. I can’t be around Rosie.” 

“..what are you talking about?” John asks.

“She’s at an impressionable age. I.. I know that I have a problem, which is why I can’t, in good conscience, be around her all day.”

“Sherlock, she already noticed.” John says softly.

“W-what?” Sherlock breathes out, staring at John.

“After you dislocated your hip, she said that she wouldn’t eat, and I quote, like Sherlock.” 

Sherlock keeps looking into John’s eyes, silently begging him to say that this isn’t true. But John’s eyes reply ‘I’m sorry, it’s the truth’ and Sherlock has to look away.

“It’s not your fault, Sherlock.” John adds quickly.

“I don’t want her to ever think twice about food. She shouldn’t ever worry about it.” Sherlock’s voice is trembling.

John comes to his side and lays a careful hand on his thigh. “Please don’t blame yourself, she hasn’t said or done anything like that again since. I think she’s already forgot about it.” He tries to reassure.

Sherlock only leans away, one hand still holding the hardly touched yoghurt, the other is pressed over his eyes, hanging his head in shame.

“It’s okay.. we’ll.. we’ll figure something out, alright?” John promises, and gently shushes him when Sherlock starts to repeatedly sniff.

It was decided that Sherlock should walk around more, to keep him mobile and his muscles active, so he was assigned a physiotherapist. And of course that went absolutely swell.

“Come onnn, you can walk another round.” The moron bribes when Sherlock, completely out of breath because his heart rate was now at a steady 170bpm for the past ten minutes, needed to grab the balance bars that were screwed to the walls in the hallway. 

“I can’t.” Sherlock snaps breathlessly, not making any move to let go of the banister. He was debating on just sitting down where he was, since this sadistic physiotherapist wasn’t listening to him, anyways.

“Yes you can, we only walked the length two times.” 

“You don’t understand.” Sherlock says, and just to prove his point, he raises his arm to activate the watch screen, which was flashing red numbers. He’d turned off the vibration, he didn’t need his watch to tell him where he was at. He was sweaty and shaky and his knees felt like jelly. 

But instead of even looking at the screen, the young physiotherapist completely ignores it. “Don’t look for excuses, we need to get you used to being upright again. You’re just out of shape.”

And just for that comment, Sherlock decides screw this, screw you, and just joins the other man. They walk all of five steps before Sherlock gets the familiar feeling of an incoming syncope, and he mentally grins.

Serves you right, asshole. He thinks as his vision goes completely black and his hearing leaves right with it.

Later, loser.

THUD!

When he wakes up again, he’s back in his bed with an IV and John is watching him with furrowed brows.

“I thought we agreed on no more pushing yourself?” John asks.

“Not my fault, he told me to keep going.” Sherlock argues.

John rolls his eyes at him. “Did you tell him that you have POTS?” Of course that might not have made much of a difference if the therapist hasn’t heard of it before, or thought that it literally only means that the heart rate increases a little when standing up and nothing else, as that was apparently the mindset of quite a lot of people.

“I tried. He refused to listen. Besides, shouldn’t he have read my file? Amateur.” Sherlock grumbles, then grins mischievously. “Wish I could have seen his face, totally worth the bruises.” 

John turns away so Sherlock couldn’t see his amused grin. You’re just something else, Sherlock.

His bravado was once again replaced with agitation and anxiety once lunch arrived. 

He could feel John’s eyes on him while he tries to convince himself that he needs to eat. It quickly becomes too much for him. “John. Please go home.” He says, embarrassed at the urgency in his voice.

John looks at him like a deer caught in headlights. “Sorry.” He says, not sure what else to say.

Sherlock sighs. “No, I’m sorry, but I just- I just can’t have you- you- you- damnit-” He takes a deep breath and tries again. “I need to not be watched. It’s phhh.. putting too much…. p-pressure on me.”

“I understand.” John promises him. “I uh.. I guess I could leave you alone, just over the weekend..? I.. I’m sorry, I’m not being much help.” 

Sherlock only sighs as John leaves his room. This was really going to ruin everything, wasn’t it?

When John gets home, he hears some beautiful classical music piece. He follows the sound to Rosie’s bedroom, halting on the outside as not to disturb. He realises that he’s come home right at Rosie’s nap time – or what was usually her scheduled nap time but it often took them two hours to get her to sleep.

When Mary finally comes out with her phone in hand, the house is once again silent. “I didn’t think you’d be here.” Mary whispers.

John points to their front door, silently asking her to go outside with him so they could talk.

Mary nods, concern growing on her features as they walk outside.

“He needed me to leave, I.. mh.. I wasn’t helping much.” John admits.

“I’ve done a bit of research..” Mary starts. She gives John her phone after opening the screenshots she had taken of a page. “It’s a common problem with POTS that they restrict food intake, and even develop eating disorders.”

John looks at her in disbelief, taking her phone. 

Objective: Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS) is estimated to occur in up to 1% of adolescents, with symptoms of dizziness, fatigue, and pain impacting daily functioning. However, many risk factors and symptoms for POTS overlap with those of youth with disordered eating, and adolescents with POTS may be at increased risk for developing eating disorders. Therefore, the present study sought to better understand this overlap. We hypothesized that patients with POTS would have higher than expected rates of weight change, restrictive eating patterns, and food sensitivities.

It reminds John of that one article about eating disorders in chronic pain and chronically ill people, how it was used as a way to control symptoms. His stomach is in knots – has been since he learned about Sherlock’s eating disorder, but right now it feels like his stomach is being cut in half by the rope that’s spun tightly around it. This was the reality. Sherlock’s reality.

John scrolls through the screenshots, to the results.

Results: Nearly 3 quarters of participants described engaging in restrictive eating, and more than half of them described experiencing weight loss.

Three quarters is a lot. 

They also endorsed experiencing food allergies, celiac disease, and eating disorder at higher rates than would be expected in the general population. One-fifth of the sample had experienced invasive interventions to correct for nutritional imbalances, such as having a feeding tube.

There it was again, the feeding tube. John prays that it wouldn’t come down to it, this time.

Conclusion: Weight and eating are clear areas of risk for patients with orthostatic intolerance. It is essential that treatment team members thoroughly screen for eating disturbances and make recommendations that support regular and balanced eating habits.

Seeing her husband’s eyes becoming red and wet, Mary pulls him into a hug.

Sherlock looks at the half eaten tray. It was the most he’d eaten so far during this hospital stay. I should be proud of myself. But he just feels unbelievably nauseous.

He gets interrupted by the nurse, and realises that it has taken him the whole hour to eat half of his lunch. She grins widely at him as she picks up the tray. “That’s the most I’ve seen you eat all week! Well done!” She praises and goes back out.

Sherlock looks over to the windows, wondering if he was high enough up for the fall to kill him.

Sherlock and John agreed that John would stay with Sherlock at 221B during the week, and go home for the weekends, because Sherlock refused that John should be spending even less time with his own family.

“You know you’re part of my family, right?” John asks, half jokingly.

“Still, you shouldn’t be putting me above your own daughter.” Sherlock grumbles.

So John had just accepted it. Mary was, of course, fine with it and reassured them (mostly Sherlock) that she could take care of Rosie just fine. John explained the situation to his boss, who doesn’t even let John finish before reassuring him that they’d find a substitute to cover for him, for however long it may take. Clearly Mycroft’s influence from last time was still in effect.

With John’s help and no more physio therapists, Sherlock improved a lot on regaining his mobility without his heart threatening to give out. His heart rate was still on the higher side of his ‘normal’ with the Ivabradine, but John reassured him that he would get better with time, that his body just needed more time to recover from overheating so much.

Sherlock’s next blood test gave him the all clear to go home, with regular checkups and he has to continue taking the Simvastatin in the evenings until the next blood test in a couple of weeks. 

At the hospital, Sherlock had been looking forward to going home. But now that he’s standing in front of the building, with John getting out his bag from the cab, he doesn’t know what he’d expected. He was tense, to the point of feeling ill – but then again, that could just be because he’s just standing there.

“Alright?” John asks, carrying Sherlock’s bag over his right shoulder, the cab drives off behind them.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, simply because he doesn’t want to lie to John anymore and because he doesn’t like the truth, either. He just unlocks the door and more or less pulls himself up the stairs on shaking legs with the banister.

“Sherlock?” He halts and turns to see Mrs Hudson coming out of her own flat. “Oh my boy, you’re back home.” She says delighted, yet incredibly sad at the same time. Sherlock would never be able to understand how women do that. 

“Mrs Hudson, I’m alright.” He says automatically, flashes her a fake, confident smile, and continues on with the stairs.

John just nods at her and follows Sherlock up. He finds him already sat down on the sofa, head in his hands and his chest moving much too quickly. Heart still struggling with exercise intolerance, it would seem. 

“Would you like some tea?” John asks as he passes through the flat, placing the bag near Sherlock’s bed. When he gets back, Sherlock looks up at him with just pure exhaustion on his face. 

“I think I’ll just go and sleep, just for a bit.” Sherlock says, his voice, barely above a whisper, suddenly sounds completely drained, like the act of talking at a normal volume is too much work. 

John knows he’s giving Sherlock a sad, sympathetic, and probably pitying look as he nods understandingly. Sherlock must have used up all his spoons. It makes John wonder how long he’s been running on borrowed spoons, just to put on an act of being fine and pushing through everything, while running on empty.

Sherlock doesn’t emerge until the next day, still looking dead on his feet like he hadn’t just slept for roughly 16 hours. John starts off by placing Sherlock’s meds in front of him. “You didn’t take them yesterday evening, did you?” He asks with more concern than accusation.

Sherlock looks at the pills with his tired eyes, just blinks slowly and shakes his head weakly. 

John nods, gestures for Sherlock to take a seat while he goes to retrieve the other’s water bottle so he could at least take the Ivabradine. Sherlock swallows it without a fuss.

“Now.. would you like anything? To eat?” John asks carefully, like he’s treading on eggshells. It makes Sherlock frown at him. 

“No. I dislike eating so early.” 

It was shortly after 9am. “Okay… uhm.. any ideas for lunch?” John asks, causing Sherlock to sigh dramatically.

“I know this probably goes against all of your… doctorism or whatever, but I don’t have set ‘meals’. I decide on eating something when the time is right and I feel like it.”

“‘When the time is right’, what do you mean by that?” John asks curiously.

“Like if I get called away to a case, or have appointments. That sort of thing. I always have to plan ahead.” Sherlock shrugs.

“What happens if such a thing happens? If you have something planned?”

“I wait. I mean, I don’t ingest anything until I’m back at home.” Sherlock explains, like that’s a perfectly normal thing to do. 

John wants to ask how long Sherlock has been doing that, since it’s apparently easy for him, but then reprimands himself. It can’t be easy. Choosing to not eat for hours and hours isn’t easy.

“But you get hungry. You told me that you do.” 

“Yes?” 

“Hunger is a need, it doesn’t stop existing. I’ve had patients telling me that they swallow cotton balls to suppress it. You see why I’m curious?” 

“I see your point, and for your information, I don’t do anything of the sort.” Sherlock says pointedly.

“Wasn’t accusing you.”

“I don’t do anything like that, because I don’t have to. You see hunger as discomfort. I enjoy it.” Sherlock says without thinking.

Even though he’d known it, John is still shocked at the admission.

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, forget that. I don’t ‘enjoy’ that. Not the feeling itself. Just.. what it does. I feel better if I don’t eat anything. Lighter. More at ease. Food is stressful, digestion is torture. I’m okay without.” He rambles.

“You said that you feel locked in, in your mind palace. That the disorder has control over you.” John points out.

Sherlock nods, staring down at his hands on the table surface. “It’s getting harder.” He admits.

“What is?”

“Eating. I feel so horrible whenever I eat anything, I just want it back out. My whole body rejects it. It’s like getting a bad flu, solely caused by having food inside you.”

John appreciates how open Sherlock is about it. “What about liquids? Anything that’s easier to digest?” Maybe his digestive tract is shutting down more and more..? It would be insanely scary if that was the case, but John was only thinking about what others posted in the Facebook group. He hopes that it’s only temporarily slowed down from not eating much for.. how ever long it’s been for Sherlock. John dearly hopes that that is it.

Sherlock shrugs. “Sometimes all I do is drink one of those nutrient drinks.”

“You mean the Fresubin?” John asks.

Sherlock nods. “But I can never finish them. It takes me all day to just get half of it down.”

This was bad. The drinks have roughly 300 calories, and you needed to drink 8 of them to replace all meals. 

Sherlock pushes himself up from the table. “I’m gonna lie down again.” 

While he’s alone, John looks through the kitchen, to get an idea of what Sherlock has in stock and will eat. Eggs, milk and yoghurt in the fridge, oats and cornflakes in the cupboard. Still semi fresh radish, Fresubin and cress on the counter. Expensive looking ice cream sorbets in the freezer, of a brand John has never heard of before. 

He also looks through the bathroom in a moment of paranoia, but doesn’t find anything resembling laxatives or diet pills. Of course Sherlock could be hiding those in his bedroom, but John is starting to doubt that he would do that.

“I’ve had patients telling me that they swallow cotton balls to suppress it.”

“I don’t do anything like that, because I don’t have to.”

John isn’t sure if it’s just a power play for Sherlock. Proving to himself that he doesn’t need tools that other people use to ‘stay in control’. 

He really wishes he knew the reason. The root cause that started it all. 

He tries to calculate. Sherlock said he was doing okay for four years. Mycroft said Sherlock has been struggling since he got sick, which is a year and a half. He pushes away the guilty feeling that keeps building up in his stomach. So he’s been at this up to his 30s, give or take. It started when he got clean. Greg once told me he’s known him for five years, so he has known him for about nine years now, so even if Sherlock wasn’t too bad off, the DI must have had some idea. 

It was so confusing to figure out the timeline.

When Sherlock finally emerges in the afternoon, he fills up a bowl with plain yoghurt and leans back on the sofa, ignoring John’s watchful eyes. 

In the end he gets too unnerved by the unconscious staring that he flees into his bedroom to eat it in peace.

John apologises thoroughly when Sherlock brings it back to the kitchen to wash up, half an hour later.

Despite the rocky start, John gets Sherlock to join him at the table and eat in John’s presence over the next few days. John tries his best to ignore how obviously Sherlock is struggling to so much as pick up the spoon, much less bring the small amounts of yoghurt to his mouth. 

He was already fighting with himself and forcing down the last couple spoonfuls, and was starting to feel ill to his stomach.

“Do you want more..? I saw that it was almost empty.” John asks, referring to the bucket in the fridge.

Could you not? Sherlock thinks, getting pissed off at how John seems to watch his every move. “No.”

“Please..? You didn’t eat much yesterday.”

Inhale..

Exhale..

“Fine.” 

If only John’s happy face could diminish the apprehension Sherlock feels at knowing he’ll have to force himself to eat even more.

Chapter Text

On Friday evening, just after John left to go home, Sherlock storms through the hallway at New Scotland Yard, checking left and right for Donovan. He finally finds her in the break room, refilling the water tank for the coffee machine.

“I need to talk to you.” Sherlock says urgently, and Donovan startles before turning around to him. She nods understandingly and points for him to close the door.

Once the door is shut, he comes over to the kitchen area. His eyes can’t help looking over the many sweets that are laid out, and he forces himself to look away.

“Start talking.” Sally says gently, taking notice of his unease.

Sherlock sighs dramatically. “John knows. And he keeps pressuring me, begging me to just.. finish that last piece, eat a bit more of this and that. When I just don’t want to. I just physically can’t. But he doesn’t understand that.” He rambles quickly.

Sally nods attentively. “You have to tell him to back off a little. Yes, you’ll have to eat when you don’t want to, but it needs to be at your pace.”

“How do I make him understand?” He asks her desperately. “I think he’s convinced that he can ‘cure’ me by bribing me to take a single bite more. It’s not going to change anything, apart from making me feel ill.” He admits.

Sally eyes him at that last part. “You don’t purge, right?”

“No!” 

“Sorry, I just need to know.” She amends. “I don’t want you to do the same mistakes I made.”

“You can’t compare that. The reasons are completely different.” Sherlock points out.

“Not as much as you think.” Sally corrects him. “Yes, I used to completely overeat and then get it back out, because it was my way to deal with my feelings. You want to stay empty, for the same effect.”

Sherlock couldn’t argue with that. “You know.. I never thought we’d be talking about… things like this.”

Sally laughs and leans against the kitchen counter. “Mmh, to be honest I was this close to pulling you to the side when Greg first started bringing you to crime scenes. You were just.. too skinny. Maybe it’s a weird intuition, from knowing what it’s like, but I just knew that something was wrong.”

Sherlock makes a face and looks away.

Sally looks at him non-judgementally. “I won’t ask what your ‘why’ is, the same way I’m not telling you mine. I just want you to understand that you aren’t alone with this. You think that your pain, your struggles are invisible, that nobody sees it, but they do. Greg knows something, John knows now, and I’m pretty sure your scary brother knows about it.”

Sherlock scoffs. “My brother hasn’t so much as called me, lately. Lestrade is as oblivious as ever and John…” he shakes his head. 

Sally playfully jabs his arm with her elbow. “Give him a chance. He’s probably as scared as you are.”

“I’m not scared..!”

“You are. The thought that John knows is terrifying to you. But it’s alright.” 

Sherlock sighs. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Absolutely.” Donovan promises.

Sherlock eyes a plate with bagels on the short table next to them. “I kind of regret that he knows.” He admits guiltily. “Before you ask, I didn’t tell him. He knows because of my brother.” 

His words concern her a little. “Can I ask you, just how long has this been going on?”

Biting his lip, he finally tears his eyes away from the food. “The first time, I think it was.. eight years. Got myself out on my own.”

“That’s.. really impressive.” Sally comments, genuinely surprised.

Sherlock shrugs. “And now.. I really can’t even say when it started again. The uh.. thoughts.. they just… you know.. came back sometimes. But it wasn’t constant, not daily. Just..” he awkwardly clears his throat. “From time to time.”

“And when did they start becoming more frequent?” Sally asks.

He shrugs again. “A few months? I really can’t say.. time feels weird.. I feel like this is the way it’s always been, oddly enough. I know I was fine a year ago-” he cuts himself off, knowing that he’s said too much.

Sally has, of course, already caught on. “You mean before you got ill.. right?”

Knowing that the cat’s out of the bag now, he simply nods. 

“I really can’t imagine what that must have been like, for you. And.. I didn’t exactly help much, either.” She flashes him an apologetic smile.

Sherlock looks at her. “You know, I don’t blame you. We, I mean John and I, we didn’t know what the hell was wrong with me for what felt like ages. I only knew that it couldn’t be anything contagious, we did pretty much every damn test on the planet, but didn’t figure it out for months.”

“That’s really rough..” Donovan says in sympathy. Then she realises something. “Oh hell, do you want to sit down? I completely forgot about this, sorry.”

Sherlock shakes his head and even shows her the app on his watch. “Look. Just 117, I’m fine.” He sighs and crosses his arms across his chest. “I’m fine as long as I don’t eat. It’s really not fair.” He complains.

“You mean, you haven’t eaten?” She asks, worried.

“Does that really come as a surprise to you?” He asks, half jokingly.

“When’s the last time you ate?” She asks, dead serious and ignoring his question.

Sherlock looks up at the ceiling in annoyance. “Not you too.” It had been difficult enough to convince John that he felt too ill to eat today, and that he’d be fine.

“If you keel over and Greg hears about it, you know he’ll call John about it.” 

“I ate yesterday, okay? I’m fine.” Sherlock snaps half heartedly.

“When? Because if you say ‘in the morning’ then God help me..”

Sherlock sighs, he knows she’s just concerned and has a point. “I had dinner with John, you can relax. That’s the whole point I came here to talk to you. Because he keeps forcing me to eat more than I want. It makes me...” he looks at her uncertainly, afraid that saying it will trigger her. 

Sally seems to know what he means to say, and urges him to continue.

“It makes me want to.. make myself sick.” 

“You can call it what it is, you know? I promise I’m okay.” Sally says with a light giggle. 

Sherlock shrugs and makes an unhappy noise. “I don’t like that word. Makes it sound even more vile.”

Sally snorts. “Like it isn’t already?”

Sherlock sighs. “Please don’t make this into the whole ‘anorexics and bulimics don’t get along’ nonsense.”

“Because anorexics think they’re sooo much better?” Sally laughs. When Sherlock only grunts annoyed, she playfully jabs him with her elbow. They both startle, for different reasons, and end up staring at each other in surprise. 

They look away from one another and Sally awkwardly clears her throat. “Sorry. I uh.. hm.. I don’t know where that came from.”

“No, it’s.. it’s alright. Just.. surprised me, is all. Didn’t see that coming.” Sherlock says, feeling out of place. “Like I didn’t see some things.”

“Yeah, how did you miss that?” She wonders seriously. 

“Hell if I know.” Sherlock replies. “Maybe I was too busy trying to keep my own issues undiscovered, to notice other people having the same- or similar problems.” He admits thoughtfully.

“How did John take it..?” Sally asks softly.

“Honestly? I think he’s blaming himself, for some weird reason.”

Donovan nods. “He worries about you. Greg is too, you know?”

Sherlock looks at her expectantly at that. “Has he said anything?”

“Just that he’s worried about you, like I said. Nothing specific.” She reassures him. “Want some coffee?” She asks, pointing to the coffee machine.

“Ah, no thanks.” 

“Yeah.. this stuff just tastes like dishwater.” She agrees, then takes one of the bagels and a plate. “I have ten more minutes before I need to get back to writing up reports, so unless you want to join me for dinner, I suggest you go home.” She declares, in a way that doesn’t sound like she’s trying to get rid of him and more like she’s inviting him to stay. 

She wouldn’t have been surprised in the slightest if he’d just take his leave. But he doesn’t. He takes an apple from a fruit basket and sits down next to her at the table. 

Sally only gives him one brief side glance as he sits down, before turning her attention to her bagel. After they both ate in silent for two minutes, she comments “never thought we’d be doing this, ever.”

“Mh, me either. With a lot of things, just from today.” He agrees, then keeps eating his apple. How odd, I don’t mind eating in her presence at all. Maybe it’s because we’re seated next to each other instead of sitting at opposite sides like John and I always do.

Sally notices how Sherlock suddenly stops moving mid-chew. “Alright?” She asks, not directly looking at him.

He snaps back to reality and swallows. “How come this is so easy with you, but when it’s John, I feel like a prisoner in my own home?”

Sally lays down the last piece of her bagel and rubs her fingers clean on a handkerchief. “Maybe you feel too judged with him. I know I did with my family whenever we sat down for meals. I had anorexic tendencies, remember? I don’t expect you to fulfil some goal, I just want you to be comfortable enough to even think about eating anything in my presence, because I know how hard it is to do that in the first place.” She says knowingly.

Sherlock thinks it over. “..thank you.”

It shouldn’t be this difficult to simply eat whatever you want, without hating yourself afterwards. 

Sherlock had tried to step outside his comfort zone – okay, maybe I really do have safe foods, after all – and just ate whatever he fancied. From second helpings of yoghurt, ice cream, eggs, up to joining John for some boring movie (to Sherlock at least) and having a few crisps. He keeps telling himself that the way he feels stuffed up is a good thing, that he wouldn’t see a much larger number on the scale in the morning- wait a minute. He drops the last crisp as he froze. It was never about numbers. Why do I care about it now? How long has this been going on without me even noticing?!

“Sherlock?” John’s voice makes him look over. Sherlock’s bare foot touches the dropped crisp on the floor, causing him to look down, then at his empty hand. “You okay?”

No. No, for gods sake I’m not fucking okay! He just gets up, fighting the urge to run to the loo and throw everything back up. For someone who has never actually done it, I keep seeing myself stick my fingers down my throat quite vividly. Why am I so messed up..?! I don’t understand!! I don’t understand anything anymore! He flees into his bedroom, his fingers still feeling greasy. He desperately wants to wash it off the skin, but then he would have to go to the bathroom, and he didn’t think he could resist the temptation if he did and saw the toilet. 

Of course there’s the kitchen sink, but that’s off limits. The kitchen sink is where the dishes get washed up, so in his completely illogical mind, it’s filthy. Every single part of it. He always has to wash his hands again in the bathroom sink, if he’d touched the kitchen sink in any way, or gotten his hands wet from that water.

He lays down in his bed, feeling so impossibly sick. He feels the familiar acidic burn run up his throat a little, and wonders if he could throw up just by tensing his stomach. Experimentally doing just that, he finds that his theory was correct. His eyes automatically look over in the direction of the bathroom. 

No, he wouldn’t do it. Even if it would be so easy to just rid himself of this highly uncomfortable state. He wants to get better, wants to recover. Even though he doesn’t technically have any valid eating disorder. God I’m such a hypocrite, causing more drama than I actually have.

Eventually – the fact that he’d run out of spoons many hours ago, and the relentless fatigue finally winning out – he falls asleep.

John took Sherlock shopping. Or in other words: John learned why Sherlock never did the shopping.

It had been an innocent idea, suggested by a lot of eating disorder recovery websites. In retrospect, maybe John should have respected Sherlock’s wish to stay home, but he’d pressured him. Just a little bit. He’d just wanted to see if maybe Sherlock would end up finding something else that he will eat. 

He really hadn’t meant for it to end like this, but his many apologies only fell on the deaf ears of the locked bathroom door.

But let’s start at the beginning. 

John had told Sherlock after (another skipped) breakfast (on Sherlock’s part) that he wanted to take him to the store down the street in an hour. The reason behind the countdown was that he knows that Sherlock doesn’t do well with spontaneous things, and he wanted to give him time to think about possible food items that he wanted to consider. 

The first red flag was when Sherlock started stress-stimming more and more as the time passed. John hadn’t really thought much of it, assuming that it was just similar to whenever a very difficult case came up and Sherlock, thinking he was discreet, stimmed throughout the entire cab ride. Granted, it had been early on in their time together, and Sherlock hadn’t been entirely comfortable with openly stimming in John’s presence. He still hides it sometimes, even now. But back then, before John had caught on to the whole autism thing, he’d told Sherlock that he didn’t need to be so anxious. Sherlock hadn’t replied, just hid his hands in his coat pockets and looked out the window. They never really talked about it, now that John thinks about it, but in the end, they never really had to. Once John figured out that Sherlock is autistic, and Sherlock realised/deduced that John knew, and John never made another comment if Sherlock subconsciously started to stim, Sherlock seemed to test it. He started with very light stims, like tapping his fingers on a surface or his thigh – things that every person would do to pass time. Then, in some situations that actually caused Sherlock distress (mainly large crowds), he didn’t suppress more obvious stims in his presence. At that point, John started to notice the stims more and more. What was a bit of unease, because John had thought that more frantic stims meant ‘anxiety attack incoming’, slowly turned into a heartwarming feeling at the realisation that Sherlock trusted him enough to show this side of him. And over time, it had just become so normal that John didn’t even notice it half of the time, which is part of the reason why he had ignored that first red flag.

The second red flag was when Sherlock stopped talking shortly after entering the store. John kept pointing out healthy food items, asking for Sherlock’s approval. The first couple of times, Sherlock had at least given a nod or head shake. The majority of the shopping trip, however, it seemed like Sherlock was just ignoring him when he kept walking past him. At one point he’d gotten so annoyed with Sherlock’s attitude that he’d grabbed his arm and told him to at least take a look at what’s on offer.

In that moment, John hadn’t registered that Sherlock was badly overwhelmed and overstimulated by the bright lights and people and music and the large assortments in the aisles. He wanted Sherlock to cooperate, to find more foods he could tolerate, to get a bit of a variety. And, perhaps, John had felt a bit embarrassed at the looks he was receiving from other shoppers.

The third red flag is what John feels the most guilty about. On the way to the long queues for the checkout, an alarm suddenly sounded near them, that caused Sherlock to duck his head and cover his ears. John’s own nervous system gave him an adrenaline rush and he’d broken out in a sweat, and he’d snapped at Sherlock to stop causing a scene. He doesn’t even know why the hell he’d said that, he wasn’t thinking clearly in that moment, and Sherlock’s betrayed look will be forever burned into his mind. But it didn’t stop there.

The checkout was delayed further and further, by an elderly lady dropping her coins, then there were issues with a father’s bank card, his son in the shopping cart kept screaming in a high pitch that grated on everyone’s nerves, and then Sherlock started dancing on the spot. John watches him for a bit, still very much pumped with adrenaline, and asked in a rhetoric voice “didn’t you use the loo before we left?”

Sherlock glared daggers at him. “I don’t have to pee, I’m going to faint if they take much longer.” He replied lowly. He couldn’t deal with John’s pissy mood, he was struggling to stay conscious as it was.

“Should have eaten breakfast, then.” John scoffed and turned back to the line in front of him. 

Sherlock wanted to snap at John that if he’d eaten, he would have passed out much sooner. But he just screwed his eyes shut, the highly uncomfortable feeling of the incoming syncope was getting worse. He just had enough time to shrug off his backpack before he passed out, barely avoiding hitting the shopping cart.

A round of gasps sounds around John, who finally snapped out of his arrogant mindset and checked on his friend. He frowns at how slow Sherlock’s pulse is, tries to ignore the questions about needing an ambulance so he could count the beats. He counts them for ten seconds, calculating to just below 50 beats per minute. He gently pushes sweat dripping strands of curly hair away from Sherlock’s eyes. John may have broken out in a sweat, but Sherlock was absolutely soaked. Is it just from the syncope, or is shopping so stressful for you? He wonders, finally able to think clearly again.

Sherlock comes to again after a bit over a minute, and without even opening his eyes, weakly pushes John’s hand away from his wrist. “Told you.” He whispers, shifts a bit to press his face against the cool, tiled floor.

Surprisingly, once Sherlock was ready to stand up again, everyone around them offered to let them go first, so that John could take Sherlock home faster.

Even though the store wasn’t far from their flat, John insisted that they take a cab home. Sherlock tried to reassure him that he could walk the distance, that he was okay now, but John just shook his head. “You’re completely drenched in sweat, you are not walking around like that in the wind. You’ll catch your death.”

Trying to light the mood during the ride, Sherlock remarks “if I had known that we’d get pushed ahead if I pass out, I would have done that ten minutes ago.”

John chuckled lightly. “Please don’t. I think you nearly gave that elderly couple behind us a heart attack.”

Sherlock stayed silent again after that. They got home, but the damned 17 stairs were Sherlock’s undoing again. John told him to just sit down and take a short break after the first ten stairs, when Sherlock’s legs momentarily gave in on the small landing, and he desperately clung to the railing. Once he found his strength again, Sherlock glared at John. “I’m fine!” He growled before pushing past him and climbing the last 7 stairs and then locking himself into the bathroom.

John sighed. He’d knocked on the door, pleaded for Sherlock to leave the door unlocked, apologised furiously.. but the door remained locked. He could hear Sherlock moving about inside, heard the shower running, and just prays that Sherlock wouldn’t pass out again. He knows that Mrs Hudson has a spare key, but John wouldn’t ask for it unless he really needed to get to Sherlock in case of an emergency.

So John stays outside the door, too scared that Sherlock could fall or faint and hurt himself and he wouldn’t hear it if he so much as went into the kitchen, barely ten steps away.

Finally the shower turns off, and the anxiety gnaws at John even more, because this tended to be the hardest part. The part with the highest risk of Sherlock losing consciousness, because of the necessary movements like bending down and having his arms above his head to towel his hair dry.

It feels like hours have passed when John finally hears the lock release and the door open, with Sherlock startling when he comes face to face with John.

“I’m an asshole.” John says immediately. “I’m sorry.” He apologises for the umpteenth time.

Sherlock sighs, coming out with only the towel covering him, and rushes into his room to get dressed. “Go shower, John.” He calls out, voice monotonous.

“I’m sorry.” John apologises again, but goes up the stairs to his bedroom and fetches his own set of fresh clothes.

They didn’t talk again for the rest of the day. Sherlock spent most of that time secretly exercising, the thoughts loudly torturing him. 

Chapter Text

The next morning when John comes down the stairs, he finds Sherlock, shirtless, looking in the mirror above the fireplace. He walks up to him, so he’ll appear behind him on the reflection. “What are you doing?” He asks gently.

“I can see it.” Sherlock says, looks briefly at John over his shoulder before turning back to the mirror. Moving his arms to see them from all angles, he says “I can see what I look like.”

Sherlock lets his arms fall to his sides again, gaze trailing down to his reflection’s stomach. He stares at the flat area, studies every inch, sees his ribs showing above. 

Much to John’s unease, he first tenses the muscles, before sucking in his gut. Stepping so he’s standing almost fully sideways, he carefully touches the much more pronounced ribs, tracing the outline, before laying his hand against his now completely concave middle. The dressing gown trousers are barely hanging on thanks to his hip bones sticking out so much.

He relaxes, lets his body show itself in its ‘natural’ form, which still contained visible ribs and a flat stomach.

John would have thought that Sherlock would look pleased, from everything he’d read. But Sherlock doesn’t look pleased at all. His eyes are calculating, taking everything in, sad.

“Sherlock..?” John asks carefully.

Sherlock looks at John in the mirror, then turns around to really face him. “John..? Do you.. do you think that I’m..”

Oh god. John couldn’t breathe. This is the moment John had been scared of. No, he was absolutely terrified, of Sherlock asking him if he thinks he’s ‘fat’. He was 100% sure he was going to burst into tears if Sherlock ever asked that damn question. He was going to-

“..too thin?” Sherlock finishes hesitantly. 

The look in Sherlock’s eyes makes John cry, after all. 

“Yes.” His voice is already thick with emotion. “Yes, Sherlock. You were already ‘too thin’ when you were healthy.” He swallows thickly. 

Sherlock’s eyes grow red and glassy as well, and he looks away, turns back to the mirror. John watches his eyes grow bigger and his breathing picking up speed. “It’s starting again.” Sherlock informs him, quick and almost panicked. 

“What is?” John asks just as quickly.

Sherlock runs off to the sofa, to retrieve his shirt. But before he puts it on, he turns back to John. “I need a favour.” 

“Anything.” John instantly replies, breathlessly. 

Sherlock makes to walk past him, still shirtless, but can’t bring himself to walk past the mirror. He turns his back to the devilish thing hanging on the wall, closing his eyes. “I need you to get my phone, in my room.” 

John waits a few seconds for more instructions, then makes quick work in getting it for Sherlock. The younger takes it and opens the camera before handing it back to John.

Taking uneasy breaths, Sherlock looks at him pleadingly. “I need you to take pictures. Of me.” 

“Why?” John couldn’t help the question. 

“I have noticed that.. I can see it better on pictures. But I can’t take them without a mirror, and the mirror is lying.” Sherlock explains, although he isn’t making much sense.

“Okay..” John relents, pointing the camera at Sherlock, who stays stock still. Then he turns to his side, then sucks in his stomach again and lets John take pictures of that too in the same angles. The doctor inwardly cringes, the way Sherlock’s already slim waist goes down to almost half its size whenever he sucks it in. For a brief moment, John tries to suck in his own stomach. He’s pretty sure that none of his ribs are visible, and that his stomach is only more flat appearing than when he’s relaxed. 

Sherlock takes the phone, just quickly scrolls through the pictures to check the quality (because John has a history of taking blurry pictures, but Sherlock also thinks that it’s partly his slow, old phone’s fault) before turning off the screen and laying it down on the coffee table. He pulls on his shirt almost frantically, then rushes to pull the dressing gown over his arms.

“What’s wrong?” John almost whispers.

Sherlock is still breathing too fast for John’s liking, and wraps his arms around his torso.

“It’s happening again.” Sherlock repeats his earlier statement.

“What is ‘happening’?” 

Sherlock finally looks at him, looks at John’s concerned eyes. But it was so difficult to put into words what he sees when he looks in a mirror. He gives it his best, anyway. “I don’t see myself, the way you see me. I can’t see the bones. I watch the layer of fat all over my body grow bigger, like watching a balloon get filled with air in slow motion, but it’s my skin that grows wider.” He has to stop every now and then to breathe.

“But it doesn’t happen on pictures?” John genuinely wonders.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Let’s say I see the distortion 98% of the times I look in a mirror, and the last two per cent I see myself the way you see me. Or at least I think that that’s how everyone sees me, I don’t really know. Maybe that’s just a distortion, too.” He momentarily breathes so quickly that John is scared he’s going to slip into hyperventilation, but Sherlock manages to slow down again. “On pictures, it’s the opposite way around. I mostly see myself as it is on the screen. The distortion still happens sometimes. Though maybe not 2%, more like maybe 8 or 10.” He shakes his head, annoyed that he keeps rambling off. “Basically, it still happens that I don’t see it right, but it’s a lot rarer.” He sighs, looking in the direction of the mirror again, thankful that he’s standing at an angle where he doesn’t see himself in it at all. “Sometimes.. sometimes I think that I’ll never see me in the mirrors.” He turns back to John. “I go about life and have to check every reflective surface, in the hopes that maybe this time I’ll see it right. But.. sometimes that doesn’t happen for weeks on end. I always see it distorted, sometimes more, sometimes less. But the sight makes me feel so sick, John.” He admits.

John couldn’t help his eyes widening a bit at that last bit. He feels so sorry for Sherlock.

Sherlock lets out a shaky breath, debating whether or not to say this next bit. “It makes me feel so sick that.. if I wasn’t fighting it, I would probably throw up at least 50% of the times I see the distortion.” 

Colour John shocked. Although it shouldn’t really come as a surprise, really. Eating disorders and body dysmorphic disorder are real and especially serious mental illnesses. 

“Sherlock.. can I ask you something?” 

Sherlock gives an ashamed nod.

“You’ve always been underweight, right?” John hates himself for asking, but he has a theory forming.

Another nod.

“And I think you’ve never been at a normal weight, either. Always below it.” That’s what Sherlock has told him, if he remembers correctly.

Sherlock nods again, giving John a questioning look.

“I’m sorry to bring it up.” John apologises. “But… is it possible that you don’t even know what you would look like with, let’s say a BMI of 20? So your eating disorder sees..” he tries to find a synonym for ‘fat’, “excess weight even though you’re underweight?” 

Sherlock is starting to catch up to what John is trying to say. “You think that, theoretically, if I ever had a normal weight, my brain would tell me I was morbidly obese?”

John nods. “I think you, and more importantly the disorder, are so used to seeing your bones and flat stomach and all that, because you’ve always looked that way, that you think a normal, healthy weight would be too much.”

Sherlock’s eyes wander from John, down to his own feet (blood pooling was making a dramatic show from standing around), to his phone. He doesn’t stop keeping his arms wrapped around and pressed against himself, but he looks back at John. “You know, I don’t think I ever would have figured that out.” 

Sherlock is trying. He’s trying really hard. He ate breakfast with John (Sherlock had an apple. It’s better than nothing.), lunch (potato salad with cooked beans. He only managed half of what John had served him, but the doctor was still proud of him) was eaten in separate rooms, but by evening he was really starting to struggle. 

John wanted him to eat two pieces of toast with butter, and Sherlock could barely make it halfway through the first. John could see him struggling, knew the signs. First, Sherlock keeps nervously looking at John, like he wants to ask him if he could get up from the table, away from the food. He never does, but John thinks that’s what he’s itching to do. Next, he becomes fidgety. His breathing becomes tense, like he has to physically stop himself from just throwing the food against the wall and run away. He starts rapidly bouncing his leg when he thinks John can’t see it, and wiggles whatever food or cutlery he has in his hand, tapping it with a finger to keep it moving. John never comments on it, recognising it as anxious stimming rather than trying to burn off calories (from what he’d read online).

Which is why he’s a bit concerned to see Sherlock already extremely fidgety after only three bites (not that John is counting). He keeps making faces as he chews, before he finally drops the half eaten piece of toast onto his plate and grab his water bottle. He just couldn’t swallow it, otherwise.

“Sherlock… I would really like you to at least finish this.” John says gently. “We have to get your calories up, remember?”

“John, I can’t. I just can’t.” Sherlock whines, looking into his concerned eyes pleadingly. 

“Please? Just this one.” John points to the disregarded piece. He was as good as done with his own plate, that’s how long it has taken Sherlock to get started.

After a lot of hesitancy, Sherlock picks up the toast again, but doesn’t bite into it right away.

“Only this last bit, okay?” John asks, hoping to get Sherlock motivated. He gets up and goes to clean his own plate, so Sherlock wouldn’t feel like he’s being stared down.

The younger sighs but manages to force himself to eat the rest, nausea growing worse with every minute that passes, until he feels about to throw up by the time the toast is gone. The other, untouched piece of toast is laughing in his face.

“John I feel sick.” Sherlock says quickly, before pressing the back of his hand over his mouth and taking quick, panicked breaths when he has to reflexively swallow multiple times.

The declaration has John turn around instantly from the kitchen, where he’d started to fill up the sink with water. Oh shit, did I ask too much, too quickly of him? 

He gets the waste bin and holds it out to Sherlock, but the other shakes his head. He wouldn’t let himself throw up.

Of course he kept it down, he wanted to get better. He knows he needs to get better, and he’s done a lot of progress today. He had more or less eaten 3 meals with John over the day. The portion was still maybe just a third of what John ate, but he was trying. He was really, really trying.

And he definitely saw the look of pride that John threw his way each time, though the doctor of course refrained from commenting. 

He hadn’t even thought about the weight in his stomach as much. And after the whole mirror thing that morning, they’d both felt a glimmer of hope that Sherlock had managed that first big step on beating this thing. 

So why is he laying awake at 1am and thinking a mantra of I have to exercise, I have to exercise, I have to exercise ?

He tries to block it out. He’s exhausted after eating so much today. He’s too tired to-

And the next moment, he is doing very quick cross crutches, until he feels that satisfying burn of his stomach and back muscles, and keeps going until the pain becomes too overwhelming. 

He’s quickly hot and sweating, not to mention out of breath.

He rests for all of two minutes, and immediately goes back to the crutches once he’s got his breath back, heart hammering fast in his chest.

He repeats the cycle for over twenty minutes, until the irrational (and pretty much insane) part of his brain says it’s not enough.

Jumping to his feet he ignores the intense dizziness and does a quick round of squats, until both of his knees are protesting.

His heart has finally had enough and completely slips out of rhythm for a good fifteen seconds, sending him quickly to the floor before he has a chance to catch himself, vision fading in and out. He’s panting like crazy as his heart races, and he slowly realises that he had purposely ignored the warning signs again. 

His stupidity is rewarded by a slowly worsening angina pectoris attack, but he can’t get up. He’s too dizzy and disoriented, breaking out in a cold sweat on top of the exertion and feeling his stomach drop as the pain in his chest quickly grows unbearable. 

“John!” He calls out, wincing at the stabbing pain in his heart from the effort. “JOHN!”

Finally he hears John loudly rushing down the stairs, and Sherlock mentally sighs in relief. The doctor all but barges into his bedroom and turns on the lights, not even surprised to find him on the floor. 

Sherlock makes the hand signal that they had decided on for when Sherlock was unable to speak and needed the emergency meds. John makes quick work in taking the package from Sherlock’s bedside table and gives him the spray.

The effect is – thankfully – almost instantly, and he takes a deep breath and sighs in relief. 

“What were you doing on the floor?” John asks when Sherlock is visibly feeling better. He moves a sweaty hair lock away from Sherlock’s eye. “God you’re drenched in sweat.” He comments when he feels the wet skin. “How long has the episode been going on?” He asks, noting how impossibly pale he is.

Sherlock looks at him with tired eyes. “Just now..” he swallows. “I was just getting up to use the loo.” The lie came disgustingly quick to him.

John frowns in concern. “That’s not good. I’m getting the BP monitor.” He says and gets back to his feet to retrieve the blood pressure cuff. 

Sherlock feels a newfound worry. His blood pressure might still be high from exercising so hard. Would John take him to the hospital if it was too high? But I just took the nitroglycerin, my blood pressure should be in a normal range by now.

John comes back and Sherlock lets him take his blood pressure. “126/72, Pulse 124. You feeling okay?” He watches Sherlock intently. 

Shit. Usually his blood pressure was 110 systolic at the best of times, mostly below that, so nearing 130 was very unusual for him. He briefly wonders what it must have been at before the nitroglycerin spray took effect. He knows he’s not supposed to get his blood pressure up much, for exactly that reason – the angina pectoris attacks, which could lead to another heart attack if he isn’t careful.

Sherlock nods his head. “Just really tired..” 

John is mentally weighing his options. Take Sherlock to A&E, which might be completely unnecessary… or simply keep an eye on his vitals and risk him having another heart attack. “Can you get up?” He asks hesitantly.

“Yes.” Sherlock replies, even though he wasn’t even sure, himself. John helps him to his feet and the intense dizziness makes him sway. He was pretty sure that his blood pressure just bottomed out, after all. John has a strong grip on him and fears that he is about to pass out; which is a high possibility with the nitroglycerin, anyways.

“You good?” John asks when Sherlock straightens up and pulls away from John’s hold. Sherlock nods. “Okay. We’ll get you to the loo, and then I want to have a listen to your heart. Then we’ll see.” He explains. “Pulse?”

Sherlock looks down at his watch and hesitates. He’s had his app running while he had his idiotic moment of exercise, and if his watch was back to the watch face with his heart rate history, John would definitely see the massive line and rather high number at the top, and ask questions. So he decides to just supply him with his own estimations. “Around 140.” He says honestly.

John frowns. That was a bit not good. “Come on.” He accompanies Sherlock the short way to the bathroom, where he grants him a bit of privacy. “Call if you need me.” He reminds him before getting out.

One thing with his POTS is that he can always pee. He could pretty much go every ten minutes some days. Stupid false nerve signals to his kidneys or whatever. What is annoying at best and utterly humiliating at worst, now worked in his favour to cover up the lies. He tries to ignore the urge to weigh himself, and forces himself to look away from the scale. God, I’m sick in the head. 

Feeling stable enough, Sherlock gives himself a quick rub down with a wet wash cloth. Luckily he still has a spare shirt lying around, from when he’d wanted to take a shower but then didn’t have the energy to actually do so. When he’s done, John picks up his stethoscope and guides Sherlock to sit on the bed. “I won’t take your shirt off.” John says before Sherlock can start to freak out again. He isn’t sure how he feels about John knowing so much about him.

John listens to his heart in different areas for a moment, then pulls the ear pieces out and steps back. “Your heart sounds good. But I want another blood pressure reading before I let you go to sleep.”

Sherlock just nods and lets him do as he wants. 

“108/67, Pulse 132. Did you take your meds before going to bed?” John’s question makes Sherlock’s heart skip a beat – literally. He slaps a hand to his forehead in disbelief.

“Oh god I’m an idiot. I forgot.” He hastily explains. He had been so busy with feeling bloated and ill and exercising, because he was debating on throwing up since going to his bedroom, that it had completely slipped his mind. 

John snorts and gives a relieved sigh, now knowing that nothing worse is going on. “Well then take them now. If you don’t feel better in half an hour, call for me. Try to get some rest.” 

After Sherlock finally took his meds, he feels so nauseous that he could probably throw up if he just bends over, which was most likely thanks to his earlier episode of trying to destroy himself. He debates taking a Vomex or maybe Iberogast, but he never makes a move to take either one. I lied to John. Again. I deserve to feel like this. 

He stays awake for hours fighting with himself, and comes to the conclusion that he has to come clean to John. This just wasn’t getting them anywhere if John kept forcing Sherlock to eat more than he could. He remembers Sally’s words “You have to tell him to back off a little. Yes, you’ll have to eat when you don’t want to, but it has to be at your pace.” 

His stomach is in tight knots at the thought of saying everything out loud.

He has a few hours of restless sleep, and is immediately wide awake when he hears John’s footsteps coming downstairs at half past six. Remembering what he had planned, his entire body suddenly grows ice cold, especially his fingers, but he can’t focus on any of that.

He doesn’t even push his blanket away before thinking oh god I can’t do this. I just can’t!

He wrestles with himself for another couple of minutes, listening to John putting the kettle on. He finally comes to the conclusion that if he doesn’t do this now, he might really lose John. If the doctor couldn’t trust him, what point was there for him to stick around?

Getting out from the safe sanctuary of his bed, he trembles from the cold and has to repeatedly swallow the nausea down. He shakily walks out and targets John, who is in the midst of setting the table and preparing for a quick toast as breakfast, it seems.

“Oh hey, did I wake you up? Do you want some toast, or anything else?” John asks with his back to Sherlock. When he’s done with what he was doing, he turns around and his smile falters at the obvious distress. “What’s wrong? Is it your heart?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Y-you-you-you can’t- you-” he stops for a moment and takes a deep breath, trying to get control over his vocal cords and tongue. John straightens up his posture, waiting for Sherlock to get the hang of speaking. “Yoooo-u can’t a-a-a-ask me to- what-..” he growls frustratedly at himself. “What I w-want to, want to-to-tooo eat.” He finally brings it out. Sherlock just hopes that John would understand what he was trying to say.

John looks at him strangely. “Okay..? Why don’t we sit down for a moment, hm? You look ready to keel over.” 

Sherlock brings up a hand to nervously scratch at his neck, and John makes another discovery. “Look at your hands.” 

Sherlock does. The front halves of his trembling fingers were that familiar shade of Raynaud’s pale. That would explain why they feel like I’ve just taken them out of the freezer.

John gently guides him to sit down at the table, and Sherlock lets him take his freezing hands sandwiched between his warm ones. Sherlock averts his eyes from looking at him and swallows nauseously again.

“It’s okay, just tell me when you’re ready.” John says softly, focusing on getting blood flow back to Sherlock’s fingers. 

Sherlock just pulls his feet up on the seat, legs tightly pressed against his chest. “If I- if I-” he sighs frustratedly and talks slower. “If.. I.. don’t do-do.. this nnn-now, I’ll nev-er sa- say it.” 

“Okay.” John whispers, carefully watching his friend. Sherlock still tries his best not to look at John, feeling like he will break if he looks into his sad eyes.

Sherlock takes in a slow breath, trying to get his stutter under control. “You.. can’t.. aaa-sk me if- if I if-…” he trails off. I can’t do it. I just can’t speak like a normal person. He screws his eyes shut, feeling overwhelmingly disappointed in himself.

John catches on to his sudden hesitancy. He normally wouldn’t complete his sentences for him, would just wait for however long it took for Sherlock to say what he needed to say. But it was obvious how stressed out Sherlock is, so he wants to speed this up a tad. “You don’t want me to ask if you want food, is that it?” He asks carefully, not wanting to upset Sherlock further.

To his major relief, Sherlock nods. 

“Would it be easier to write it down what you want to tell me?” John asks. He can tell that this is long not everything that Sherlock had to say.

Sherlock only shrugs his shoulders. John releases his hands and gets up to fetch Sherlock’s phone. He hands it to the detective, who hasn’t moved an inch.

Sherlock opens the notes app, and thinks about how to word this without making John think he’s insane.

With a heavy sigh, he starts typing.

“You can’t ask me to eat anything, I will eat whenever and whatever I feel like I can handle. Don’t offer me anything unless you think I’ll pass out otherwise. I will probably fight you then though, so please just say "affamé” to me when it comes to that, it means 'starving'.”

He hesitantly hands his phone over to John, pulling his hands between his torso and legs to warm them up again, though it seems that he doesn’t really have much heat to begin with. It feels like the cold is just sucking out the rest of his body heat.

John takes his time reading the message, trying to make sense of it. He’s also unsure whether to ask him verbally or if he should write his next question under Sherlock’s words.

“Can you promise me that you’ll be eating enough to gain weight?” John asks carefully, giving the phone back.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He’d known this question was coming. He starts typing.

“I would stand for a prolonged time for you, John. But love alone isn’t going to cure this. I won’t make promises that I know I cannot keep. Not every day is the same. You’ll just have to trust me. Remember that I have been through this before.”

John is confused at the first sentence, until he realises what Sherlock means with it. "I would endure countless symptoms and discomfort for you." It made him feel oddly touched, in a way he couldn’t describe. And a bit guilty, to be honest. He would have to pay more attention to how long Sherlock keeps standing, despite major discomfort/s. Then he realises that Sherlock had basically just said that he loves him, but that it isn’t enough. Just to lighten up the mood, he asks with a smirk “you love me?”

Sherlock snatches his phone back from John and types “platonically, idiot.”

John laughs. “I was just messing with you.” Then he sighs. “Okay.. I won’t nag you about it, but I want to keep weighing you once per week.”

Sherlock immediately looks at him with pleading eyes.

“Sorry, Sherlock. It’s really important to me, to know where we are at. Both as a doctor and as your friend.” John explains. 

Sherlock sighs but nods in agreement.

It’s hard to change habits. Apparently, not just for Sherlock.

John slips up every now and then, begging Sherlock to have at least one more bite, and then remembering that he’s not supposed to do that when Sherlock throws him a condescending glare.

Sherlock knows he means well. But it sadly doesn’t change the way his mind is screaming at him that he ate too much, and therefore needs to exercise to burn everything off right away when he does take that extra bite.

John made him sit down with him, to watch TV with him as a distraction. But it was obviously not working whatsoever. Sherlock keeps shifting about, tensing selected muscles to trick his mind into thinking that he’s exercising, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

“Sherlock.” John startles him. “What’s wrong?”

Irritated, Sherlock huffs and gets up, quickly vanishing into his room. He picks up the 5kg dumbbells in each hand by the time John has come in after him.

“What are you doing?” John demands, even though it’s blatantly obvious by that point what Sherlock’s intentions are.

“I have to exercise!” Sherlock snaps.

“Okay.” 

Sherlock stares at him, unmoving.

“If you have to exercise, then I want to monitor it, so you don’t overdo it.” John explains calmly.

Part of Sherlock feels embarrassed at having an audience and wants to just go back to the living room and pretend that this didn’t happen. The other part feels even more motivated by John’s presence and wants to push himself further, to prove himself. Prove that he’s invincible. That his illnesses have nothing on him.

Of course the irrational side won, and he puts double the effort into each exercise, alternating between jumping jacks, running in place, squats and sit-ups, always with the dumbbells clenched in his hands and moving his arms up and down or in front of himself and towards his chest, pushing through the soreness of his quickly tiring muscles until he’s drenched in sweat and feels his lunch rise up from his stomach. He stops completely when that happens and hastily drinks water, wiping away the sweat from his forehead, before pouring some of the water down his chest and back with no regards to his clothing.

“That’s enough, now.” John says, but Sherlock shakes his head. He takes a ten second break to catch his breath, before continuing with sit-ups. Over and over he pauses before going right back. John has no clue where Sherlock takes the energy to always keep going and going. Whenever John’s muscles get tired from workouts, he feels like that’s his signal to be done for the day. For Sherlock, it’s apparently a sign to push even harder. 

John lost count of how many of Sherlock’s joints cracked after 16 times, because at that point he was too busy wincing at the sound and wondering how many of them had just been simple, normal build up in the joints, and how many had been because of subluxations. The thought makes him nauseous. 

He’s a doctor, but even he has his limits.

“Sherlock.” He says more sternly, and finally, Sherlock lays the dumbbells down during his next break and doesn’t start up again. John comes to his side and sits down beside him on the floor. “Do you feel better, now?” He asks, mostly in hope that Sherlock is finally done torturing himself.

“No.” Sherlock pants out. “That’s not the point.” His spine aches from being repeatedly pressed against the hard floor, his stomach muscles are still twinging, pretty much all of his arm muscles are sore, his legs feel like overcooked noodles and he’s still at risk of accidentally throwing up from how much pressure he’d put on his stomach. He’s so tired, like all of the energy that he had left, got sucked right out of him. He feels absolutely horrible, physically, but the urges have finally stopped. The demonic voice has gone silent. 

“Then why do you push yourself so hard?” John asks, seriously wondering.

“Because!” 

“Because what?”

Sherlock stays silent. He’ll call me insane if I tell him that that’s what I deserve; to be sore and tired. That I need to be in pain or the thoughts won’t stop.

John sighs. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me, you know?” He mumbles. 

“I don’t need your help.” Sherlock grumbles, pushing himself up. He only takes one step before sucking in a pained breath and lifting his right foot off the ground.

The doctor in John immediately comes to the front. “What’s wrong?”

But Sherlock isn’t forthcoming. He just grits his teeth and heads to the bathroom, making a point of walking through whatever pain he’s in, making it impossible for John to say what exactly Sherlock may or may not have injured.

The bathroom door gets slammed in his face, so John stays right outside the door. Feeling fed up, he calls “when you’re done, I want an answer when you come out. Stop ignoring me and always pushing me away!”

Inside the bathroom, Sherlock finds himself once again fighting the tears. John’s words cut deeper than the doctor probably realises. He doesn’t mean to push John away. He hates it, all of this. He hates the way his mind is torturing him, the way it’s breaking him physically, the way he can’t talk about it and has to push John away. Or rather, the way the intrusive thoughts always convince him that he needs to push everyone away. Just so he couldn’t hurt them. But he ends up hurting them, no matter what he does. Always.

He wants nothing more than to just get over himself, to be normal. He wants to turn back time to before he got sick. He wishes that it was just like the old times; with John living at Baker Street and complaining about him playing the violin at 4am. John yelling at him for shooting the wall in his boredom. Of late night take-aways after cases that dragged on for too long. Back when he could eat without a second thought and chase suspects through half of London until he eventually caught them.

He splashes water at his face. Stop wallowing in self pity and get washed up. Before John gets fed up with you and leaves.

And part of him wishes that John just stops trying, that he just focuses on his own life and stops being part of Sherlock’s, because John doesn’t deserve to always have to worry about a lunatic like him. 

And the other part is deathly afraid of that happening.

It’s a complete and total mess and he’s right in the middle of it. And it’s tearing him apart.

The same way the backside of his ankle, the tendon that meets the heel, feels like it’s tearing apart if he puts a bit of pressure on it, be it by standing on it or touching it with his fingers. Why won’t this stupid thing just heal already?! He thinks angrily as he undresses, so he could quickly rinse off the sweat from his skin using water from the sink.

He’s very glad for the lack of a mirror, because he doesn’t know what he might have done if he could seen himself right now. The sight of himself when he looks down is already upsetting enough; he could never suck in his stomach enough to not make himself want to puke at the sight.

When he dried himself off, he realises a mistake. He rushed in here without a change of clothes, because he could never think straight these days. Wrapping the damp towel around himself, he calls out a hesitant “John?”

“Yes?” Of course he’s still in front of the door. What else did I expect?

“I don’t have fresh clothes..” he admits lamely.

“Want me to bring you something?” 

“..Please?”

“I’ll be right back.” He listens to John’s retreating foot steps and it’s like a protective force field has just left him, defenceless. 

Lock the damn door and tell him to go away. You have nothing to talk about. If you say a word about this, he will leave you forever.

Sometimes the intrusive thoughts only confuse him. They want him to make John leave, and at the same time fill him with utter panic at the idea of not having John. It makes zero sense but it still works, because at times, he really doesn’t know what side he’s even on anymore.

“Sherlock?” John is already back? How long was I zoned out?

Unable to verbally respond, he presses on the door handle, just enough for it to open a crack. He doesn’t dare open it fully, to expose himself like this. 

John didn’t seem to get the hint and comes inside anyways, fresh clothes in his arms. Sherlock couldn’t find his voice to tell him off, just wraps his arms around his torso and turns away shamefully.

“Oh Sherlock.. I know what you look like, remember?” John asks softly, voice barely above a whisper.

When Sherlock doesn’t respond in any way, the doctor just nods to himself, places the clothes down by the sink and slips back out.

His mind goes blank again when he gets dressed. The shame is now fully kicking in, and he’s mortified at having to face John. To talk to him. About the insanity that has taken over him. Taken over his life.

He eyes the little cabinet, wondering if he still has some razor blades in there, but immediately dismisses the idea.

He throws the towel over the bathtub rim and takes a steadying breath. There’s no turning back now.

He keeps his arms wrapped tightly around himself when he carefully walks back to John in the living room. His hip, knees and ankle feel inflamed and cause him significant pain at every step, but he ignores it like all the other aches in his body.

“Sherlock?” John whispers hoarsely once Sherlock is sitting curled up in his leather chair. He could faintly remember the argument they had a year ago, when John had suggested that Sherlock sit with his legs up, to keep his feet on the same level as the rest of him. To keep the blood pooling to a minumum. How Sherlock had stormed off in a huff at the mere suggestion.

Now? John couldn’t remember seeing Sherlock sitting in a different way. Is he afraid of others judging his appearance, if he leaves any part of himself exposed? Or does he just want to make himself as small as possible? To appear so unimportant that people will simply overlook him?

“I don’t know h-how to ex- ex-plain this..” he pauses, rolling his eyes when he hears his voice audibly trembling as he stutters. “..without sssounding completely in-insss-sane.” Sherlock chokes out.  He’s pointedly not looking anywhere near John, who sat opposite him in his own chair.

“Then let me say my deductions, and you can correct me, okay?” John compromises. At Sherlock’s hesitant nod, John begins “alright.. you have disordered thoughts, and.. some sort of rituals that you have to do if you eat.”

Sherlock shakes his head at first, because he doesn’t always has to exercise excessively whenever he eats something. But then again.. he couldn’t remember a time where he could eat anything without feeling guilty afterwards, which more often than not leads to exercising in some way. Plus when I abuse my inhaler, just to get my heart rate higher. God, why am I so messed up? What the hell is wrong with me?! He covers his face with his hands, a distress noise escapes from his throat.

John is completely stumped. He doesn’t know whether he should leave Sherlock alone for a while, or if he should go over to him and try to comfort him.

When would things finally get easier?

“Sherlock, please.. tell me what to do?” 

I wish I had an answer to that. I really do. Sherlock thinks miserably, but at least he lets his hands drop down onto the arm rests. He stupidly lets his feet drop to the floor and can’t stop the hiss of pain from escaping. He cringes internally at the way John is now looking at him.

“What hurts?” The doctor asks almost instantly. Because of course he would. 

Sherlock looks down and points to each joint (hip, knees, ankle) individually in reply.

Of course, John’s first thought was to tell him to take off his trousers so he could examine the joints, but he knows better. “Okay, wait here for a sec. I’m getting you some painkillers, alright?” He asks, already up and not really waiting for Sherlock’s approval. 

If Sherlock were any other person, John would give him ibuprofen, because he’s fairly sure that his joints are slowly growing inflamed from his aggressive workouts. Yes, plural, because John isn’t stupid enough to hope that today was a one time thing. 

While he’s in the bathroom to grab some paracetamol, he eyes the cabinet that has an assortment of bandages. It’s been ages since he’s opened it. 

Back when he was living here, injuries were thankfully a rare occurrence, but John has needed to patch up both of them on multiple occasions throughout the years. He distinctly remembers when he’d taken a rather nasty fall on his hand, and had needed Sherlock to wrap it for him, since he obviously couldn’t do it with one hand.

He remembers his surprise at Sherlock’s skilful technique, asking him where he’d learned how to do it so quick, yet efficiently. Hell, he had worked more quickly and precise than John could do, and he’s a bloody doctor.

He doesn’t remember what Sherlock had replied. But when he thinks about it, Sherlock had probably found a way to evade giving an answer. But now that he knows about his, ahem, joint problems, especially his right wrist, he has a faint idea of how Sherlock got so good at it. 

After letting Sherlock take some paracetamol, he kneels down in front of Sherlock’s chair. “May I?” He asks, more to let Sherlock know that he’s about to touch him than asking for permission, but Sherlock nods either way. John pulls up the trouser leg – glad that Sherlock is only wearing comfortable sweatpants as of late, since he’s not needed to leave the flat, and mostly because his normal trousers are utterly swimming on him – and gently lays his hands on Sherlock’s bruised right knee (John has become used to seeing Sherlock’s knees so colourfully bruised up), carefully prodding the joint. It feels a bit warm and even swollen; they’ll have to ice it. Sherlock’s legs were basically just skin, muscle, tendons and bones. Especially in this moment, after the muscles were worked so harshly, they remind John of the legs of athletes. Very, very, very skinny athletes, that is. 

Fledge’s comment echos in his head, “oh my, do you work out regularly?” Yes, John is pretty sure that even now that he’s making it a habit to work out regularly, Sherlock probably has more muscle mass than him. It makes him a bit sad, simply because of the implications that Sherlock has been exercising so compulsively for such a long time.

Repeating the same motions on the left knee, John is a bit relieved that it feels alright, if a little unstable. Of course that doesn’t mean that it isn’t hurting Sherlock, but one less inflamed joint is still good news.

Sadly that relief is short lived when he investigates the ankle that Sherlock had pointed towards. It’s not the joint per se, but the backside with the tendon that’s severely swollen and burning hot – with Sherlock flinching at the slightest of touch from John’s fingers. “Sorry.” He apologises instantly, still staring at the joint in shock. He looks up at Sherlock’s face. “I know it probably hurts, but can you move it around a bit, please?”

Sherlock looks down to watch what he’s doing as he rotates his foot about.

“Does that hurt anywhere?” John asks, still wondering if he would have to drag Sherlock to an orthopaedic, to make sure he hadn’t injured the tendon. 

“It just feels tight back here.” Sherlock replies, pointing to the badly swollen area without touching it. 

“Okay, we need to ice your knee and ankle.” John explains the next steps. “I want you to lay down with your legs elevated for a while, so if you need anything before we do it, now is the time. I’m gonna look for cool packs.”

However, before John took one step, Sherlock says “I’ve tried that before, it’s not working.”

“What do you mean?”

“This stupid thing.” Sherlock lifts his right leg to point to his ankle, “it’s been like this for months. I’ve tried cooling it, elevating, bandaging and resting. But if I walk a bit too much, which is anything over a thousand steps, give or take, it swells up like this again and gets hot.”

John’s eyes widen and he once again thinks about that orthopaedic. “It’s been like this for months, and you just- have you lost your mind?!” Note to self: ask Sherlock about possible injuries before letting him exercise. “Your achilles tendon is inflamed, has been for months, and you still think it’s a good idea to jump around like that?”

Sherlock makes to say something, but Doctor Watson angrily cuts him off. “Your tendon could rupture! Okay? And then you’ll need surgery. You don’t want that, do you?”

Sherlock at least looks completely shocked. “What?”

John sighs and explains in a calmer voice. “If it’s been inflamed for a prolonged time, which it has, given what you just told me, then that inflammation causes the tendon to slowly break down, and eventually, rupture. What else did you think would happen?”

Sherlock only shrugs and looks down in shame. “I didn’t really think much of it. I can still walk on it, so I just.. ignored it.”

“You got used to it.” John says knowingly, and Sherlock nods. “Honestly, I still don’t understand how someone can simply ‘get used to’ pain. I never got used to my leg pain, and that was just psychosomatic.”

That makes Sherlock look up. “You do know that psychosomatic pain is still pain, right? You still feel it, it’s real.”

“Thank you, I’m aware.” John says, curious where that suddenly came from. Then it hits him. Sherlock had probably been told that his aches and pains were psychosomatic, until someone finally diagnosed the hypermobility. “Had a lot of people telling you off, huh?” He asks sympathetically.

Sherlock looks away. 

A change of topic is in order. “I still want to ice it, by the way.” 

Sherlock sighs. “Be my guest.” He carefully gets up and, after limping for two steps and keeping his right foot off the ground for just a second too long with a wince, John watches him walk like nothing is the matter. Like he isn’t walking around on inflamed joints and tendons that may or may not be about to tear. With his blood pressure probably starting to drop again (Sherlock’s face had had a normal colour while he had been working out, but it was starting to turn back to the deathly pale he’s become used to seeing).

He just shakes his head and seeks out the ice packs he’s been promising for the past five minutes.

Chapter Text

John checks his watch for the fourth time since Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom to brush his teeth after breakfast. John has been listening to Sherlock’s slightly aggressive scrubbing for ten minutes now. Each time he hears the sink running, he thinks that surely Sherlock is done. But after half a minute, he starts furiously brushing his teeth again.

John wonders what the reason is. Sherlock only ate a slice of toast with butter, surely he didn’t have that much of an aftertaste still plaguing him to justify brushing ones teeth five times in a row. 

Maybe he’s trying to get rid of that anorexia breath..? The ‘bad breath’ that isn’t caused by bad hygiene, but rather from the body eating itself, which starts at the mouth. 

The thought gives him an idea. He knocks softly on the door. “Sherlock? Can you come out for a sec?” Since Sherlock has removed the bathroom mirror, he would need him to come out to the one above the mantelpiece.

Shortly afterwards, Sherlock opens the door. “If you think I purged, you’ll find that you are badly mistaken.”

“Relax, that’s not what I wanted to say.” John reassures him calmly.

“Oh..”

“I do have something I need you to do, however.”

Sherlock gestures for him to go ahead.

“Could you show me your teeth?” John asks.

“My teeth?” Sherlock parrots, puzzled.

“More specifically the roots that are hidden by the gums.” On a healthy person, anyway.

Sherlock gives him a questioning frown, but pulls down his lips with his fingers. “You (m)ean like this?”

Partly horrified, John nods. It was as he had feared. Sherlock’s body is re-absorbing the calcium, causing a halloween-ish look. At first glance it appears like the gums are slowly losing thickness, making the teeth roots stand out, and the loss of bone in between the roots adds to the skeletal appearance.

Sherlock of course notices John’s reaction, even though he really tried to keep a blank face. He lets go of his lower lip. “What?”

“Come see for yourself..” John points to the mirror.

Sherlock furrows his eye brows but hesitantly makes his way over, to see what has John so unsettled. His own eyes widen at the sight. He whips around to John. “When- what-”

“It’s calcium deficiency. Your body is trying to keep you alive, so it’s re-absorbing its own vital vitamins and minerals to keep you going. In this case, it’s eating away at the bones to keep your heart going, because that needs the calcium more.” John explains.

Sherlock turns back to the mirror, feeling the bumps and spaces with his fingers through the skin of his jaw. “I never noticed that.”

John steps forward and awkwardly clears his throat. “It’s one of the first signs when someone has lost a lot of weight in a short amount of time. Because it’s not healthy.”

Sherlock keeps staring at his face in the mirror, slowly letting his hand fall to his side. 

Sometimes they look through the Facebook group together. It’s a nice distraction that they desperately need at times.

Skyler has posted a new video of Andrea, titled “In loving memory of Tanja Stehle”. The post has over 500 comments and almost a thousand ‘reactions’, mostly the heart and crying emoticon.

Sherlock hesitates, but clicks on it.

“Hey guys. A not so happy video, today. As you could tell from the title, Tanja has sadly passed away. For those who didn’t know her: Tanja was one of the admins in this group, and a big advocate for vasovagal syncope awareness. Her sister contacted me to give me the bad news, and gave me permission to talk about this on here.” Andrea sighs, and smiles sadly into the camera. “As most of you know, Tanja had a tendency to syncopal convulsions, or ‘seizures’. On Sunday morning, she took her dog, Tanuki, out on a walk, and when she came back home, she told her sister that she wasn’t feeling well. Mona told her to go lay down and that she’d get her her meds. Tanja laid down on the sofa, and passed out while her sister was upstairs. She unfortunately had a seizure, fell off the sofa, and had a sudden cardiac arrest. Mona tried to resuscitate her, but even the ambulance couldn’t do anything for her.”

The boys stare wordlessly at the screen. Sherlock has chills. John’s hand grasps Sherlock’s cold one, an action which they both acknowledge before turning back to the screen.

“I want to ask you all, on Mona’s behalf, to please not message her at this time. As you can probably imagine, she is still in a lot of shock and grieving, and needs some time for herself. You can, however, leave some words under this video, which she will read when she’s ready.” 

Andrea sniffs and Skyler hands her a tissue, his arm being the only thing you could see of him. “Here.” He says softly and she accepts it with a sad laugh. 

After drying her eyes and briefly blowing her nose, she continues talking. “You know me, you know my motto. ‘If you can’t change something, all you can do is learn to accept it.’ I have that quote from her. Tanja was a really close friend of mine, we’ve found each other through a support group for depression and the like, here on Facebook, and she told me how my fear of seeing doctors is what she’s been dealing with as well. That it’s called medical gaslighting and that she, too, has an undiagnosed condition that no doctor takes seriously, say that it’s just in her head. She eventually saw a show on TV about helping undiagnosed people find a diagnosis, and figured out from a woman having the same symptoms as her, that she has vasovagal syncope. A few months later, I got my POTS diagnosis, and after joking about it at first, we ended up creating this group, to help other people find their diagnosis, and to talk about our experiences in a save environment.”

To everyone’s surprise, Skyler came next to Andrea on the sofa, laying an arm around her, and starts speaking. “Tanja will always have a special place in our heart. She was able to comfort Andrea in ways that I couldn’t, because I don’t know what she goes through. I only know what she tells me, and what I see, but I know that being able to really relate to someone else with the same, or similar, problems.. it can change a lot. When you feel understood, you feel less alone. Tobias, you know what I’m talking about.” He winks and him and Andrea chuckle.

“Okay, I think this video is getting too long already. Remember to leave some words for Mona in the comments, if you are able to, and want to.” Andrea says with a quick wave, before the screen fades into a picture of Tanja, with her name below the picture, and the words ‘in loving memory, always in our hearts’ below it.

John and Sherlock keep staring at the replay button on the video for a long time, lost in thought. 

Eventually, Sherlock’s brain found the connection to his hand again, pulls it out of John’s grasp and scrolls down through the other posts. He stops at a youtube video, posted by Skyler once again. 

"Andrea just found this and is in tears, so here you guys go." With a bunch of hearts.

It’s a song by someone called JJ Heller, called ‘I believe in you’.

Sharing a brief glance with John, who nods, Sherlock clicks on the video. It shows a shot looking up at tree crowns, and has birds chirping in the background as text appears on the screen.

"After experiencing chronic symptoms for over 10 years, Christina was diagnosed with POTS, an autonomic nervous system disorder.

With her husband Stephen by her side, she fights extreme fatigue, dizziness, pain, and other symptoms every day.

While treatment options exist, there is no known cure."

The last few words stay on screen while the rest fades away.

The video shows scenes from what their – Christina and Stephen – daily life is like, with medications and blood pressure monitors, as a woman starts to sing.

This is not what you thought it would be

Your dreams collide with reality

You’re lost in the fog

No answer in sight

You can’t find a pill to make it alright

What would I give to make it alright?

If you ever start doubting

When it’s hard to keep hoping

I just want you to know that I believe in

I believe in you

When you’re tired of fighting

And it feels like you’re broken

I just want you to know that I believe in

I believe in you

Running a race with no finish line

Now you’re in the fight of your whole life

You work twice as hard to get half as far

Nobody knows the hero you are

I want you to know the hero you are

Sherlock has to press his fingers against his eyes for a moment before he could continue watching, the lyrics just hit home. John wraps his arm around Sherlock’s back, similar to how Skyler tends to do with Andrea, and comfortingly runs his hand up and down Sherlock’s arm, thinking about how he really couldn’t have said it better than those lyrics.

If you ever start doubting

When it’s hard to keep hoping

I just want you to know that I believe in

I believe in you

When you’re tired of fighting

And you feel like you’re broken

I just want you to know that I believe in

I believe in you

Look how far you’ve come

What you’ve already done

I want you to know that I believe in

I believe in you

Whenever you forget 

I’ll say it all again

Sherlock finally couldn’t stop his shoulders shaking from silent sobs. He felt like he now understood what people mean with ‘they said the words I didn’t know I needed to hear’. 

If you ever start doubting

When it’s hard to keep hoping

I just want you to know that I believe in

I believe in you

When you’re tired of fighting

And you feel like you’re broken

I just want you to know that I believe in

I believe in you

I believe in

I believe in you

“I believe in you.” John whispers along with the last line, and Sherlock lets out a broken laugh. John just hugs him tighter.

John is woken up just after one in the morning by thumping. Thinking that he’s at home, he mumbles “not yet, Rosie. Sss too early..” as he turns around, drawing the blanket closer to his head.

Thump. 

Thump. Thump. 

THUMP!

A muffled cry of pain that sounds nothing like Rosie.

His eyes snap open and he’s out of bed and down the stairs in ten seconds, fully expecting to find Sherlock collapsed on the floor. 

Instead, he finds Sherlock repeatedly building up momentum, then spins when he balances on the toes of one leg, until he topples unsteadily when he probably gets too dizzy.

John watches on, frozen in the doorway. They had danced together, back when Sherlock taught him how to waltz for the wedding. Sherlock had danced some examples for him to decide on. He knows that Sherlock has enough skills to become a ballet dancer in a musical--

THUD!

..or he did, before he got sick. 

John runs over to Sherlock, who had thankfully managed to not crash into the coffee table. That could have ended with some really bad injuries.

“You okay?”

“Damn it.” Sherlock curses under his breath, pushing himself up. John doesn’t miss the way he winces at every movement.

“What were you even trying to do?” John wonders.

“Pirouette.” Sherlock grumbles when he gets back on his feet. John notes gratefully that the bandage around his ankle is still in place.

“Yeah, I got that. But why?”

Sherlock sighs. “I used to be able to do this.”

John feels a pang of sadness for him. Sherlock looks down at his watch, does something with it, then shows John the Heart Rate app and points to the highest reading of the day while it measures, which says 174. There’s only one tall bar directly on the left side, given that the new day just started recently, so the high heart rate must have been during Sherlock’s pirouettes. He doesn’t want to know how long Sherlock has been up and doing this to get that high. 

John just gets a glance at the now measured heart rate – 165 – before Sherlock turns away from him, right hand closing around his left arm above the wrist, slowly running it up to where his arm grows a bit thicker, and finally releasing his grip. 

John frowns a little at that. He has noticed that Sherlock keeps – probably unconsciously, in a lot of cases – ‘body checking’ whenever he gets upset. He doesn’t know what to make of it, though, so he doesn’t comment on it.

“Come, you’re supposed to rest your joints.” John gently reminds him, instead. The younger nods and walks towards his bedroom, but stops at the kitchen and turns around.

“..will you stay for a bit?” Sherlock hesitantly asks. 

A bit surprised, but not put off by the idea, John nods. “Yes, sure.” Who knows what demons have been keeping Sherlock up until now? He follows Sherlock to his bedroom, laying down next to him on the bed. Not close enough for their bodies to come into contact, but still close.

“Sorry I woke you..” Sherlock mumbles.

“It’s okay. But why were you doing pirouettes in the middle of the night?” John asks curiously.

“I couldn’t sleep.. and then I remembered bits of what I used to be able to do..” Sherlock trails off, apparently not really wanting to talk about this. 

“Do you want me to write up your last case? You know, the Tower murders?” John asks carefully. It had been the only case that Sherlock had technically solved, and will soon be on trial. Of course there was also the whole Jack Franklyn thing, but it involves Astra and the whole Moriarty mess, so John wouldn’t write about it.

He hadn’t noticed it before, but recently, Sherlock only gave his input on the cases that Lestrade called him in on, and then left it at that. Of course Sherlock couldn’t chase any suspects; not that he was ever supposed to do that. But John is starting to feel nostalgic. Is really nothing like how it used to be, anymore? 

After a long pause, which has John wonder if Sherlock had even been listening, the detective shakes his head. “People will only ask questions about why the case got transferred.” 

“People will also ask questions when I don’t tell them about some cases.” John says, keeping his voice a gentle whisper. He isn’t trying to imply anything or attack Sherlock.

“People will always judge and comment, but it’s better to just leave out all of my involvement.”

“Alright.” John says, but keeps careful watch on his friend.

Sherlock shifts under his gaze. “I don’t want people to know… how insane I am.”

“Sherlock. You are many things. And I seriously mean a lot. But you are not insane.”

“Sometimes, when I look in the mirror.. I don’t recognise myself. It’s like looking at a total stranger, whom I can’t deduce a thing about. And if I recognise myself, all I see is.. is fat. I can literally watch it grow, watch my arms and legs grow wider, it makes me feel physically sick.” He looks at John with pleading eyes. “Now tell me that that’s not insane.”

“That is not insane.” John replies sincerely, keeping eye contact with him. “You have a disease.”

“You know, back before every lunatic had gotten some diagnosis to excuse their behaviour, people thought they were possessed by some evil spirit and had to be burned.” 

“Sherlock.” John rolls his eyes. 

“Maybe they should have done that with me when they had the chance.” Sherlock whispers to himself, but John hears him perfectly.

“Are you suicidal?” John asks pointedly.

Sherlock shrugs. Not good enough, John worries. “No. But sometimes I just think.. a simple condom could have prevented so much.” 

John visibly winces at the remark. The unexpected movement has Sherlock narrow his eyes, but he couldn’t read John.

He couldn’t read a lot of people, these days. Deducing people has become a chore that took too many spoons away. What was once a natural ‘gift’, was now an action that required full concentration. Distractions like pain, discomfort and fatigue have turned it into a much more lengthy process, one that he simply couldn’t be bothered with anymore, sometimes.

John awkwardly clears his throat. “What I meant to say was.. you aren’t insane for having a mental illness. It’s no different than you having POTS.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at that. “Yay, more invisible illnesses.”

“Not exactly invisible, if you ask me.” 

“What?”

John leans up on his elbow. “Nobody can see how you’re feeling on the inside, but there are outward signs. You’re really really skinny, Sherlock. Not just skinny, more.. bony, skeletal even. The visible signs of malnutrition like hair loss, dry skin, frequent inflammations and infections, your teeth. Then there’s the blood pooling, sweating, paleness, shortness of breath, arrhythmias on the EKG, tremors, medications. The never receding shadows under your eyes.” He points to Sherlock’s right wrist. “And your watch makes it even more visible.”

Sherlock looks down at the device in thought. “Did you know that some people in the group get told to stop wearing smartwatches, because their doctors think they get too fixated on it and that makes it ‘worse than it actually is’, because they think we all just have health anxiety, so if we’re not wearing them we’re automatically cured?” 

“What? No, I didn’t know.” John shakes his head. “Haven’t been online much, but that’s just ridiculous. Jesus.” 

Sherlock looks up at him again. “Do you have any idea how hurtful it is, to get told to remove the one item that allows you to show other people how bad you’re feeling?” 

John shakes his head again, his face in a sad frown.

Sherlock looks away again, closes his eyes. His chest heaves a tiny sigh. “Nobody ever sees the silent suffering that other people go through. And then act all surprised when they end up dead.” He mumbles angrily, referring to the recent death in the Facebook group.

John briefly looks away from him. “Yeah.. we’re only ever focused on ourselves. I guess you could say we’re too selfish to think about how other people are doing.” He licks his lips. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice.”

“Don’t be.. it’s my own fault for never bringing it up, and thinking that it’s best for everyone involved if I hide it.”

John lays a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, being mindful of the bones. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could trust anyone with your thoughts.”

Sherlock’s freezing cold hand reaches up, lays itself on top of John’s warm one, causing the doctor to let out a surprised laugh. “Give me your hands?” 

A small smile graces Sherlock’s lips as he holds out his hands for John to take. “Want to warm up my feet, too?” He asks playfully, drawing up his left leg a bit and pushing the ice cold foot against John’s shin.

“Jesus!” John laughs. He lets go of Sherlock’s hands and leans down to grab the blanket, pulling it over most of Sherlock’s body before laying back down next to him and seeking out the frozen hands again. “Maybe you should sleep with socks.”

“Mh, no.” 

“Why not? Might help keep them warm.”

Sherlock hesitates. “Sensory issues. I can’t tolerate socks unless they’ll be inside of shoes.”

“That’s why you’re always bare foot.” John realises.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, and when John looks over, the younger has his eyes closed. John smiles to himself and just keeps warming up Sherlock’s hands.

Chapter Text

He’d forgotten to take his meds again, last evening and then today. And he found.. that he was fine. His heart rate was still low, probably only thanks to his exercising and reduced food intake.

It just proved to him further that he isn’t actually sick. He isn’t Andrea, whose heart rate went up to almost 250 if she didn’t take her meds. He isn’t Katelyn, who passes out twenty times a day despite IV therapy and medication. He isn’t Sabine, who likes to show off her assortments of compression gowns and giving discount codes for ‘liquidIV’.

He’s just Sherlock. He’s just a drama-queen.

Dedicated, he picks up his phone and opens the medical ID, deleting ‘Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome’ from his diagnoses and ‘Ivabradine 2.5mg - 0 - 2.5mg’ from his current medications.

It felt oddly relieving to make it ‘official’ like this. 

John knows he has to trust Sherlock, now more than ever, but he feels ill with worry at seeing how he has hardly eaten a thing all day. 

His worry tenfolds in the evening when both have retreated to bed, and he keeps hoping, praying, that Sherlock will just finally put an end to his fasting now that he’s alone. But John doesn’t hear anything.

His worrying gets to the point where his stomach is cramping, and he has to quickly get out of his bed and to his little bathroom that’s connected to the bedroom upstairs. 

Downstairs in his own bedroom, Sherlock is lying awake and thinking about how he is feeling, for once. He has noticed that his coat hanger pain is just.. gone. He’s been busy and on his feet almost all day, and he doesn’t have the annoying, constant pain. Could it really have only been caused by some of the blood flow missing because of digestion? He doesn’t want to think too positive about what he is doing. The cons definitely outweigh the pros.

Pros: no coat hanger pain, don’t need to urinate so often, no headaches, no migraines(!!!), visual snow is almost completely gone sometimes (could be a coincidence), can think more clearly, thoughts are silent.

Cons: much worse dizziness, more arrhythmias, almost always cold, body aches, visible weight loss, joints dislocate more often, feeling guilty because people are concerned, fatigue-

Then he hears the frantic steps thumping against the ceiling, plus the unmistakable sounds of someone having diarrhoea and flushing every two minutes. Feeling bad for John, Sherlock gets up from the bed-- and sits back down again. Okay, let’s do this slowly. If I pass out, I’ll be of no help to John.

Taking it slow and stabilising himself with walls and furniture, he goes into his own bathroom and fetches one of those electrolyte bags that are supposed to specifically help with diarrhoea (not that they’ve ever done anything for him, but Mycroft insisted he always have some at home), then goes into the kitchen to pour the bag’s contents into a glass, mixes it with water to dissolve, and ignores how bad his heart is racing throughout it all. I don’t need my meds, it’s just anxiety.

Ignoring the obvious warning signs again, he sighs as he stands before the stair case. He more or less pulls himself up the stairs with the railing, being careful that his grip won’t loosen on the cup and that he’s lifting his feet enough not to trip. The small things that you have to be mindful of when you have neuropathy.

When he makes it up on the landing, he’s seeing aggressive stars and almost panics. Bend over, don’t pass out, he commands his own body and bends over so his head is slightly lower than his torso. He takes some deep breaths and periodically tenses his leg muscles to help with blood flow, but he is starting to realise that this kind of dizziness isn’t only caused by limited blood flow to the brain.

It was just strange, because he could go entire days without eating a thing and his blood sugar stays stable throughout. He hasn’t been without food for long, today. He had a bit of yoghurt, and became too nauseous after five spoonfuls, so his body had obviously had enough to go on.

Swallowing down the nausea that has crept up his throat from having his head so low, he straightens back up slowly, keeping a firm hold against the wall beside him. When his vision is clear again, he sees the staircase right next to his feet and panics for a second. If I’d passed out, and fallen down those stairs, I could have broken my neck and died.

John is flushing the toilet again and Sherlock focuses back on the task at hand. He strides through the bedroom and to the door, knocking softly as not to startle him. “John? Can I come in?”

He hears a sigh. “I thought I heard you. Go back to bed.” John scolds half heartedly.

“I brought you something to help.” Sherlock says.

John is quiet for a moment, then allows Sherlock to come inside for a sec to deliver what he’s made the effort of bringing him. 

Sherlock is acting unusually respectful for once, only slipping inside enough to hand over the cup and then immediately slipping back out.

John drinks from it, then asks “shouldn’t I be taking care of you?” 

Sherlock decides to ignore the comment. “Think of it as repayment for all the times you’ve had to help me in some way.”

“Sherlock, that’s what friends are for.” 

Sherlock looks away, not that John could see it. “I’m going back to bed. I hope you will do the same, soon.” He doesn’t wait for John to reply, just goes down the stairs without looking back. I have got to eat. If not for me, then for John.

The next morning they both sleep in a bit. Sherlock is up before John, and has been pacing back and forth for the better part of twenty minutes, always afraid that John might come down any second and catch him, but also backing out every time before he touches the fridge. Up until his stomach lets out a tiny growl, and he grits his teeth together and finally takes something out.

When John comes downstairs to put the mug from last night in the dishwasher, he is surprised to find Sherlock laying on his back on the sofa, biting off little pieces of a smoke-dried beef sausage. He looks up when he notices John’s unmoving presence.

“Oh, sorry.” John quickly says and makes to turn around, knowing that Sherlock doesn’t want to be watched.

“No it’s okay.” Sherlock replies and, to prove his point, keeps on eating.

John wants to hug him, to jump with joy, to praise him so badly, but he just nods and goes into the kitchen, mentally throwing a party in his head. 

He knows that he shouldn’t get too excited. Maybe Sherlock just got so hungry that he had to eat something, and just because he ate something doesn’t mean he is actually feeling better.

John catches Sherlock looking at his phone for a long time, multiple times throughout the day. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realise what it was that Sherlock was looking at- was studying so obsessively. 

He just hopes the pictures will help Sherlock stay in the right mindset, help him try to recover from this.

Whatever ‘recovered’ even meant, when it came to eating disorders.

Sherlock woke up multiple times during the night because his throat was hurting. He keeps drinking water and goes back to sleep each time, but at 5 in the morning he just couldn’t take it anymore. It felt like there were shards of glass stuck in the walls of his throat, turning into razor blades every time he swallowed.

He thinks about the options to treat it. Painkillers are completely out of the question; he knows better than to take those on an empty stomach – literally. 

So he ventures out into the kitchen, where he knows that he still has some throat lozenges lying around. After searching through the cupboards, he finds the packaging, and his eyes immediately scan the nutrient value. They have too much sugar. He shakes the thought away from his mind and just unwraps one before putting it into his mouth.

Might as well do something productive. He thinks and starts cleaning the messy flat.

About five minutes later his throat feels better, and the thoughts are louder than ever. He leaves the now folded shirt on the sofa and goes back to the kitchen, turning the bag around to look at the ingredients. Of course sugar would be the first thing on the list. Fuck. He puts it back and closes the cupboard door. No, it’s fine. It’s just one. 

With that, he goes back to folding the laundry that’s been lying around, though he keeps eyeing the bathroom door, wanting nothing more than to spit it out.

Two minutes later he couldn’t take it anymore, strides quickly to the loo and spits the half dissolved lozenge into the toilet, flushing it down as quickly as possible.

Well. You’ve just stooped down to a whooole new level of fucked up. Stop feeling proud of yourself. 

John is surprised when he comes downstairs and the flat isn’t as messy as before. “Morning. I see you’ve been busy.” Then he realises that Sherlock is eating.. something, on the sofa. He has a green, leafy bundle on his lap and is taking bites of little red balls. “Is that radish?”

“Yes.” Sherlock replies, hesitating before he keeps eating it.

“..why?” John can’t help but ask. He meant ‘why are you eating it pure like this?’ but hadn’t managed to question Sherlock when he’s finally eating something.

Sherlock lowers his arm on his lap and John instantly regrets disturbing him. “My throat was sore. I figured it would help.”

The doctor in John panics slightly. “You have a sore throat? Any fevers?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Just the usual sore throat from gastric reflux. It was better for a while but today it was horrible.”

“Because you don’t eat anymore. Your stomach probably only has stomach acid in it.” John gently admonishes.

Sherlock glares at him. “I eat.” He holds up the half eaten radish plant.

John takes a calming breath. “I know you do. And I’m glad you are eating something at least. But it’s not enough to survive off of.”

Sherlock just glares angrily at the radish on his lap, as if the plant is at fault.

“Do you want some tea? To help your throat?” John asks, trying to change the subject.

Sherlock shakes his head. “It’s better now. I had half of a lozenge earlier.”

“That’s good-” John pauses when he realises what Sherlock just said. “Half of one? How do you…? Do you cut it in half?” He asks seriously, trying to imagine that.

Sherlock scoffs. “Of course not. I… spat it out.. when it did its job.” He looks down in shame.

John stares at him for a long moment. “Why?” He feels stupid for asking that. Obviously he couldn’t stand it anymore. He berates himself.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, and John goes into the kitchen to prepare his own breakfast so Sherlock could hopefully continue munching on the radish, if John hadn’t completely ruined his appetite.

He eyes the Fresubin bottles on the counter. Sherlock had said that there’s just way too much in them and he feels bad for never finishing them by the end of the day. John remembers that some grocery stores now offer these tiny bottles with calories and vitamins. Maybe having the smaller amounts will help him, make him feel less pressured. 

John puts the toaster on the table and abandons his plans on breakfast. If Sherlock could go without eating for days, he could definitely handle a simple half an hour to go get Sherlock something he will hopefully be able to drink without issues. “I’m going to the store, don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone, okay?” He jokes and Sherlock rolls his eyes at him. John tries not to count how many radishes are left, compared to earlier. He slips his shoes on and leaves Sherlock to hopefully eat in peace.

While he’s at the store, John comes across crocheting wool and gets an idea.

When he’s back at home, the green remnants of the radish is all that’s left, and Sherlock is back in his room, so John just puts the smaller Ensure drinks into the fridge and takes the yarn up into his bedroom upstairs.

He has read about this body dysmorphia test, and wants to test it out for himself before broaching it with Sherlock. 

He doesn’t really try to calculate how big his wrist, biceps, waist or thigh are. He just cuts the dark blue, thin yarn into the lengths that he assumes will be enough to wrap around the different body parts.

He judged the wrist just slightly larger than it really is, same with the thigh. He judged the biceps a bit too large, chuckling at himself that he isn’t quite as bulky yet, and laughs at himself when the yarn is a good thumb length too short around the waist.

He is almost convinced that Sherlock will just get everything perfectly correct, what with his ‘eye for details’ and having gotten Irene’s measurements from a single look. But, if he doesn’t get even close to judging his own measurements, John will know for sure that he has a distorted image of himself. Actual diagnosis of body dysmorphia or not, John just needs to know this.

Sherlock may have told him that it’s not about his looks, but the way he says his mirror reflection makes him feel sick, to the point where he’s actually taken down the mirror from the bathroom…

Luckily for him, Sherlock is back out in the living room when John comes downstairs. He lays the yarn and pair of scissors on the coffee table in front of him. Sherlock eyes the items before giving John a confused look.

“I want to do a little experiment.” John explains. “Don’t worry, nothing harmful. You just have to cut the yarn into the lengths that you think will fit around your wrist,” John runs a finger all around his own wrist to show how Sherlock is supposed to do it, “your arm,” he points to his biceps, “waist and thigh.”

Sherlock’s eyes get wide at the last part, almost like he’s afraid.

But he gets up from the sofa, keeping his eyes fixed on the yarn. 

He doesn’t make a move to touch them, though. John wonders if maybe he’s afraid that he’ll disappoint him if he doesn’t get it right. John has his own yarn strings in his trouser pocket and decides to take them out, deciding to show Sherlock his own failures. “Look.” He says, waiting for Sherlock to give him his full attention. Then he takes the waist one and wraps it as far as it goes, the ends never touching. “You don’t have to get it right, just cut them how you think will fit around.”

Sherlock nods and looks down at his wrists, which are covered by the dressing gown. He uses his right hand to wrap around his left wrist, but John quickly corrects him. “Ah, no. No cheating.” 

So Sherlock pulls his hands away from one another and sighs. He picks up the yarn and, without cheating again by laying a hand next to it, he cuts a long piece that John thinks could easily circle Sherlock’s thigh. He keeps his face blank and doesn’t make a comment, just watches Sherlock.

The seemingly simple task is visibly stressful for Sherlock. When he starts to sway a bit, John tells him to sit down and take a break. So far he has two very long strings, which John hopes are the thigh and waist, but suspects that they’re what Sherlock thinks his wrist and arm are sized.

After almost ten minutes, he finally cuts a rather long string for the thigh, but it’s the last part that broaches problems.

“John…”

“Yes?”

“..there isn’t enough yarn left.” Sherlock says quietly, and John feels his stomach drop. There is enough left to wrap around Sherlock’s waist twice, if not three times!

“Trust me, there’s enough.” He replies without thinking, still too shocked by what Sherlock just said.

“No, there isn’t.” Sherlock sounds like he’s about to cry.

“Okay..” John takes in a shaky breath. “How about we just do the other ones first?”

“Do we have to..?” Sherlock asks, looking at him pleadingly.

“Yes. That’s actually the most important part of this. To show you what you really look like.”

Sherlock whimpers at the thought and it’s breaking John’s heart. He really thinks this will prove he’s completely obese, doesn’t he? Christ..

“We’ll just start with the wrist, alright?” John carefully asks, and Sherlock nods at least. John takes the shortest of the cut strings and places it on Sherlock’s tiny wrist, holding one end in place with a finger and circles the wrist with the string in his other hand. He could almost wrap it around it twice, the ends almost touch. “Look, Sherlock.” He says when he notices how the younger is pointedly looking up at the ceiling. Sherlock looks down at it, and his eyes widen in disbelief.

“What…”

John gives him a moment to let it sink in. When Sherlock looks back at him, he asks. “Wanna do the rest?”

Sherlock nods, so John removes the wrist string and takes the next, slightly longer one and gently wraps it around Sherlock’s clothed arm at about the middle of the bone’s length. The wrist string would have easily fit around it, and much better too. He can wrap this one once around, and then about halfway. Sherlock watches him the whole time, this time. 

“What’s going through your head, when you see this?” John wonders.

“It’s.. hard to believe. Part of me thinks you must have done something to the strings.” Sherlock says, shaking his head. “There’s no way this is real.”

“It’s a disorder, Sherlock. The mental image of your body is distorted, up here.” John lets go of the string with one hand and points to his own forehead. “Wanna do the thigh?”

Sherlock gnaws at his lip but nods, so John takes away the arm string and takes what he assumes is supposed to be the thigh, even though it looks like it would even be too long to be the waist.

Sherlock takes it from him this time, and nervously lifts his left leg a bit to get the yarn around it. He once again overshot it by half of the length it takes to wrap it around, and after he circled it, Sherlock draws the ends up and away from his leg, to see just how much bigger he’d assumed his thighs are. 

John watches him with sympathy. He can’t imagine how hard this has to be for him. “Sherlock..?”

The other looks up.

“Do you want to see the waist?” He asks, feeling like maybe they should stop here.

But Sherlock shakes his head. “I won’t need another string, leave the leftovers, I’m using this one.” He says nervously, like he isn’t even sure that the thigh string could possibly wrap around his waist. But he removes it from his leg and wraps it around his middle, running the string through his fingers as he slowly moves it along, like he’s afraid that the string might just run out behind his back.

There’s still quite a bit of room between his stomach and where he’s holding the ends of the string in front of himself. Sherlock just stares at it and shakes his head. “This is so surreal.” He tells John.

“Do you feel like this helped you, at least?” 

“I don’t know.. I feel like all I know now is that my mind is just….. wrong.. it’s all wrong.”

“We can teach it to function better, again.” John reassures him.

But Sherlock only shakes his head. “I already knew that I.. that I don’t see some things the way they actually are. I know that. I have known for.. pretty much half of my life now. But it doesn’t change, it never changes.”

John frowns. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock removes the yarn from himself and bunches the strings up on the table. John waits patiently for him to get his thoughts sorted.

“I see people as only either overweight or underweight. There is no ‘normal’.” He explains.

John is a bit taken aback by that information. “Oh?”

“Yes. I know it’s wrong.” Sherlock says immediately.

“How do you see me, then?” John wonders interestedly.

“John..” Sherlock whines. 

“No, it’s okay, I promise I won’t be offended.” John says jokingly.

Sherlock sighs heavily. “Apparently you already know what I’ll say. Why bother asking?”

“Just humour me.”

“Fine.” Sherlock glares at him briefly, before turning away from him. “You’re overweight.” He then realises how that probably came out. “I mean you’re not really overweight, I..”

“I understand, Sherlock. Like I said, I’m not offended, just curious.” John reassures him. “So that’s why you’re always nagging Mycroft about his diet.” He chuckles.

“Not really, but feel free to believe that.” Sherlock mumbles.

“What about you?” John asks.

“Huh?”

“What are you? Over- or underweight?” He asks curiously.

Sherlock glares at him. “I’ve told you, I have never been overweight my whole life. Not even at a normal weight, basically always just below it.”

“Sorry, that wasn’t what I meant. I mean what do you see yourself as?” John clarifies apologetically.

Sherlock goes silent. 

John doesn’t press him further. “I got you small nutri drinks, they’re in the fridge.” He says awkwardly, but Sherlock just leaves and stays in his bedroom for the next hours. He has a lot of thinking to do.

Chapter Text

Sherlock eats cress like it’s a meal. He eats cress and radish and John knows exactly why. 

Sharp spices suppress hunger. And every time he sees Sherlock eat either, he wants to take it away and yell at him, and at the same time just hug him and cry, because he doesn’t understand why Sherlock – or just anyone – would rather be hungry and not eat anything all day long.

He doesn’t understand how someone so intelligent would rather starve his brilliant brain than eat a full meal. Or even just a snack.

God, John wishes Sherlock would at least eat little snacks. But he never does. Unless you could count cress and radish.

John glares at the many little plants in the kitchen, cursing their very existence. At least the radish has a tiny shred of nutritional value. The cress is about as nourishing as eating snow.

He wonders if Sherlock would believe him if he told him that he’d burned the small cress container by accident, then ask him to join him for an actual meal.

Yeah, that would go swell.

John and Sherlock are in the living room, with John reading the newspaper and Sherlock watching.. something on his laptop.

John is really not trying to eavesdrop, but when he keeps hearing “obesity” and “morbidly obese” every ten seconds, he folds the newspaper and joins Sherlock. 

The open tab is from YouTube, and the title makes John cringe. 

“I Eat LOTS of MEAT | Supersize Vs Superskinny | S07E08 | How To Lose Weight | Full Episodes” 

He throws Sherlock a pointed look. “What are you watching?”

Sherlock ignores him and just keeps looking at the screen. “You know what. You’ve just glared at the video title for 32 seconds.”

“Fine, why are you watching this?” 

“Oh do relax, it’s not actually giving you any tips on how to lose weight. But there’s a recovered anorexic guy in season 7..” Sherlock defends, the last part sounding insecure and embarrassed. 

John decides to just watch it with Sherlock, his own curiosity peaked. He can’t help but think that the doctor in the show oddly reminds him of Sherlock at times. 

“I mostly just like the parts about the anorexics, and the end scenes of when the two contestants meet again after a few months. The ‘superskinny’s always look so much better when they gain just a few pounds.” Sherlock mumbles halfway through the episode when the part about the male anorexic Ashley played. 

John cringes a bit when they watch Ashley’s struggle at the supermarket, remembering how their shopping trip went. He shakes his head, it’s in the past, focus on the now.

“Do you feel like you might like yourself better with a bit more weight?” John asks carefully.

Sherlock gives a soft sigh. “I don’t know if I can handle it, just yet.” He admits, eyes briefly flitting over to John before turning back at the screen. “The idea of gaining just half a pound is..” he pauses, looking for a suitable word. “-terrifying.” 

While John is a bit sad and maybe even disappointed to hear that, he’s glad for Sherlock’s honesty. 

“Having an eating disorder is nothing to be ashamed of. It can happen to literally everyone.” Ashley said in the interview.

“Everybody is at a different stage in their journey to recovery, but meeting Ashley today has reminded me that recovery is possible. It’s not easy, but it’s definitely worth fighting for.” The journalist and former anorexic said afterwards. 

Sherlock picks up the laptop and places it on John’s lap. “Here, you keep watching.” He mutters before getting up.

“Where are you going?” John can’t help but ask.

“Just need the loo, and I know all the episodes already.” Sherlock replies before walking off.

John watches him for a moment, then turns back to the screen, now interested in seeing the two contestants after their diet changes. 

Personally affected by an eating disorder or not, John could now see why the show seems to be so addicting.

John finds Sherlock slumped on the floor the next morning. “What are you doing?”

“The floor was lonely, I gave it a hug.” Sherlock says matter of factly, not making a move to get up. Did he sound hoarse, or was John imagining it?

John rolls his eyes and pulls him up, groaning at Sherlock’s dusty clothes. “Maybe don’t hug the floors before Mrs Hudson has scrubbed them, or me. Go get changed.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes at him, but goes into his bedroom to change, and John lets out a long breath before deciding that the flat needed some cleaning. While he’s vacuuming the living room, Sherlock comes back out, wearing the dysautonomia hoodie that John had gifted him for Christmas and loosely fitted lounge pants, investigating what mysterious thing John is doing.

“Why were you really on the floor?” John asks, turning down the suction power.

But Sherlock simply shrugs and starts helping move things away from the floor. John lets it go, for now.

It was nearing the middle of the day and both men were painfully aware that Sherlock hasn’t eaten in 24 hours, again. He was so cold, even with the hoodie, that John had brought him a blanket to wrap around himself.

“Sherlock..” the younger flinches at John’s voice, already knowing where this was going. “I would really like you to eat something. Just.. anything.”

Sherlock keeps himself turned away from him. “I don’t want to.”

“You have to be hungry.” John says quietly. “What if I made you something that you really like?”

“Like what?”

“What did you love to eat as a child?” John asks. He’d read that the positive association from a favourite food or snack from childhood could help.

Sherlock looks at him funny for a moment, then looks away.

“Come on, there had to be something you liked.” John prods with a laugh. 

“It’s stupid..” 

John shakes his head at him. “Uh-uh. Nothing you’ll say is stupid. I promise.”

Sherlock sighs. “You probably expect some five star, french restaurant dish.”

“Not really. Sherlock, just humour me.” 

Sighing dramatically, Sherlock finally gives him an answer. “Pancakes. Just.. boring pancakes.” He shrugs.

John is more than satisfied with that and grins proudly. “Then pancakes you shall have.” He gets up and goes into the kitchen, preparing everything.

Sherlock is instantly filled with regret at making John do something for him. “John.. I really don’t want to..”

“You’re saying that now, but just wait for when you have it in front of you.” John cheerfully calls back. 

Sherlock just pulls the blanket tighter around himself and accepts his fate.

Ten minutes later, John places the plate with a small, thin pancake in front of him. “Oh wait, I have an idea.” He says and goes back into the kitchen. Sherlock hears him doing something, then he comes back with a bowl filled with a little fork and canned mandarins. “There. You just try, hm? I’ll be in the kitchen, not watching you.” John tells him and goes back into the kitchen to produce the rest of the pancakes from the batter.

Sherlock stays frozen for a few minutes, just staring at the food in front of him. He knows he should be eating, that this whole starvation thing won’t lead anywhere, but it’s just hard. With a sigh he reaches forward and rips off a tiny piece from the pancake and pops it into his mouth. It’s almost exactly the same taste as he remembers. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate pancakes; probably literally since his childhood. 

He tries not to think as he keeps ripping off small pieces, eats from the mandarins, finishes the small pancake, then finishes off the mandarins while he’s at it. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he brings the empty dishes to John in the kitchen.

John can’t help looking over, and he looks so disgustingly happy. “Sherlock you did so well!” He can’t stop himself from saying, proudly.

Sherlock just feels pathetic. Who gets praise for eating food? Not normal people. He just walks off to the bathroom to wash off the grease from his hands, then settles back down on the sofa, wrapping the blanket around him again.

His stomach doesn’t feel too full, but he still feels wrong for having something in it at all. Like it doesn’t belong there. Similar to having a full bladder and only wanting it to be empty, but there’s no easy fix to get his stomach empty. At least not one he feels comfortable doing, and wouldn’t get caught by John.

So he just accepts his fate to wait it out and curls himself into a ball, falling asleep a few minutes later from the exhaustion.

When he wakes up some 3 hours later, he looks like death warmed over. John could barely contain the gasp when Sherlock pushes the blanket away from himself. His skin is so pale.. which makes the dark circles under his eyes stand out even more dramatically. And from the looks of if, Sherlock is really not feeling much better than he looks.

“Sherlock..? You okay..?” John asks quietly. 

Sherlock looks over at him tiredly. “Feel l’ke death…” he mumbles drunkenly.

John’s forehead is in concerned creases. “To be honest, you look it.” He gets up and helps Sherlock drink some water.

When Sherlock sits up he’s swallowing rapidly, and John thinks he’s going to puke. But then Sherlock just takes the water and drinks a bit from it.

“I need a shower..” he decides when he hands John the bottle back. He would much rather take a bath, but that’s obviously off limits with how physically unstable he feels. Plus, if he does end up throwing up, it’s easier to get out of the shower and run over to the toilet than if he were laying in a body of water.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea..” John says honestly.

“Please?.. I was sweating and I feel gross and itchy..” Sherlock pleads and John’s heart shatters again.

“Okay.” John relents and helps him get to his feet. While John picks out the towels for Sherlock, the latter tries to collect a fresh set of clothes. When John comes in to check on him, he sees him leaning against the wardrobe with one hand, the other is pressed around his stomach. “Let me do it. Go get undressed, I’ll be right there.” 

“John.. you don’t have to..” Sherlock starts but trails off.

“Yes I do. I’m not leaving you unsupervised in the shower when you’re already poorly.” John argues, and he has to think how absurd it must sound if you didn’t know what showers mean for Sherlock. Possibly perverted, too.

Sherlock stumbles off to the bathroom and works on getting out of his clothes, throwing them into the laundry bin. By the time he is self consciously naked, John comes in with a stack of clothes. “This okay?” He asks, showing Sherlock what he picked out.

Sherlock tries to hide as much of himself as possible as he looks over his shoulder. “It’s fine.” 

John nods and lays it down on the counter, next to the towels. He could see Sherlock’s 'bloated' belly, making it look almost normal, if it weren’t for his still very prominent ribs, but he knows that Sherlock will feel very much uncomfortable like this. 

When Sherlock is done with the shower and drying himself off, he carefully steps out of the tub and winces at the pain in his knees. John continuously watches him with concern, wondering what is wrong with him. 

Sherlock acts fine until he tries to put on the underwear. Standing on one leg is murder on his already poor sense of balance, and he slams down the suspended leg as a means to catch himself, and completely freezes at the onslaught of pain through the poor knee.

“Your knee?” John deduces, seeing the pain on his friend’s face.

Sherlock nods, takes a few breaths and keeps dressing himself.

“Is it still so bad?” John asks in surprise.

“It’s both of them, and yes.” Sherlock replies and fights with the trouser legs of the 'comfort pants', as he secretly dubs the soft pair of loungers. 

“Both? Since when?”

“A few weeks.” Sherlock pulls the pullover over his head, then tries to shape his wet hair into what it should look like. He doesn’t feel the need to explain how his knees are only so painful because of his excessive exercising. But only when he really overdid it. 

John blanches. “Sherlock.. you should seriously get that checked.” At this point the doctor is more than worried about possible arthritis if Sherlock doesn’t get them looked at and treated. 

“It’s fine, John. It’ll go away.” 

“Sherlock. What if our roles were reversed, hm? What if you saw me in pain, for weeks on end?” John demands, hoping to get his point across.

Sherlock looks down at his hands, picking at his nails again. “I want to go to bed now.” He mutters under his breath, and John sighs but relents.

“Come on, then.”

Laying in bed isn’t helping. Seeking comfort, he hugs the plush dog that Molly gave him tightly against his chest. He’s still so insanely nauseous, feels it creeping up his throat every few minutes, and he desperately wants nothing more than for it to be out. He wants it out. After so many hours, it’s obvious that his stomach isn’t going to digest it anyway, he is just feeling absolutely horrible for no good reason.

But getting it out would mean inducing vomiting, and he refuses to stoop so low. Though he can’t remember a time where he was this tempted. 

It will make you feel better, the sick voice in his mind keeps telling him. And every time, just for a moment, he believes it. But then his rational thinking reminds him that he will probably only feel much worse, and will hate himself for it. So he stays curled up on the bed, wishing he would just throw up for real. Get it over with. If his body did it on its own accord, he would personally thank it. But no, he just repeatedly gets stomach acid up his throat.

He just wants to sleep. He’s so tired, even after the 'nap'.

John comes into his room again. “How are you feeling?”

“Really nauseous.” Sherlock replies, almost whining.

“Do you want to take some Iberogast?” John offers.

He debates it for a moment, then decide that he has literally nothing to lose.

After he takes a bunch of the drops, Sherlock puts the bottle down on his night stand, and John carefully lays down behind him on the bed, trying to be of some comfort by slowly running his hand up and down over Sherlock’s upper arm. 

“Why do you keep hiding it when you’re in pain?” John wonders after laying in silence for a few minutes.

Sherlock shrugs. “If I could, I would hide everything. Pain is just a lot easier to hide since others can’t see it. Well; unless it’s, like, really bad.”

The confession tears at John’s chest, squeezes his stomach. “I wish you didn’t want to hide anything at all..”

“What’s the point of always complaining? I couldn’t sleep because I had to pee a billion times! I just got up, I’m so dizzy! I ate something, I feel like I’ll be sick if I bend over! Everyone around me is standing still and talking for hours and I’m about to pass out! What’s the point?” 

John, for his part, feels guilty for never really noticing how much Sherlock is still affected by the dysautonomia. Of course it will probably never go away, but the less Sherlock mentions anything, the more John seems to… ‘forget’ about it.

“Did you take your meds already?” John asks, slowly making his way off of Sherlock’s bed.

Sherlock nods. Of course he hadn’t. He hadn’t taken them for five days now, and after his heart rate went a bit high on the second day, it was now as slow as it had been with the Ivabradine. He didn’t need medication, and every time he doesn’t even go over 100bpm while standing, he knows that he’s doing something right.

“I’ll let you try to sleep, okay? I’ll be upstairs.” John tells him and Sherlock just nods, watching him leave.

He does a few sets of really careful crutches, the kind where you twist your upper body a little bit to the knee that you pull to yourself, just in hopes that it would help stimulate his stomach to move. 

Despite being utterly exhausted, he can’t fall asleep. The nausea keeps getting the better of him, and he needs to sit up multiple times just so he wouldn’t accidentally throw up. Even though a bigger growing part of him desperately wanted to just finally get rid of what is making him feel so sick. The small, sane part of his brain keeps screaming at him to stay strong and keep it down, hoping that his stomach would just finally start to digest it and then he would be fine.

Around 3am he finally falls asleep, but it’s very much the opposite of restful, and he’s woken up just after six by his belly making 'angry' noises. He curls up with his arms around his midsection for a few minutes, before rushing off to the loo, hoping that this nightmare is now finally over.. 

..but it’s just a lot of air. He still feels just as nauseous as he did last night, and by now he just can’t take it anymore. His stomach and oesophagus still feel just as swollen as they did yesterday. He just wants relief.

He debates on sticking his fingers down his throat for possibly the four hundredth time in the last 24 hours, and decides against it again.

He goes back to his bedroom, shakes the iberogast and shakes out as much into his mouth as he could stand, before drinking it down with water. Come on, this has to work..

He would overeat on liquorice to get it going, if only he didn’t feel like his stomach was going to rupture if he so much as eats one more crumb.

A couple of minutes later, he has to rush back to the toilet, where at least his bowels have decided on voiding. Not quite diarrhoea, but also not pleasant. His body is overcome with chills, making him dizzy.

By the time he’s flushing the toilet, the nausea is a little bit better again. He’s definitely still not at a 100% in regards to that issue, but he feels more like he could survive for now than he did before.

I never knew just how sick a bit of food could make you feel.. he thinks, and has to wonder how much of his suffering had been physical, and what part his eating disorder played. 

Stupid defective transport..

Roughly twenty minutes later, Sherlock is pacing back and forth in the living room. Being upright is helping a bit, and he’s wondering if it would help if he ate a tiny bit of radish. He can’t help eyeing the bathroom every time he passes it, still more tempted than is healthy. 

Fuck it, he rips off a smaller globe from the radish and takes tiny bites from it, the sharp taste a welcome distraction. He takes a small sip of water, then has to sit down on the sofa. His eyes are falling shut on their own accord; he’s quite literally too exhausted to stay awake.

But his belly is gurgling unhappily again, and Sherlock wishes for instant death. He couldn’t take this hell anymore.

This is what I get for not exercising for a day. He scolds himself. Digestion completely stopped working.

John comes downstairs half an hour later. “Good morning. Feeling better?” He asks, and then gets a good look at his flatmate and regrets his words. He looks extremely pallid and like he didn’t sleep at all. “Oh dear.” He says to himself.

Sherlock gives him a dirty look. “Don’t. Say. Anything. You gave me food poisoning.” He accuses John.

“What? No I didn’t! How do you even know it’s food poisoning?”

“Because I still feel sick.” I still feel like throwing up.

Making myself throw up, that is.

“It can’t have been the pancakes, Sherlock.” John says softly.

“I didn’t eat anything else, though.” Sherlock glares.

John shakes his head. “No, I mean, I know that it can’t be the pancakes. I ate them too.”

Sherlock is taken aback. “What? When?”

John is a bit surprised that Sherlock wasn’t able to deduce that about him. He must really feel ill.. “yesterday, while you were asleep on the sofa.”

Sherlock swallows down his accusations. 

“And the mandarins were as good as new and looked good.” John continues. “Did you take some more iberogast..?” He asks when Sherlock seems to try to make himself disappear – unsuccessfully.

Sherlock nods sadly.

John sighs, he really didn’t like what he was about to say. “Listen… it’s been what, 18 hours? Give or take. If you’re still feeling sick, even with the meds, then.. I won’t hold it against you if..” he takes a deep breath and sighs. Sherlock is watching him with worry. “What I’m trying to say is.. if you’ll feel better if you throw up, then go ahead.”

Did John just… give me permission to induce vomiting? Sherlock blinks at him for a long moment, thinking his mind must be playing tricks on him. 

John nods at him, apparently reading his thoughts.

Sherlock gets mad at John, then. “What is wrong with you?! You shouldn’t be encouraging me to- to-..”

“I will allow it, just this once. I think it’s my fault you feel so bad.. pancakes are mostly carbs, your body is probably struggling to digest them.” John explains timidly. “We probably should have started with something different..”

Sherlock just keeps staring at him. He couldn’t believe what a twisted world they suddenly live in. He’s itching to tell John how badly he has wanted to do just that, all night long, how he’s stayed strong and suffered through it, instead.

“You don’t have to, obviously. I just want you to know.. I wouldn’t be mad at you.” John offers. 

“Leave me alone.” Sherlock chokes out, looks up at John. “Please.”

“Sure.” John nods and goes back upstairs to his bedroom, no questions asked.

Sherlock sighs deeply to himself. Can I really do it? It’s not as easy as some people make it look like. Can’t be that easy. Shouldn’t be that easy.

He ends up pacing around again, arms wrapped around his gnawing stomach. After a while he thinks that maybe brushing his teeth would make him feel better. Maybe he’d stop feeling so nauseous if he didn’t feel so gross anymore.

Ironically, that ends up being his undoing. Without really meaning to, as he’s rinsing his mouth from the toothpaste, his stomach squeezes repeatedly, making him choke and gag. But this time he doesn’t fight it, and instead tries to work his muscles more.

He can already feel his heart rate speeding up, but he ignores it in favour of letting his body do what it has to do. He doesn’t bring up anything other than water and presumably stomach acid, but somehow he still feels better. Just a tad.

He’s crying and shaking and feels utterly disgusted with himself, but he’s a lot less nauseous, now.

I am absolutely going to regret this. He thinks as his stomach goes for round two a few moments later, spitting up more acid into the sink. His throat hurts way more than he is used to it burning whenever he’d accidentally thrown up, making him wince as he drinks tiny sips from the sink.

When he’s done and gets out of the bathroom, he hears John coming downstairs again. He probably heard me, then. Lovely.

“You okay?” John asks when he finds Sherlock in his black leather armchair, the blanket hiding everything besides his head. 

The question has Sherlock look up and glare daggers at John. “What, about this whole situation, could possibly suggest that I am ‘okay’?!” He snaps, voice hoarse and rough.

John nods, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry. Do you want some tea..?”

Sherlock just nods, not wanting to talk about this. Whatever this was.

After drinking the tea ever so slowly, Sherlock mutters “I think I’m going back to bed.” His voice finally sounding a bit better, but still more hoarse than normal.

John nods understandingly. “Try to get some sleep. And please don’t forget to take your meds.” He reminds him, knowing that Sherlock will only feel like hell in a different way later if he doesn’t take his meds.

Sherlock nods and gets up, takes the blanket with him, and disappears into his room.

Two hours later he wakes up to muffled voices. Mrs Hudson is laughing. 

It’s a very disturbing sound to wake up to.

He hears her go back down the stairs, probably due to John’s insistence.

Not a moment later, said man peeks into his room, and Sherlock looks over at him tiredly. “Hey..” Sherlock croaks. His throat feels raw again.

“Hey.” John echoes. “You okay?”

Sherlock nods, closing his eyes. He felt about 40% less sick, but still didn’t feel too well. He coughs at the irritation of his throat and bends down to fetch his water bottle. He winces when he feels the sip of cool water spread out in his stomach, for a moment thinking that the relentless nausea is back, but he feeling dies down again.

“Mrs Hudson brought us some roulades and cooked veggies.. do you want some?” John asks.

Sherlock looks visibly pained by the idea of eating anything.

“Come on.. you have to eat something at least..”

Doesn’t John understand that I feel like utter crap, and all that only because I ate something?

But John has those pleading eyes, and Sherlock relents. 

Though he ends up going to the freezer instead, takes out a canister of his beloved sorbet ice cream, and starts scraping at it with a spoon in the living room, staying a nice distance away from the other food on the table.

Of course John wishes they could just eat together again, like in old times.. but he’s just glad when Sherlock eats anything at all. Even if it has barely enough calories to feed an infant, or enough nutrients to remotely give him the energy he needs. 

Despite Mrs Hudson’s great cooking skills, the food doesn’t taste as good when he knows that Sherlock is quietly suffering barely ten feet away from him. 

Chapter Text

The next time they’re watching Supersize versus Superskinny, Sherlock is needle felting some 4 legged creature, attaching grey felting wool around a wire frame by repeatedly stabbing it with the very sharp tool.

“What are you making?” John asks curiously.

“Don’t know yet. Probably some fox/wolf.. thing..” Sherlock replies, solely concentrating on not stabbing himself by accident.

It takes two episodes for the animal to take shape, although you still couldn’t really tell what species it is. But what stands out is how Sherlock has made it very skeletal, adding a very bony chest with the ribs sticking out, followed by a completely concave stomach. How Sherlock has managed to add those details on a thing that’s not even the size of his hand, was beyond John.

“Sherlock..? Why is it so skinny?”

“It’s a lone wolf.” Sherlock has apparently decided.

“..a lone wolf?”

“Yes. It’s lost its pack, and is slowly dying because no other pack will accept him.” Sherlock says matter of factly. The fact that Sherlock said ‘him’ speaks volumes to John.

So Sherlock feels like a lone wolf, with no help or support. John would be lying if he said it didn’t make him incredibly sad. He softly clears his throat. “What if he isn’t really alone? Maybe he just thinks he’s all alone.”

“No. He is.” Sherlock insists. Finally satisfied with its shape, he lays down the needle and bends the legs and body so the wolf is curled up.

“Did he die, now?” John asks in shock.

Sherlock thankfully shakes his head. “He just has no fur to keep him warm. So, maybe soon.” He states, then gets up from the sofa and lays the curled up wolf on the mantlepiece. He briefly looks at himself in the mirror above it, looks at his own, tired eyes. Then he goes back over to John and just watches a third episode with him.

John is too busy pondering (worrying about) what Sherlock is trying to express with the lone wolf.

John is woken up at 4 in the morning by coughing. Very excessive coughing, partly dry and partly sounding productive. 

John’s first thought really shouldn’t have been that what he’s hearing is Sherlock throwing up, or rather, Sherlock trying to make himself throw up.

But as he stumbles out of his bed and down the stairs, he realises that Sherlock isn’t trying to bring up the sorbet ice cream from yesterday. Sherlock is apparently coughing up his left lung, by the sound of it.

He hurries into Sherlock’s bedroom, turns on the light to help him see, and grabs a tissue for Sherlock to spit into.

Or that was the plan, at least. Sherlock shakes his head at the offered item and turns away, arms wrapped around his chest as more coughs wrecked his entire frame. John winces when it sounds like Sherlock is literally choking on the phlegm. “Sherlock please, cough it up and spit it out. I have to see the colour.” Maybe not the most helpful thing to say, but John is a doctor. 

Sherlock seems to finally get it dislodged and grabs the tissue of his own will, coughing and spitting up so hard that he starts to gag.

“Easy..” John is just full of unhelpful comments today.

Sherlock’s chest rises and falls rapidly when he could finally breathe again. His heart was racing dangerously fast from the nasty coughing fit. John meanwhile examines the phlegm that Sherlock is offering to him. It was partly yellow, which means that Sherlock’s immune system is trying to fight off something in his lungs. 

“When did it start?” He asks when Sherlock seems to have regained his breath.

Sherlock gives another round of much smaller, but still definitely congested, coughs. “My throat’s been hurting for a few days.. didn’t think any of it..” he takes a break to breathe and rubs at his wet eyes. “Woke up and.. couldn’t breathe.”

“I want to go grab my stethoscope and listen to your lungs for a sec, then I want you to take your cortisone inhaler.” John explains before running off to grab his doctor case.

Sherlock just hangs his head, he’s so damn tired and his chest and throat hurt.

“Okay, you know the drill.” John comments, getting the stethoscope ready and sitting down behind Sherlock. Sneaking his arm between the shirt and Sherlock’s back, he listens while Sherlock takes deep breaths – or tries to, anyways.

“Yeah, doesn’t sound very good.” John informs him when he gets up again. “Where’s your budesonide inhaler?” 

Sherlock points to the first drawer of his bedside table. John retrieves it for him. After Sherlock used it, the doctor kneels before him, examining Sherlock’s face. He checks for a fever with his hand, but doesn’t find one. “Is it just a cough, or more?”

Sherlock shakes his head. He repeatedly tries and fails to clear his throat, and gives up after five minutes. He’s too tired to keep his eyes open.

“Try to get some sleep, hm? If you start coughing like that again, I want you to take the salbutamol as well.” John says, pointing to the blue inhaler that is always within reach.

Sherlock nods and carefully lays back down, relishing in the ability to breathe again.

John is in the middle of pouring tea when he hears harsh coughing again. Given how he hadn’t heard a peep from Sherlock before, the poor guy must have only just woken up to cough like this. John leaves the cup on the counter and walks over to Sherlock’s door, softly knocking before coming back in. 

Sherlock is already sitting up in bed, one hand pressed against the middle of his chest, the other is tightly fisting the sheets.

“You okay?” He asks when Sherlock stops coughing and instead draws in some noisy breaths, the action obviously straining him. 

He’s been awake for all of two minutes and his heart rate was already somewhere around 160, just from the coughing. Life could be so damn unfair sometimes.

“Use the inhaler.” John commands and prepares the salbutamol for him.

Sherlock couldn’t really hold his breath, and erupts into another coughing fit after barely three seconds. He doesn’t like how his crotch is growing a bit warm and wet, but he isn’t really surprised that his bladder couldn’t handle the strain. “Damn it.” He curses when he gets his breath back a little. Thank god for those absorbent pants. As much as I hate them.

“It’s okay, just take another puff.” John tells him patiently, unaware of what just happened. Sherlock rolls his eyes, he would never like that word. He just repeats the process, finding it a lot easier to hold his breath to let the medication work its magic. Now that he could breathe again, he makes to get up so he could take care of a certain other, pressing matter.

But John stops him. “No, stay there a moment.”

“John.” Sherlock whines before coughing a bit again, pressing his thighs together under the covers as a precaution. 

“I can see your heart racing, just stay in bed for a minute, before you pass out from getting up.” John explains, watching the beats on the artery on Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock let’s out an annoyed sigh, which is masked by the loud wheeze that sounds from his chest. They both freeze at the sound.

“I’m getting your nebuliser.” John decides in that moment. “Don’t move!” He repeats on his way out.

Sherlock just rolls his eyes and gets up anyways. He would be fine, John is entirely overreacting. Sure, his heart rate picks up speed again at the first step, but he’s so used to the darkness that always follows that he doesn’t think twice about blindly walking ahead. 

He finishes up in the loo, feeling oddly proud of himself for proving John wrong like this. That is, until he’s suddenly hit with another coughing fit on his way back, causing him to double over with his hands on his knees.

“I told you to stay put!” John scolds, placing the machine on the kitchen table as he hurries to Sherlock’s side. 

Sherlock is seeing stars by the time he desperately sucks in a breath, and makes the mistake of standing back up straight, with the intention to tell John off, that he is perfectly fine.

He really didn’t expect to faint there for a second, but luckily, John had apparently seen it coming a mile away and easily caught him. “You’re an idiot.” John grumbles, tightening his grip around Sherlock’s chest. The ribs feel so uncomfortable against his chest and arms, and he doesn’t want to know how painful this has to be for Sherlock, but there is no way he’s letting him go, either. He could feel Sherlock’s heart beating, frowning at the way it keeps racing, then suddenly slowing down to somewhere under a hundred (John isn’t as in tune with it as Sherlock), then racing again. Sometimes it stumbles from the rapid changes.

“‘m fine..” Sherlock mumbles.

“You’re stubborn, is what you are. Too stubborn for your own good.” John mutters absent mindedly, mostly focusing on Sherlock’s heart.

“I had to go..” Sherlock defends weakly.

“You could have just told me, and I would have made sure you got there alright.” John argues, still not releasing Sherlock because he’s still leaning heavily on the doctor. He assumes that Sherlock is fading in and out of consciousness every few seconds as a result of the strange beating pattern of his heart.

“I did get there alright.”

John rolls his eyes. “You know what I meant, Mister Literally.” He feels Sherlock’s heart rate drop again, much slower than it did so far, and Sherlock goes limp again. So John decides to gently lay Sherlock on the floor in recovery position, since being upright was obviously too much for his body right now. He fishes out the pulse oximeter that he’d also grabbed, out of his pocket, and clips it to Sherlock’s middle finger of the upper hand. 

The numbers scare him.

91% SpO2, 49BPM

He re-checks that Sherlock is still breathing fine, before running his hands through his own hair in sudden panic. The oxygen keeps flickering between 91 and 92, but at least the pulse is slowly creeping back up. 54BPM was still better than below 50, although John is still scared. 

Scared of what this means.

Scared of how long this has been happening.

Terrified of the reason why.

Is this why he kept passing out? Even when he’s already laying down? 

He inhales shakily. Is his heart getting too weak to pump?

Sherlock gives a weak cough from the floor, followed by a round of coughs. He groans, not opening his eyes.

John watches the pulse oxi again. 94%, 82BPM. John has never been so happy about hearing Sherlock cough. 

He gently rubs his back, wincing at the ridges of bones beneath his hand. “Easy, you feeling okay?”

Sherlock winces as he breathes. He tries to push himself up on his arms, and manages with a bit of help from John. He takes a deep breath, then finally gives a round of the deep, chesty, trademark asthma coughs that he’s been trying to release. Afterwards he’s panting desperately again, and the wheezing is worse again.

Making up his mind, John kneels beside him and expertly picks him up with a grunt.

“What are you-” Sherlock breaks off into more coughs for a moment. “What’re you doing?”

“Taking you back to bed.” John states the obvious, voice tight from the strain.

Sherlock feels disoriented, floaty, and at the same time like he’s falling, so he instinctively clings to John’s strong shoulders.

It’s only a few steps, but when carrying someone with a similar weight as yourself (roughly 40 pounds lighter, but it’s a massive difference compared to the 30 pound toddler at home) it feels like he’d run a marathon. 

Once Sherlock is laying in bed again, he has another coughing fit. John briefly checks the pulse oximeter again, before grabbing the already prepared nebuliser, plugging it into the outlet near Sherlock’s bed and hands him the mask. He waits for Sherlock to get his breath back and pull the mask over his nose and mouth, before turning it on.

Sherlock hasn’t even noticed the pulse oxi on his finger until now, but couldn’t see the readings through the steam and his own blurry eyes, so he just tries to stay sitting up, but finds that he couldn’t keep his eyes open and felt too weak to sit upright.

John, who miraculously always seems to know what Sherlock needs, slips on the bed behind him and gently pulls him close, so he would lean on him, similar to how he’d cradled Sherlock against him during the dislocated hip fiasco.

Sherlock lets his head loll on John’s shoulder, too tired to keep holding it up. A couple sporadic coughs wreck his body every now and then, but he could feel his tight chest slowly loosen up thanks to the saline solution in addition to the inhalers. 

Sherlock doesn’t have to say the ‘thank you’ out loud, for John to understand. The doctor soothingly runs his thumb back and forth in slow motions over the back of Sherlock’s right hand, which had somehow ended up being held by him.

He’s getting worse. His head is killing him and John has told him that he has a fever. John took him to Bart’s for a sample the next morning, which told them that Sherlock was developing bronchitis, made worse by the asthma. He will have to take his inhalers regularly, plus a round of antibiotics.

“No.” Sherlock croaks, his voice rough and scratchy from the coughing. “No antibiotics.”

“Sherlock.” John sighs exacerbatedly. “If this gets worse, you’ll develop pneumonia and possibly end up on a ventilator. So yes, antibiotics.” The your body doesn’t have what it takes to fight this off on its own stays unspoken.

Sherlock wants to argue, but he simply couldn’t. His chest and throat hurt so bad, talking was so painful and exhausting. So he just gives John a weak glare, before accepting his fate.

“You’ll take probiotics as well, so no need to worry, alright?” John tries to reassure, but Sherlock just avoids looking at him during the cab ride back. He won’t bother trying to explain why it’s a much bigger problem for him. There are enough studies that prove that autistics have an already unbalanced intestinal flora, causing a lot of digestive issues as it was. Plus, it’s suspected that the walls are thinner, letting through more bacteria, which causes inflammation – the so called Leaky Gut.

It began in his early childhood, he definitely remembers it happening in primary school, but it probably started a lot sooner. His memories are mostly fuzzy or gone before that. 

Before he was finally diagnosed in his young adulthood, nobody could figure out why Sherlock sometimes had bouts of constant diarrhoea, accompanied by never ending cramps and pain, no matter what he ate, for weeks on end. When he’s in so much pain, repeatedly going to the peadiatrician for tests, and always being told that there’s nothing physically wrong with him, that he’s making it up.

It even went as far for the doctors to blame his parents, because surely they were doing something to him to make him act like this. After getting an earful from his mother, she stopped taking him to a doctor whenever he complained about stomach pains and told her how he couldn’t keep anything that he ate.

He dragged himself to school like that, not eating until he’s back at home and then immediately running to the loo again shortly after he ate anything. 

Maybe the ‘irritable bowel syndrome’, as he later discovered what it was – that it had a name and was not just in his head – even played a role in his unhealthy eating habits. Once the restricting started, he would just not eat anything until the episode cleared up again. The logic was simple: you can’t have diarrhoea and pain if you don’t eat in the first place. Too bad his mother never approved of it, long before he had an eating disorder, and forced him to eat every day, because surely he would keep something at some point. It was pure torture. Absolute agony. Until at some point, he just ran up into his room and locked himself inside (apart from having to rush to the loo in intervals until his bowels were once again finally empty), just to get away from her wrong ideas.

Maybe that is part of his problem, too. The gaslighting didn’t start with the doctors, it started in his own home. Which was why he never brings up the IBS anymore, with anyone. He had figured out how to minimise flare ups, all on his own, and he could proudly say that he was managing it pretty successfully, apart from the onion incident and the antibiotics from last time. Mrs Hudson never uses wheat in what she cooks and bakes, both for him and her own issues with her hip, and Sherlock had told John early on that he can’t stand pasta, simply because he didn’t want to explain why he couldn’t have wheat spaghetti noodles or the garlic and onions he uses in the tomato sauce. Because John loves adding onions to almost everything he cooks, if just a small amount, ‘for taste’. Sherlock couldn’t always taste the onions, but just a single, tiny piece was enough to upset his bowels – he’d learned that from years of experience.

The onions only came up when they had made a salad together, and because Sherlock had really wanted to eat it, he had told John to leave out the onions. But of course, without giving a good reason, John probably only thought that they gave him flatulence, and not knowing the torturous week he had unintentionally put Sherlock through by adding them anyways when Sherlock had his back turned for one moment. Of course Sherlock had known what John had done, but he was between a rock and a hard place. He’d actually been looking forward to the mixed salad, and he also still had no qualms about telling John about his issues, so.. he ate it, and then suffered in silence while John laughed at his ‘eccentrics’ when the detective had to rush in on him having a bath; Sherlock never would have made it to the bathroom upstairs. 

Still, he wasn’t looking forward in the slightest at the antibiotics ruining everything he’s built up with the yoghurt. He’d been trying to minimise negative associations with food and eating, but his body apparently always has other plans. 

Go. Frigging. Figure.

John accompanies Sherlock to the loo during the first day, because of how dizzy and unsteady he is on his feet. And for good reason, too.

They were almost at the door when Sherlock was suddenly struck with a bad coughing fit. Remembering what happened last time, John immediately wraps his arms around Sherlock’s lower ribs to allow him to cough, while also getting ready to catch him if he passes out.

The latter of which, happened quickly after. This time, John gently lays him down right away, making sure that he’s breathing alright. With how skinny Sherlock is, he could visibly see how much effort it took for him to breathe thanks to the worsened bronchitis.

His skin is rather warm, so John grabs a wash cloth from the bathroom, wetting it in the sink. He gives Sherlock’s forehead and arms a gentle rub-down to try to stay in control of Sherlock’s temperature. As he does so, he hears an odd noise and pauses in his movements. It takes him a moment to realise what was happening.

They had been heading to the loo for a reason, after all.

Sherlock won’t be happy,.. damn it.. he feels sorry for him, but at least Sherlock is prepared and wearing the incontinence pants 24/7 nowadays, which may not completely save his trousers from leaks if he loses complete bladder control, but they absorb enough to not cause a lot of damage and cleaning up. So far he doesn’t see any leaks.

The noise stops and shortly after, Sherlock’s eyes flutter a little, before his face turns into a grimace. 

“Hey mate..” John mumbles, running his hand up and down Sherlock’s arm in his usual manner. “You had a bit of an accident, so we’ll get you changed whenever you’re ready, alright?”

Sherlock gives a weak sigh without opening his eyes. That tiny sigh somehow said everything he couldn’t put into words. I’m so tired of this. So, so bloody tired of everything.

Sadly, that incident wasn’t the end of it.

It’s 5am. 

Sherlock knows it’s 5am, he doesn’t need to look at his watch. 

Because it always starts at 5am.

He wakes up, suddenly feeling wide awake, and a few minutes later, the cramps start. 

He doesn’t know why it always starts at 5am, it just does. It’s like one of those laws of nature kind of things.

He waits out the pain for ten minutes, writhing in his bed in a sorry attempt at easing the pain, before the goosebumps litter his skin, and he rushes off to the loo for his bowels to evacuate.

Sherlock is starting to really hate 5am. It’s a terrible time.

It’s only the second day of antibiotics, and Sherlock curses everything. The constant coughing is making his head hurt, his stomach still has that dull ache that leaves him anxiously awaiting the next bout of cramps and diarrhoea, and he’s so incredibly tired, but his body has to make his life hell.

Sherlock wishes to cease existing as he locks the bathroom door behind him. John had made him eat some noodle soup (without chicken of course) half an hour ago. His belly started hurting two minutes after he started eating, and he’s just been waiting impatiently for the goosebumps to litter his skin and the chills to set in, and now he’s saying goodbye to the soup again. 

He comes back out ten minutes later, pale and sweating and unsteady on his feet.

John hands him a mixture, having prepared more microbiotics for him to drink. Not that they’re helping. Once his stupid body started rejecting food, there was no stopping it until it calmed down on its own again. Not to mention that he’s only just  started the course of antibiotics. 

This would be hell.

Sherlock drinks it anyways, just to get John off the hook. 

“Do you want some tea?” John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. The act of swallowing tea was a struggle on a good day, and right now, it felt like the equivalent to climbing a mountain. 

He just wanted to sleep.

Not even five minutes later, he’s back in the loo for round three.

It was hard not to notice Sherlock repeatedly disappearing off to the bathroom every single time after he eats. John always supplies him with probiotics to drink when he comes back out, but he’s growing more and more suspicious.

“Are you..” John trails off the next day, after Sherlock had another row with the bathroom after eating a small portion of yoghurt. It was day five of the antibiotics, and they were finally taking effect in making it easier to breathe, but by then he’s too exhausted from the malnutrition and dehydration.

Sherlock makes a weak, questioning noise, which comes out more like a huffed breath. 

“Are you throwing up?” John asks carefully.

Sherlock instantly glares at him, feeling hurt at the accusation. But he doesn’t bother explaining, either. Talking is just too hard. It took too much effort. 

Too much work, too little energy. Let him think what he wants. Sherlock didn’t care anymore.

He is done talking to doctors about this, and constantly having to prove himself, constantly advocating for himself. John may be his friend, but his doctor side is showing too much again, and it’s putting Sherlock on edge in a way he couldn’t explain or describe.

He doesn’t have to explain himself. Eventually, John will either understand, or leave when he’s finally fed up. Sherlock didn’t particularly care whichever it would come to. 

He’s too tired to care, and sick of always waking up at 5am, drenched in sweat, to shit his brains out.

Oh how he hates 5am.

Sherlock doesn’t bother trying to eat anything on day six, which is doing nothing to prove John’s suspicions wrong. But Sherlock was just too tired. It took too many spoons; the near constant pain, the act of eating, then almost passing out on the toilet when he couldn’t rehydrate as fast as he’s losing liquids.

He’s also mad at John for begging him to eat again. At first he gave in, and promptly paid for it. On day seven, he doesn’t let John pressure him to eat. He ignores him and turns his back on him, simply because he’s not going to bother explaining. John already thinks he’s inducing vomiting, so whatever claims Sherlock is going to make, even though they’re the truth, John won’t believe him. Because John is a doctor, and doctors don’t believe him.

Just a few more days.. Sherlock reminds himself as he’s laying on the floor. By that point, the dizziness was too bad when he stood up and walked. Even just sitting up in bed was hell.

It was 3am, and Sherlock had had to get up from his bed in order to get a new water bottle. He hasn’t slept at all until now, and he probably won’t get any rest tonight. The pain is just too bad, not just in his entire bowel area, but also his joints ached horribly. He’d drank the entire 1.5 litre bottle in the span of a few hours, because he was constantly so thirsty. He was rapidly dehydrating, his headache is proof of that. 

Just a few more days.. Of course, the end of taking the antibiotics wouldn’t automatically mean he could go back to eating without suffering. It could take anywhere from another week, to almost a month of constant pain, before his body was fully back to normal or at least digesting part of what he ate. 

Sherlock knows he’s lost quite a lot of weight already. Not from weighing himself, he didn’t have the strength to do that. No, he knows it, simply because laying on the floor like this was causing a lot more pain than usual. Especially his hip joints and shoulders have much more unprotected contact with the hard floor. He doesn’t dare lay on his back, that would be complete torture.

He’s also noticed that the incontinence pants don’t fit him anymore. They just slide down over time and he has to keep pulling them up, even with the wide elastic band part that ensures a snug fit.

One might think that he would be glad to have lost weight, but he really isn’t. It’s not about weight loss and he doubts it actually is about that for anyone with the eating disorder devil in their head. He isn’t happy at all about having lost weight, and he doesn’t even want to weigh himself, because this is unwanted weight loss, in every sense of the word. He had no control over it, and that bothers him. It’s really just all about control, and the realisation sickens him.

And speaking of incontinence; he should really get up again. He will probably need to use the loo again if he wants to avoid shitting his pants, and then finally get back to bed with the new bottle.

He gives a few tired coughs before pushing himself up again.

John more or less forces Sherlock to drink a Fresubin bottle the next day, threatening to take him to the hospital and get tube fed if he doesn’t start eating something today.

So, Sherlock relented, and spent hours curled up in pain in his bed, waiting for the moment his body rejected that, too.

That moment finally came, and Sherlock just wants to break down and cry at this point.

“Are you taking laxatives?” John demands angrily when Sherlock emerges from the bathroom again, apparently having stood outside the door and listened, instead of fixing him the solution like usual. Sherlock only shakes his head, flees to his room and hides under the blanket again. John follows him.

“May I palpable your stomach?” John asks, voice softer and caring.

Sherlock sighs but removes the blanket from himself and forces himself to lay flat on his black, pulling up his t-shirt a bit to expose his flat belly. Just stretching out like this is making the pain worse and he winces.

The moment John’s fingertips come into contact with his stomach, Sherlock reflexively sucks it in, pulls it away from John’s hands, away from uncaring, accusing doctor hands. The motion causes a lot more pain, but he couldn’t stop himself.

John frowns, not liking the way Sherlock could make himself impossibly thinner, like he doesn’t even have organs inside of him, just skin stretched over bones. “Don’t do that, please.” He tells Sherlock, voice gentle but giving away his unease.

Sherlock tries his best to stay relaxed whilst John presses on a couple spots. Sherlock just grits his teeth and bears it. He’s too used to this treatment from doctors. They press around on his painful belly – everywhere hurts – and if he indicates pain, they want to get more scans, which of course show absolutely nothing. And the next time he comes in with another bad flare up, the entire staff just give him those smiles, like he’s only pretending and seeking attention.

John is frowning again, not finding any particularly painful spots. Either, Sherlock is completely masking the pain, or, and John feels guilty just to even consider it… Sherlock is doing ‘something’ to cause the constant diarrhoea.

“John.” Sherlock suddenly says, eyes wide. He tries to push John’s hand away from his, once again, cramping stomach.

“What? Did anything hurt?” Did I miss something? John wonders in concern.

“John let me up.” Sherlock says hurriedly, trying to shove John away from him with more force.

“What is it? What’s going on?” John asks, but steps away to allow Sherlock to get to his feet. He could see aggressive goosebumps on Sherlock’s skin before he pulled down his shirt.

Stumbling dizzily, Sherlock runs off to the bathroom again, and John doesn’t know what to think anymore.

The next day, John brings him tea in bed, helps him lay comfortably with the electric blanket turned up on the highest setting, before laying next to Sherlock’s shivering form, trying to warm him up.

“It’s not related to the eating disorder.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“No.” Sherlock replies.

“What is it, then?” John asks concerned.

“IBS.” The younger finally admits.

“What’s it stand for?” John asks. He doesn’t know every acronym at the back of his head.

“Irritable bowel syndrome.”

Oooooh.

Duh.

He instantly remembers a certain conversation from last year. “We are not talking about this again! I told you to leave out the onions!” Sherlock had been so angry and John had only laughed.

Oh Christ, the onions! I’m such an idiot!

I’m never cooking anything with onions ever again if there’s a chance that Sherlock could get his hands on it. And my dumbass called him an over reacting dramaqueen for refusing to eat for a week afterwards. Why do I never listen?

“That’s why the probiotics weren’t helping. When my bowels get like that, nothing helps. They just reject everything.” Sherlock explains.

“I’m sorry.” Sorry for being an asshole last time. Sorry for being an asshole again. Sorry for accusing you. Sorry for not believing you. Sorry for forcing you to eat when you knew you couldn’t digest it. 

“How can I help? What I can I do?” John genuinely wonders.

“This.” Sherlock replies, leaning a bit more into John, trying to absorb his body heat. “This is helping.”

After a while of them laying like that in silence, and Sherlock carefully sipping the tea, he adds “I’ve been dealing with this since childhood. And I know it’s not what you want to hear, but over the years, I discovered that fasting is the only thing that helps. If I keep eating, it just irritates it further, and then it takes weeks to recover. With fasting, I can speed it up to anywhere between a few days and a week.” 

John does indeed look unhappy at the idea of Sherlock not eating anything for another week, but he nods. “Okay, I trust you. I won’t force you to eat until you can handle it.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock says, immensely relieved.

Chapter Text

After doing a bit of research and talking to Sherlock for his opinion, John had gotten him a pack of Buscopan pills, to at least help with the pain. Which he thankfully didn’t have any odd reactions or side effects from, and could be without constant heat on his abdomen (John had caught a glimpse of burns forming on Sherlock’s belly) for at least a few hours, and most importantly: be able to sleep. He’d hardly gotten any rest, first because of the bronchitis and now thanks to the near constant cramps. 

After a few days, Sherlock slowly improved, and they could mostly focus on the other problem again.

John had to bite his tongue here and there, but managed to let Sherlock take the reins and have him decide on when to eat, again. He keeps bringing Sherlock electrolyte solutions after every bout with the bathroom, in hopes that it will help him stay hydrated, and microbiotics to help rebuild the bacteria in his gut. And so far, Sherlock hasn’t passed out again, much to his relief.

Sherlock started, once again, with just a bit of his yoghurt and ice cream, two days after he was finished with the antibiotics. Thankfully, even with the very limited strength, his body had conquered the bronchitis without a second round of antibiotics needed. John was happy when he listened to his lungs, but told Sherlock to keep using his inhalers, since the asthma was still very trigger-happy.

It took a lot of patience, from both of them, but Sherlock managed to slowly build up his food intake again, without his body rejecting it. He still takes the probiotics for a week afterwards, mostly just to put John at ease, but the damage to his body was already done. 

He’s getting more and more ‘low heart rate notifications’ with every morning on his watch. At first, a couple weeks ago, it was just two or four, then six, then seven, eight, ten, eleven, and currently, he’s at 18 notifications. Back when he’d gotten the watch, he had set the threshold to 50bpm, more as a joke because he figured he would never get that low, anyways. But lately, when he looks through the heart rate histories on his phone, he finds that his heart rate drops as far as 45bpm in a few nights. That’s definitely never happened before. Scrolling back to a couple months ago, his lowest heart rates had been in the 70s, rarely below 68, never below 50.

He now added a low heart rate threshold on the app that continuously measures his heart rate, to 50bpm as well, and discovers that his heart rate sometimes even drops between 49, down to even 47bpm, during the day when he’s resting and feeling that weird pressure. As it turns out, the odd pressure in his chest wasn’t only from his lungs. It was from his heart beating so slow. 

With Sherlock’s weight even lower, thanks to the bronchitis and IBS issues, the eating disorder gained more strength, and the thoughts were growing louder and harder to fight. He doesn’t worry about his clothes not fitting properly, and takes it as a good thing when his heart rate gets so low. After all, athletes are known to have lower heart rates, and he’s been exercising a lot the past few months. Surely that must have finally paid off.  

To his disordered thinking, he sees it as a major accomplishment, because he was curing the POTS, all on his own.

John has to pick up Sherlock off the floor again. “Seriously, what is it with you and the floor, lately?” The doctor asks while Sherlock dusts himself off like nothing is ever the matter. “You have a bed, right over there.” He points to Sherlock’s bedroom, just a few feet away.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I have a form of dysautonomia. It’s kinda our thing to have a special relationship with the floor.” Sherlock explains matter of factly.

John just rolls his eyes.

When Sherlock makes to walk off, he seems to get dizzy again, or his knees got weak, or something other like that, because John has to catch him for a moment.

No matter how ‘used’ to Sherlock’s underweight body John might be, the hardness of the bony body in his arms will never not shock him. It’s like being hit with reality over and over. The sight is one thing, but the touch makes it more real.

The breathing skeleton in his arms quickly recovers and straightens up again.

“I’m fine, John.” Sherlock shrugs him off.

“You aren’t fine, you’re anorexic!” John basically yells at him. He doesn’t know why, but something just completely snapped in his resolve when Sherlock said that damned f-word again so nonchalantly. He just couldn’t hear it anymore. At least not from Sherlock’s mouth.

“Not according to the doctors! You’ve seen my medical file, they always called it atypical.” Sherlock snaps, turning away with a sign. “It may as well be my new name. Atypical.”

It makes John feel stupid, when Sherlock brings up his medical files. Yes, he’s had them, a long time ago, but he’s starting to suspect that Mycroft must have taken that particular part out, because John swears he’d never seen so much as a single mention. Hence why the whole situation is so overwhelming for him, still.
He shakes his head, bringing this up wouldn’t help them right now. “Sherlock.. the diagnostic criteria is trash in that regard. You have every damn symptoms except being so dangerously underweight with a BMI of.. below 15 or whatever they’ve decided on. You already have pretty serious health problems, their criteria doesn’t apply to you as an individual. The whole system is trash that way, where eating disorders are concerned. People shouldn’t be on their bloody death bed before they can get help.” John growls.

“I’m still not anorexic.” Sherlock says.

“Because you don’t have it black on white?” John asks, seriously. He walks over to  the drawers, looking for paper and a pen.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks, watching him.

Instead of replying, John takes the desired items and writes on the paper:

Patient: William Sherlock Scott Holmes

Diagnosis: anorexia nervosa (F50.0)

Under it is a signature from him. 

“I don’t have the stamp from the surgery, so just pretend that it’s there where I signed.” He says lamely and hands Sherlock the paper.

“You’re not a psychiatrist.” Sherlock points out as he holds it.

“No. But I can write referrals if I feel like my patients need an evaluation for further diagnostic or action.” John replies simply. “So, now that you are ‘officially’ diagnosed, do you finally believe you deserve help?”

Sherlock can’t help the slight grin, and John laughs. At himself. At everything. 

Sadly the moment doesn’t last as long as John would like it to.  Sherlock looks down at the ‘diagnosis’ paper, all amusement gone. “I just- it always says that losing weight would help everything.” 

“..say what?”

“On the internet, John.” Sherlock barks. “Whatever issues you have, the pages always say that you just need to lose weight, and then you’ll be fine. Tachycardic? Lose weight and exercise more. Knee pain? Lose weight, every extra pound is bad for your joints. Asthma? Lose weight, and you might even get rid of it completely. Incontinence? Lose. weight.!”

“Sherlock! Don’t even read those pages!” John yells. “Yes, it’s true that the majority of people with these issues are.. overweight, but you were below a normal weight for your size and age to begin with. Those pages don’t apply to you as an individual. Your health problems aren’t caused by an excess of body weight.” John runs a hand over his face. “I can’t believe I even have to explain this to you.” He mutters, mostly to himself.

Sherlock just looks utterly crestfallen. “I just.. I want to have everything fixed.. so I tried everything those pages said..” he hangs his head in shame. “I feel like everything that goes wrong with me… is entirely my fault..” he confesses and hides his face behind his hands, not wanting John to see him crying again. 

John’s resolve softens. “I’m sorry.. Sherlock, please believe me: nothing about this is your fault. Nothing.”

Sherlock wildly shakes his head. “Don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter.. how many times you say that.” He removes his hands and glowers tearily at John. “You can say it as many times as you want, it won’t change how I feel!”

John comes closer to him, but refrains from touching him. “Then I’ll say it as many times as it takes for you to believe it, too.”

Sherlock just screws his eyes shut, shaking his head, before running off to his room when a choked sob escapes him. He doesn’t want to hear it over and over, because it’s not true. Everything is his own fault.

He slams the door, pressing his back against it while simultaneously pressing his hands over his mouth to keep everything in. Nothing can stop the silent tears from trailing down his face.

The next day isn’t much better. After Sherlock had refused to eat anything for dinner, John was on his case again the next day, much to Sherlock’s annoyance.

“I ate yesterday!” He argues.

“Sherlock, you have to eat every day.” John says tiredly.

“But I don’t want to…” 

“You could bloody die, Sherlock. Do you care about that at all?!” John basically screams in the face.

“Of course I care! I don’t have a death wish!” Sherlock yells back, then adds in a small voice “most of the time..” He shakes his head. “It’s just so unfair, because I feel better if I do this.”

John stares at him in disbelief. “Sherlock-” he swallows. “You don’t feel better when you starve yourself. That’s the illness telling you. It’s lying.” 

Sherlock frowns at him. “No, not like that. I know the symptoms I’m dealing with because of..” he looks away. “And I also know the symptoms I have from POTS, and whether you believe me or not… not eating has actually made some of those completely disappear.” He pulls at his hair. “It’s like my f-fucked up body is telling me that I’m doing sssomething right!”

John is taken aback. Of course it’s difficult to believe what he just said, so he carefully asks “what symptoms have disappeared?” 

Sherlock looks down at the floor. “The pains in my shoulder and neck muscles are completely gone. I’ve never had that, it was just always there. Sometimes even laying down isn’t enough to make it stop. And now I can be upright all day long and nothing.”

Okay, that I can believe. It does make sense, doesn’t it? John thinks. The stomach and basically the entire digestive tract need a large blood supply to work. The resulting lack of blood in turn causes the ‘coat hanger pain’ in the neck and shoulder area, when the muscles don’t get the blood and oxygen they need.

Sherlock continues. “If I eat just a little bit at some point during the day, they are back. Not as bad, but they’re there. I get that everyone on this planet wants me to eat, and I know that I should, but it’s even harder when I- when the symptoms are an improvement.”

John shakes his head, making Sherlock look up pleadingly. “Okay, maybe it fixes one problem, but it has to be causing a lot more symptoms by itself.” 

Sherlock glares angrily. “Of course it’s causing symptoms, but even then, it’s still better than- than- than- than- th- mmmmh!” He takes a moment to get his mouth under control again. John just waits patiently. “The POTS, still better. That’s how bad it is, okay?! It never fucking stops!” Sherlock covers his face with his hands, and finally brings out what he’s been thinking so many times. “I don’t want to be sick anymore!”

John feels his heart break at the admission. He pulls Sherlock into a hug, not saying anything as the younger silently cries. It breaks John’s soul every time, because he couldn’t fix it. As much as he wants to, and wishes that he could… he couldn’t cure Sherlock. 

All he could do is hold him and comfort him, when it all becomes too much for him to handle. John doesn’t care how many times it’ll happen, he will do so until the day he dies.

When Sherlock was finally calmed down, he succumbed to the relentless exhaustion and fatigue and fell asleep on the sofa. John could see him shivering despite the blanket he had carefully draped over him. 

Feeling bad for him, John lights the fireplace in their living room and decides to just read a book. He wasn’t about to leave Sherlock alone, even for just a second.

About half an hour later, John noticed Sherlock twitching in his sleep. He thinks nothing of it, until two minutes later, Sherlock is making choking sounds, like he wants to whimper but the sound catches in his throat, causing him to stop breathing for a few seconds. He squirms a little, then chokes again.

Laying down his book, John gently shakes him. “Sherlock? Sherlock wake up, everything is alright. Just breathe.” 

Sherlock’s face is completely screwed into a grimace and with one last choke, he opens his eyes, gasping for air, and his eyes land directly on the flame on the opposite side of the room.

It’s only then that John realises the huge flaw in his idea of lighting the fireplace. “Fuck.. Sherlock, everything is fine, I swear. You’re at 221B, in London.” He quickly rambles but Sherlock is staring unblinkingly at the little flame with wide eyes, so John makes quick work and kills the fire, then opens a window to help get rid of the smoke. 

But it’s too late. Sherlock suddenly jumps up, hand over his mouth, but he only gets halfway through the living room before his stomach contracts and he crouches down to his knees, arms wrapped protectively around his middle. 

Fuck. John runs over to him and rubs his back, repeatedly telling him that everything was alright, that he was here, at 221B, and there was no fire in the flat. He looks sadly at the liquid puddle of sick, which really is just water, since Sherlock hasn’t eaten a thing all day.

I wish Redbeard was here.. Sherlock thinks sorrowly, choking again. The irish setter had somehow always known when he’d needed him. Even though his primary job was to protect the chickens from hungry foxes, the dog was very sensitive to Sherlock’s moods. He would press himself against his little body and let Sherlock cuddle into his fur until he was calmed down again, his tail never stopped wagging throughout. It was a miracle cure that managed to stop his meltdowns in record time, before he could hurt himself. 

In the present, Sherlock can’t stop the tears from falling. Yes, he loved the chickens, and the horses were amazing, but Redbeard had been his only true friend, given that the other animals weren’t allowed in the house (though mummy wasn’t too thrilled about the ‘dirty mutt’ in her house). 

“I miss Redbeard..” he whispers, voice raw and broken, and John feels himself tearing up, as well.

He hugs him tighter, whispering “I know..” 

He could feel Sherlock shivering, though unsure whether it’s from throwing up, his emotions, or the cold that is quickly entering their flat through the open window.

Sherlock eats oats and berries, and occasionally, he makes banana milkshakes by throwing milk and a banana (carefully ripped into small pieces) into the blender. He blends it for at least ten minutes straight, so that there won’t be any parts left of it that will be bigger than a single grain of salt. 

He also doesn’t particularly care about the time when he does it, or perhaps he just loses all sense of time, but either way he has given John multiple near heart attacks in the middle of the night. But John’s anger would always dissipate by the time he finds Sherlock in the kitchen. When he sees his guilty eyes looking back at him, knowing that Sherlock must have just been too hungry to sleep but couldn’t deal with having to eat actual, solid food. 

He’s told John that sometimes it’s just much easier for him to drink than to chew. John had then asked him why he doesn’t just drink fresubin, then.

“I want real ingredients, not some chemical mix with artificial flavours.” Sherlock had replied, and while John really would have preferred it if Sherlock would just drink the high caloric drinks, he has a feeling that exactly that part is what makes it easier to just blend a banana in milk for ten minutes at 2 o’clock in the morning.

John always goes back upstairs to his bed shortly after checking on Sherlock whenever he (accidentally) wakes him up, repeatedly telling himself that at least Sherlock is ‘eating’ something. He isn’t going to starve himself to death by completely restricting for weeks on end. 

It does a sad job at reassuring him, but it allows him to sleep at night.

Sherlock made a mistake. He had felt full but there was still some yoghurt left, so he’d forced that down as well. Feeling bloated and ill right away, he then ate some radish and cress, in hopes that it would help.

It hadn’t. The urge to throw up was all consuming, so he fled to John upstairs. They’d had a silent agreement that John would go away for a bit whenever Sherlock wanted to eat something, because even just knowing that John was nearby and could hear him filled him with anxiety, like he was committing a murder rather than eating food. It’s one of those moments where Sherlock is reminded that yes, there’s something seriously going wrong with his brain. 

He’s embarrassingly out of breath by the time he gets upstairs, and John looks up at him from where he’d been reading a book on his bed. “Oh, hey.”

Not saying anything, because he was too out of breath to explain, Sherlock plants himself down next to John on the bed.

“What’s wrong?” John asks.

“Ate too much.” Sherlock whines, like saying I feel sick, do something about it.

“You want to exercise?” 

“I want it out. But that’s not going to happen.” Sherlock complains.

“How about a walk?” John suggests.

“Wh.. a walk?” Sherlock asks dumbfounded.

“Yes. A walk, outside. It’s even a bit sunny out. Maybe some fresh air and a bit of light exercise will take your mind off.” 

Sherlock stays motionless for a few seconds, then gets up from John’s bed, and almost topples over and into the wardrobe.

John immediately jumps up, ready to steady him. “Woah, easy. Slow down.”

“Let’s go.” 

“Hm?”

“Outside.” Sherlock ‘clarifies’, before thumping down the stairs again.

Alright then..? John thinks, amused, and gets ready.

It’s colder than expected, and Sherlock is a bit chilly even with his great coat. He keeps trying to speed up the pace, trying and failing time and again to suppress the urge to just run. John grabs his hand after the third time, and curses at how cold the skin is.

“Sherlock, where are your gloves?” He demands.

“…at home..?” Sherlock asks sheepishly.

John groans and sandwiches Sherlock’s freezing cold hand between his own. 

“I didn’t think it would be so cold..” Sherlock defends lamely.

“Never mind, I should have made sure we had them.” John says, deciding to take the blame, lest Sherlock feels guilty again over something so marginal.

“How are yours always so warm?” Sherlock mutters, looking at John’s well perfused hands.

John just laughs. “I guess I’m your personal hand warmer now.”

Sherlock grins. He would ask him about warming his feet as well, but he couldn’t even feel them from the knees down, so he actually had no clue whether they were cold as well. 

He suddenly hears a rustling noise nearby and pulls his hand away from John.

“What is it?” John asks.

Sherlock shushes him. The noise sounds again, and this time John hears it too.

Sherlock follows the noise around the side of a house, into a little alleyway with trash bins. Looking closer, he finds a white ball of fur, fighting with a rolled up ball of tin foil. “It’s a dog.” He calls over to John. “A puppy.”

“Sherlock.. be careful, please.” John warns wearily. He doesn’t want Sherlock to add a bite wound to his problems.

Sherlock ignores him and kneels down before the trash bags, clicking his tongue and holding his hand out. He doesn’t reach for the leash, just waits for the fuzzy little puppy to notice him and come to him on its own accord.

His patience is rewarded when the fur ball climbs onto his lap with slightly dirty paws. Sherlock pets it carefully, as not to startle it, and marvels at the softness. 

“He’s like a cloud, John.” He calls over, and the puppy start obsessively licking Sherlock’s hands, before jumping up against his chest and giving kisses to his chin, making him laugh. 

John stays frozen, watching the scene unfold. While he was still feeling uneasy, he couldn’t help the smile at seeing Sherlock so happy, just for a moment.

“Alright, let’s see if we can’t find your owner, hm?” Sherlock mumbles to the puppy and gently takes it in his arms, stands up and re-joins John at the street, taking his time as to avoid getting dizzy (or worse) with this young dog in his arms. 

A boy, no older than ten years old, comes running up the street, repeatedly calling “Benji!” and frantically looking left and right. John waves his arm and calls to the boy “over here!”

The puppy looks at the boy now running towards them and starts wagging its tail. No doubt about that, at least.

Sherlock kneels down again, to let the puppy to the ground, but keeps a firm hold on the leash so the canine doesn’t end up jumping out on the street in excitement. 

The boy bends down to greet Benji, and looks up at the two men with puffy eyes and a tear streaked face. He’s still out of breath from running. 

Sherlock gives him the leash. “It’s alright. See? Not a scratch on him.”

The boy nods and keeps petting his happy dog. “I dropped the leash. I’m really clumsy, and he ran away.” He explains tearfully, looking up at John and Sherlock with scared eyes.

John comes a step forward. “It was an accident, and he’s okay. No harm done.” 

“Where are your parents?” Sherlock wonders.

The boy sniffs. “At work. They always are.” He picks up and hugs Benji to his chest. “That’s why they got me Benji. I wanted a friend, so they got me a puppy.”

John is saddened to hear that. He knows that it still happens, that parents just don’t have the time they should have for their children.

“Train him well, and you will have a friend for life.” Sherlock says, very sure of himself. He then proceeds to ramble about everything he knows about the breed – an american eskimo – smiling at the way the boy’s eyes go wide in awe.

“Wow, you know a lot!” The boy exclaims.

John shakes his head with a grin. Once the boy and his white, fuzzy companion started trekking back to their home, John asks “have a special interest in dogs, do you?” 

“Something like that.” Sherlock replies, sounding tense all of a sudden. John looks down to see him bent over, still crouching on his feet, his left hand touching the ground to help keep his balance, right arm wrapped around his middle, face contorted in pain.

“What’s wrong?” John asks, startled at the stark contrast. What he’d thought was Sherlock loosening up and enjoying something.. had it all just been an act? 

He remembers once again that Sherlock is a master at masking pain, which means he either didn’t want to hide it anymore now, or he couldn’t. 

“Sherlock?” He makes to lean down next to him, but Sherlock painstakingly pushes himself to his feet. 

“Nothing, I’m fine.” 

John rolls his eyes to the sky. “Would you stop lying and just tell me the truth?” 

“I want to go home.” Sherlock mumbles and starts heading home, hands deep in his coat pockets.

John follows him, annoyance softening a bit. “Is it the IBS again?” He whispers, even though there’s literally nobody nearby.

Sherlock shakes his head and doesn’t elaborate further. 

John keeps a close eye on him, and could tell how he is just the tiniest bit hunched forward. It speaks volumes to him, because he knows how Sherlock works: new pain -> he’s aware of it -> shortly after, he gets ‘used to’ the new state and just moves completely normal through the pain, so you couldn’t tell anything is amiss. So there are two options right now as to why he’s unable to completely hide whatever pain he’s currently in: number one, the pain is on and off so he can’t ignore it as easily as a constant, low level pain, or number two, the pain is too bad for him to ignore and cover up.

It never even crosses his mind that the pain wasn’t necessarily of the physical kind.

Luckily they aren’t far away from their flat, but John worries about the stairs again. It’s moments like this where he wishes they could find Sherlock a more accessible flat, but the stubborn git always scoffs at the idea of ever moving out of 221B.

It turns out he didn’t have to worry, because Sherlock instantly sits down with his head in his hands while John shuts the door.

“What’s wrong?” John asks again, sitting down next to Sherlock on the staircase.

Sherlock lets his hands drop and sighs. “Just needed a moment, let’s go up.” He mumbles and pushes himself up again. John gently grabs Sherlock’s arm to stop him.

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“Let me go.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“Let go!” Sherlock suddenly yells, snapping his arm out of John’s hold, before turning around and running up the stairs. 

“Sherlock-!” John chases after him, but Sherlock had already locked himself in his bedroom.

John sighs and accepts his fate. He couldn’t make Sherlock talk about things he didn’t want to talk about.

He just hopes it’s nothing life threatening, but when Sherlock comes back out in the evening, seeming okay, he’s carefully accepting that they wouldn’t be talking about this any time soon.

It all changes when the weather goes below 0°C and Sherlock is constantly freezing, no matter what. 

“You need to eat some carbs.. your body doesn’t have any energy left to keep you warm.” John begs as he rubs Sherlock’s arms up and down, trying to create some warmth. He has to warm up Sherlock’s fingers almost every hour, like clockwork, to make sure they keep getting blood flow. He knows that carbs are Sherlock’s mortal enemies. Not just because of the eating disorder, but carbs also cause the blood vessels to widen, which makes people with POTS feel highly unwell and tired.

Sherlock has a hot water bottle under one of John’s jumpers, squeezed between his thighs and belly, as he sits on the sofa with his knees drawn up to his chest and John behind him to hopefully radiate a bit of his body heat onto Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock’s body already had enough trouble regulating its temperature. Now that he’s hardly eating enough to get him through the day, John is afraid that Sherlock will go hypothermic at any moment, and then his body is going to shut down. He’s almost tempted to let him soak in a hot bath, but he’s too scared of Sherlock passing out.

So instead, he keeps the heating on full blast, makes him nice hot tea and alternates between the hot water bottle and electric blanket, and Sherlock keeps shivering and his teeth are sometimes chattering and still he repeatedly claims that he’s fine.

John wonders how the hell they’d survived the last winter, when Sherlock’s weight had been even worse. But then he remembers: Sherlock had been so badly underweight during the summer, and had gained almost 20 pounds back in time for winter to hit, thanks to his meds and regular meals with snacks in-between. He’d still been cold, but he was eating regularly and therefore didn’t basically freeze to death in his brother’s home.

He isn’t sure how they’re supposed to handle this. Sherlock is eating, it just isn’t even remotely enough for his body to stay warm. All of the energy is being used to keep his organs functioning.

John sleeps in Sherlock’s bed with him, simply because he’s afraid that Sherlock will go into hypothermic shock in his sleep if there isn’t a constant heat source glued to him. In his constant worry, he never even registered the fact that Sherlock should be taking medication in the mornings and evenings. He was so busy worrying about whether or not Sherlock would still be alive by morning, or if he was going to wake up with a corpse next to him, that it never crossed his mind that Sherlock wasn’t taking his meds.

John makes him hot soups (vegetable broth, which Sherlock will sometimes eat the little pieces of carrots from) and teas, but Sherlock’s arms stay covered in gooseflesh almost permanently. And of course all that shivering is just burning more calories than his body should be using to finally warm himself up.

There are a few moments where Sherlock feels warm, even warm enough to take off one of the many layers. They never last long, and the coldness often returns barely twenty minutes later with a vengeance, bringing along pure exhaustion. But it’s those twenty minutes that fill them both with a tiny shred of hope, only for that hope to get utterly crushed again.

But most of all, in his state of constant fear and wondering what else he could do for Sherlock, John is angry at Mycroft. He knows it’s totally irrational, but he just needed someone to blame, and the elder Holmes hasn’t so much as replied to John’s texts in ages. He feels left to his own devices, and Sherlock is scared, he knows Sherlock is scared, and John is shitting-his-pants-level terrified, but he doesn’t know what to do anymore.

He even let Sherlock take a hot bath after all, where the younger’s skin stayed prickled, like that was just how it would look from now on. At first the water had been at body temperature, then John let out a bit and refilled it with higher temperature water, repeated it for over an hour, and Sherlock still kept freezing. He was shivering in hot water. 

Instead of his body absorbing the heat, it was like the water just cooled down a lot faster from the coldness.

At that point, John just wanted to tear his hair out and scream, because his mind was repeating a constant mantra of Sherlock will die. Sherlock will die. Sherlock will fucking die and I can’t help him.

Between hot teas and soups, Sherlock starts eating small amounts of meat again. Meat and his beloved eggs, to give his body more proteins to burn and turn into energy. Probably out of his own fear that he wasn’t going to survive the winter at this rate.

He always needs John to stay with him and hold him while he sleeps after eating – the act of digestion taking too much energy and leaving him too exhausted to keep his eyes open shortly after.

Much to everyone’s massive relief, he stops freezing so much after barely a week of his ‘protein plan’. He still chills very easily and has to keep wearing thick layers and carries a fluffy sitting room blanket everywhere in order to stay warm, and John still spends most of the day warming up Sherlock’s hands, and sleeps with him in one bed, but it’s a huge improvement to the constant shivering and permanent goosebumps all over his body.

Over time, Sherlock even started eating more and more, without breaking down because he wanted to throw up or exercise, he smiled a lot more and joked around with John again. God, how they’d both missed it.

Life was finally looking up again, and it was an incredible feeling.

Chapter Text

Secretly scrolling through the many low heart rate notifications on his watch in the morning, fills him with an excited satisfaction. It was finally a way for him to control his heart rate and making it lower. 

Grinning to himself, he wonders how low he could make it go.

John thought they had gotten through this. He really thought that the battle was finally over, that they had won.

But, ironically, the thing that’s part of Sherlock’s recovery, is the same thing that causes him distress. And it’s not food, directly. It’s the weight he’s put on.

Despite all of Sherlock’s claims at the start of this whole thing, that he doesn’t care about the numbers or his appearance, John had already known that they actually did play a major role. And technically, Sherlock had spoken the truth, because it wasn’t him who completely panicked this morning when John had allowed him to weigh himself. It was his disorder. The mental illness that simply would not leave him alone. 

Sherlock had gained weight. Obviously. It was ‘only’ four pounds, and you really couldn’t tell a difference just by looking at him, save for how Sherlock was not freezing so badly all the time anymore and had a tiny bit more energy.

But those four pounds that had John cheering, had caused Sherlock to completely break down. Eyes staring at the number in disbelief and hatred, his hands shoved themselves deep into his brown curls. John’s smile fell from his face and Sherlock ran into his room, slamming the door and punching the wall, before curling into a tight ball, sitting beneath the window. He could do nothing to stop the rapid tears, wishing nothing more than to just be dead.

He knows that the ill feelings and thoughts will go away in a bit, and he’ll only feel stupid if he acts on any of them, not to mention how disappointed John would be. But in these moments, it feels like it’ll never pass.

There’s a soft knock on the door. “Sherlock..?” John’s voice is timid.

“Go away!” Sherlock screams before breaking down into loud sobs. 

Of course John would never turn his back on him when he’s like this, and instead of granting him his wish, John comes inside and sits down beside him, wrapping him in a hug and letting Sherlock cry against his shoulder. 

“Shhhhhh… just let it out.” John whispers to him, carefully stroking Sherlock’s back, ignoring the way his spine still protruded. “This is good, yeah? It’s good, Sherlock.” He says it over and over, until Sherlock’s sobs turn into just silent tears and he nods. “Having a bad day doesn’t mean you’ve undone all your progress.” John recites a quote from the POTS and Dysautonomia Facebook group that he thought would fit right now.

Sherlock seems to remember that one as well, because he barks a congested laugh. John lets go of him for a moment to grab a pack of tissues for him.

“Come. Let’s have some breakfast, okay?” He says gently, helping Sherlock to his feet. He knows that this is probably like rubbing salt into an open wound, but he wants to keep the routine as stable as possible, even when things get tough.

John motions for him to join him at the table, but Sherlock stares at the serving that John had placed for him and backs away from the table. I can’t. He wants to tell John, but doesn’t manage to get his mouth open. 

“Okay.” John quickly understands and nods at him. “You can take the day off.” He says, half jokingly.

Sherlock hesitates, feeling insecure again. Does he actually mean it? And what if I can’t do it tomorrow, either? He takes a shaky, deep breath. Take every day as they come, don’t worry too much and just focus on the here and now. Easier said than done, and he still feels guilty for disappointing John this way, but he goes back into his room.

He planned on just having a rest on his bed, but of course his brain has other plans, and he quickly finds himself on the floor, forcing himself to hold a plank for over two minutes. A fitting punishment, he finds. 

He already had no more energy left, even though he’d only been awake for half an hour, so he finally crawls back under the covers and quickly falls back asleep.

Little did they know that the relapse wouldn’t end, there.

Sherlock eats two bites from lunch before running off into his room again, and skips dinner entirely. The thing is, he actually wants to eat. He’s kind of hungry, but he just can’t. He just can’t.

He couldn’t swallow it, couldn’t force it down. The idea of putting anything into his mouth makes him gag and feel sick. Instead of an impulse or reflex to enjoy the food and swallow it, his body’s instinct is to spit it back out, as soon as possible.

So he curls up in his bed, fighting the urge to cry again, because his mind and body are at war and he’s right in the middle of it.

He’s become used to eating regularly and has to tell himself to stay strong, to not give in to the hunger, because he didn’t deserve to eat anything until he lost the weight he’s gained.

Exercise is the only thing that stops the feelings of hunger. He needs to be careful, though, because John doesn’t want him to work out. He can’t do anything noisy, like jumping or running in place, has to keep his panting breaths quiet, and he basically just stares at his door the whole time, and strains his ears to be able to tell if John was coming in to check on him.

And, just to be safe, he doesn’t wear his watch when he exercises, so that nobody could find out if they saw the heart rate histories on his phone.

Even though he could only exercise for maybe a minute or two at a time, because of the relentless fatigue, he keeps going in between breaks, using up every last bit of energy he has.

The heart rates keep getting lower. He was now at 42bpm as his new record, almost a bit sad that those only happen during sleep and not when he’s awake – sometimes, when he wakes up during the night and remembers it, he watches as his watch measures, but so far it has never gone below 47 when he was awake – but seeing the many notifications in the morning is an okay consolation price to him. 

The next day is even worse. He’s so dizzy that he can’t walk in a straight line, and his vision keeps fading in and out if he moves too much or too quickly. Just turning around on the spot causes him to almost pass out.

He’s shivering again, his body having run out of calories to burn once again, but when he had secretly weighed himself that morning, he hadn’t lost a single ounce. So he wasn’t allowed to eat, still.

He’s too tired to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time, and that time is spent on secretly exercising and having John worry over him.

John begs him to at least have one little spoon of yoghurt, even tries to feed it to him, but Sherlock had turned his head away from it and ran back into his room, where he just managed to land on his bed before he inevitably passed out. He would probably never get used to the feeling of losing consciousness, and then waking up again feeling like he’d just gotten run over by a truck.

By evening, he even refused to drink tea. Too worried that John would put too much sugar into it.

John finds him crying in his room ten minutes later, and tries to console him. 

“I’m scared. I’m so scared, John. It’s never been this bad. I don’t know what’s going on anymore!” Sherlock cries and John is at a loss for words.

In the dark of night, he secretly weighs himself again, and just wants to kill himself when the number has only gone down by half a pound. He didn’t understand how this could even happen, but then again, his heart rate was barely even hitting 100 lately, even without his meds, only going a bit higher than that when he exercises, which he hardly had the strength for, at that point.

The third day is when his body finally couldn’t handle it anymore, and Sherlock actually came really close to that date becoming his new gravestone engraving.

I seriously have to eat. I can’t go on anymore. Sherlock thinks desperately as he tries to get to his feet. He’s so dizzy and goes blind almost instantly, using the walls to guide him. 

The black vision doesn’t let up like it usually does. He barely makes it into the kitchen, the electric hum of the refrigerator ringing loudly in his ears, before he rapidly loses all of his senses one after the other, and passes out with a painful thud on the floor.

John, who was just about to offer Sherlock a cup of tea again, ready to go on his knees and beg and plead, turns around and stares at his limp form for a moment. Quickly turning off the stove, he rushes to check Sherlock’s vitals, already unconsciously knowing that this isn’t a normal syncope.

Despite his chest rising and falling in a slow but steady rhythm, Sherlock’s fingers are ice cold, nail beds and lips an alarming shade of blue. 

Fingers pressed against the artery of his neck, John thinks that he must be missing at least half of the weak beats, there is no way his heart is beating this slow. But a quick check with Sherlock’s watch tells him that he’s counting correctly. 

36 BPM

Way too low to get the blood pumping through his body, too low to survive for long periods of time if it doesn’t get back up. High risk of cardiac arrest, his mind helpfully supplies. His stomach turns into a tight knot.

John never thought he’d wish that Sherlock was tachycardic. 

“Mrs Hudson!” He yells, then pulls his phone out of his pocket. He immediately calls for an ambulance, keeping his eyes fixed on his unconscious friend and internally begging him to please don’t die.

Even with medication, his heart rate only spiked to 52 for all of ten seconds before dropping back down to 44. Sherlock is being pumped with fluids and vitamins to help stabilise him, and John is trying not to lose it as he sits next to the bed, holding Sherlock’s ice cold hand in his warm ones. Sherlock’s nails and lips had stayed blue and his oxygen saturation was down to 86%, so they had given him some oxygen on the drive to the hospital. 

John eyes the EKG monitor every few seconds, almost afraid that it would suddenly flatline. Sherlock’s heart was definitely beating slow enough to give that illusion in-between beats.

Half an hour later, the medication had finally kicked in, bringing Sherlock’s heart rate to an almost steady 58bpm, and his eye lids to flutter open.

“Hey.. you scared me there, mate.” John speaks softly, gently rubbing the back of Sherlock’s hand to help rouse him. 

Sherlock looks over at him, eyes full of questions but too out of it to ask any of them out loud. He doesn’t pull his hand away, so John keeps trying to warm it up.

“You passed out, your heart was beating too slow. They’re working on it.” John explains.

Sherlock frowns a little, obviously confused. His eyes are heavy and he’s struggling to keep them open.

“You can rest for a bit more, I’m here.” He tells him, lightly squeezing his hand.

And with that reassurance, his tired eyes close again.

A few hours later he’s a lot more alert and stable. And he still doesn’t see where the problem is.

“But John, it's been getting lower. That's a good thing!” Sherlock argues. He takes his phone and opens the heart rate history of the health app. “Look.”

John takes the phone and swipes through the days. The lowest and highest rates have gone significantly lower in the past couple of weeks. Starting at 55 as lowest and 162 as highest, the numbers almost only decrease with each day. A few times the lowest reading is over 50bpm again, but the next day it’s below it again. John feels sick with worry, doesn’t want to know how bad it has been recently without his knowledge, but he also couldn’t stop swiping through the charts. 

Sherlock hasn't even come close to 160 in the past four weeks, which is basically unheard of, and today has to be the worst of them all: 29 as lowest from some time during the night, and barely 62 as highest (one of the most recent readings, at the hospital). 29 beats per minute.. that’s barely one every two seconds, with possible breaks in-between… Sherlock could have died last night and I wouldn’t have even known. 

He wants to cry.

John looks up at Sherlock in complete horror. “Why didn't you tell anyone your heart rate was going so low?” Why didn’t you tell me..?

Sherlock still looks pleased with himself. “Well I've been working out a lot, and athletes have a lower resting heart rate. It's fine, John.”

“No Sherlock, it's not fine. Anything below 60 is bradycardia, an abnormally low heart rate. And yours has become dangerously low! People die at rates like this, Sherlock, this is serious! It's so bloody serious, why didn't you say anything?!”

Sherlock just stays silent, no longer looking proud of himself. “I just.. I figured I was doing it right..”

“Because you were exercising?” John asks with a raised eyebrow, handing the phone back.

Sherlock shrugs. “Well yes. What else could have done it?”

John stares at him in disbelief. “Maybe the fact hat you never eat, so your body doesn't have the strength to keep functioning, to keep your heart beating at normal rates? Did that ever cross your mind?”

“I eat.”

“Sherlock, once per day or even every two days, doesn't count. Do you still not see the effects your starvation has on your body? Sherlock, if I hadn't been right there…. if I had been out, or still upstairs and not notice when I did, you could be dead right now.” John says it in a low, almost threatening voice, to get the point across.

And it looks like the harsh approach has gotten through to him, at least.

“You must have gotten so dizzy when it went that low.” John thinks out loud.

“Well it was mostly low when I've been laying down for a while. Not always, only sometimes. I was mostly around 70..” Sherlock murmurs.

“And you didn't stop to think that maybe that isn't how it should be, when you drop so low every now and then?” John asks.

Sherlock shrugs. “I mean.. it feels really weird when it's so slow, and I got a bit freaked out the first few times, but then I just got used to it.”

“Used to it.” John deadpans. He wants to roll his eyes at that phrase. It was starting to piss him off almost as much as ‘fine’.

“I guess.”

John has to look away for a moment, then takes out his own phone and looks something up, muttering “just so you know, if I had been aware of this, I would have gotten you inpatient already, because it’s a very bad sign for your heart to beat this slow.” When he finds a good page with correct information, he gives Sherlock his phone to read it for himself.

Bradycardia is a Severe Anorexia Complication

Cardiac complications are arguably one of the most severe medical issues stemming from anorexia. Bradycardia (heart rate less than 60 beats per minute) and hypotension (blood pressure less than 90/50) are among the most common physical findings in anorexia, with bradycardia seen in up to 95 percent of patients. (Mehler & Brown, 2015) Low heart rate results from the body’s parasympathetic nervous system trying to conserve energy, while hypotension is due to a weakened heart muscle and in some cases, dehydration that occurs commonly alongside anorexia. Alternatively, non-cardiac causes of chest pain in a patient with anorexia nervosa can include gastroesophageal reflux, pneumothorax, muscular strain or anxiety.

Athletic Heart and Bradycardia

Individuals suffering from anorexia will often attribute their low heart rate to an “athletic heart.” In other words, they justify their low heart rate with the belief that their exercising has made them a truly conditioned athlete and therefore they have low resting heart rates and experience only small increases with exertion. While many of these patients may be exercising excessively to lose weight, the reality is that a starved, malnourished heart is not in excellent condition. Rather, it will display an abnormally rapid heart rate (tachycardia, 100+ bpm) with even minor exertion, like walking across the room or standing up from a lying position. Moreover, ultrasound of the heart in a patient with anorexia nervosa will reveal small, thin heart chambers versus normal chamber size in the athlete. Because few medical providers are trained in understanding eating disorder complications, the rationale of an “athletic heart” is often accepted in medical settings, whereas a trained eating disorder expert would recheck the pulse following minor exertion and understand this symptom—presenting with low body weight—to be a clear indication of anorexia nervosa.

Bradycardia Requires Immediate Medical Attention

In general, patients with anorexia nervosa and severe bradycardia (heart rate less than 40 bpm) and hypotension should be hospitalized for monitoring and stabilization. At this stage of cardiac distress, the patient is likely experiencing other serious medical complications related to their illness, and medical stabilization in a specialized inpatient medical setting may be necessary prior to entering an eating disorder treatment program.

Sherlock lets the words sink in. Especially key words like “severe complication”, “immediate medical attention”, “severe bradycardia - heart rate less than 40 bpm” and “should be hospitalized” are swirling around in his head. He doesn’t like how they describe exactly which wrong conclusions he had come to. It makes him feel like a stupid, average person. 

He wordlessly gives John his phone back. 

“Your body is going to shut down if you don’t stop exercising and start eating.” John says, voice completely flat.

Sherlock nods mutely. He knows he really fucked up this time. Big time.

Chapter Text

Despite planning on eating regularly again, Sherlock is struggling to get even close to his food tray. He knows he needs to eat. But the thought of putting anything in his mouth is giving him crippling anxiety.

“Sherlock please..” he hears John pleading, but it doesn’t change anything about his inner turmoil.

Sherlock lifts the lid to see what monstrosities they are expecting him to eat this time. It’s a vanilla pudding, filled in a large soup bowl, which is probably enough to feed an entire family. On the side is a small clear glass bowl with frozen raspberries. He already knows that those will be a sensory nightmare. If they had been fresh – which is basically impossible in the winter – he might have even eaten them.

Overwhelmed by the way too big serving of pudding, he places the lid back over it to hide it from his sight, but the smell still lingers. It must have been cooked recently.

“Sherlock..” 

He throws John a side glare before turning away. He knows that John is perfectly aware of the fact that pressuring him to eat isn’t helping him in the slightest.

At the table, John had been about to just dig in, as always. But then he gets an idea. “If you are going to restrict, then I’ll do it too.” He declares.

Sherlock immediately looks over to him. “John.” He starts, but he hasn’t even gotten a straight thought yet.

“That’s my name.” John deadpans. “If you won’t eat, then neither will I.”

“John, don’t do this.” 

Demonstrating his point, John places the lid over his own, much more colourful menu and leans away in his chair. 

“John, you can’t!” Sherlock snaps. “I won’t permit it!”

John scoffs. “You don’t permit what, exactly? Starving yourself is fine but if others do the same it’s suddenly a problem, is that it?”

Sherlock glowers at him, jaw tense. “Fine. Be my guest, not like you’ll last very long, anyways.” He turns away from him again, curling up into a ball under the blankets when his chilled body is overcome with goosebumps.

Challenge accepted. John thinks and gets up from the table, in an attempt to minimise his own temptation. 

Roughly twenty minutes later (though it feels like it’s been twenty hours, to John), Sherlock gets so annoyed at John’s stomach growling louder with each time. “God damn it John.” He curses, still absolutely freezing under the blanket.

“I’m not giving in.” John says with more determination than he actually feels. It’s like the moment he decided that he wouldn’t eat anything before Sherlock does, his stomach is suddenly having a midlife crisis. And as if on cue, his stomach growls again. He’s feeling a bit embarrassed at this point. Sherlock could go days on end without eating anything at all, and his stomach never growls. 

Although, when he thought about it.. Sherlock has probably trained his stomach to not make a noise, given how many years he’s been dealing with the anorexia and thoughts. Even though you technically couldn’t teach your autonomous nervous system to just not do xyz (Sherlock would probably have cured his POTS long ago if that was a thing), he is pretty sure that his disorder plays at least some part in it. 

He wants to blame the gastroparesis for it, but how could John possibly judge how much which illness is causing Sherlock’s stomach to simply hibernate?

John’s own stomach lets out another, ridiculously long growl that makes him hide his face in embarrassment, and Sherlock just can’t take it anymore.

Skin still covered in goosebumps that only worsens when he pushes the blanket away, to the point where his teeth start chattering, he takes off the lid from his tray and takes the spoon in his trembling hand. He doesn’t let it touch the yellow stuff yet, just hovers the spoon above it as he stares at this thing like it’s his mortal enemy.

John is watching him in surprise from his own bed. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and dips the spoon into it a bit, so that not too much sticks to it. Fiddling a bit with it in the air, John could see the mental struggle. Then, Sherlock closes his eyes and just puts it into his mouth, moving so quickly like he might have changed his mind if he’d taken much longer.

John stays completely silent, frozen on the spot, watching. Sherlock doesn’t swallow after removing the spoon from his lips. He sits there, completely tense. John could see his jaw and tongue moving, but he doesn’t swallow.

Right when he thinks that Sherlock is going to give up and spit it back out into a tissue, he suddenly grabs his water glass from the night stand with shaking hands, and it’s only then that John really notices how much he is shivering.

Sherlock gulps down the whole water in one go before more or less slamming it back down and trying to refill it, his arms barely having the strength to hold the large glass bottle up.

John comes to his rescue and takes it from him, filling the glass almost to the brim, and Sherlock drinks a bit more from it.

“I’m sorry John, I just can’t. I can’t.” Sherlock cries and crumbles. His stomach hurts from him drinking so much all at once and he’s so nauseous from the tiny amount of food. The lingering taste makes him desperately want to throw up.

Shocked at the admission, John shushes him. “You tried. I know you’re trying, I just.. I guess I don’t understand why it’s so incredibly difficult for you to eat, but I can see it, okay? I see you struggling so much, and I..” John cringes at himself for a second, “I don’t know how to help you.” He was starting to detest that sentence almost as much as he hates the word ‘fine’ coming from Sherlock’s mouth.

“Please eat.” Sherlock whispers hoarsely, looking at John with pleading eyes. “I don’t want you to.. you can’t do this..” 

John nods, but first takes off his jumper and hands it to poor, shivering Sherlock. “Put it on, I’ll turn the heat up.” He says softly and goes to do just that, while Sherlock pulls on the way too big jumper and curls up under the blanket again.

On his way back to his own food tray, John covers Sherlock’s pudding bowl again with the discarded lid, in hopes that it might stay a bit warm in the rare case Sherlock somehow manages to eat later, then puts on a long sleeved shirt over his own undershirt to keep himself cozy.

“Are you sure you want me to eat in here?” John asks, just for confirmation. He doesn’t want to upset Sherlock further.

“Yes.” Comes the assertive reply. 

So John starts eating, although he still feels a bit guilty. He wonders how Sherlock had done it, in the beginning – the restricting. Maybe John isn’t as strong willed and stubborn as he first thought himself to be. Sherlock makes it look almost easy.

That’s because not eating is easier than to eat, idiot. His inner Sherlock scolds him. But that’s not completely true, John is certain. He is pretty sure that Sherlock wants to eat, but the disorder makes it so difficult that skipping meals is just easier.

John is so absorbed in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Sherlock removing the lid on his own tray, and the first few, very hesitant spoonfuls of the vanilla pudding actually getting down to his stomach without drinking a litre of water to get it down. He eventually hits the bowl with the spoon, and the clink! makes John whip his head around.

Sherlock immediately gives him a sheepish, guilty smile, like he’s just done something he shouldn’t. John returns it with surprise and confusion. “My stomach hurts..” Sherlock explains.

Translation: I finally got so hungry that my stomach is trying to eat itself in the form of ulcers. John muses ruefully and just turns back to his own food, grinning to himself, and Sherlock even swallows a few more spoonfuls before placing the lid on it for good and pushing it away.

John joins him at the side with their beds again once he’s finished as well, deciding that he really needs to know the reason behind all this. Sherlock almost died and John still doesn’t even know what had started this all.

“Sherlock.. why are you doing this? Nobody just decides to.. stop eating one day, without a reason.” 

He gets no reply.

“I can’t help you if I don’t know what set it off in the first place.”

Silence.

“Please.. just give me one word. One little word, to help me understand the 'why'.” He begs.

Sherlock looks him in the eyes; John’s own are shining with tears. He turns away again, and right when John wants to throw in the towel and give up, he says something.

A single word, barely a whisper, but a word that makes John’s world crumble around him at once, and shatters his heart with it.

“Drugs.”

At first John only stares at him, a hundred thoughts racing through his mind. He probably stands there completely frozen for at least a full minute, before he finally whispers a soft, barely audible “what?” Mycroft told me it started after he got clean. Oh my god-

“You wanted to know what made me do this in the first place. Well, the answer is drugs.” Sherlock replies uncomfortably.

“Do you.. do you want to..” John can’t bring himself to say it out loud, so Sherlock does it for him,

“Use?” At John’s guilty nod, Sherlock continues. “Not right now. I.. back then, I just.. ‘starved myself’ as a way to.. punish myself whenever I wanted to use.” He sighs. “I guess.. in a twisted way.. really twisted way… I always needed a way to have control over myself. No matter what I did. ..or didn’t do.”

“Because of Victor?” John asks quietly, and watches Sherlock’s entire form crumble for a moment. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up..”

“How d..” Sherlock chokes, clears his throat, tries again with a shaky voice, “how do you know about that?” Then he groans in realisation. “Mycroft...” he curses.

“Yes.. he told me a little about that.” 

Sherlock closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. “Victor was.. mmh..” his eyes flit up to John for a second. “We promised each other that we’d never use drugs again.”

John’s heart shatters. “You wanted to get better, for each other?”

Sherlock nods and sniffs, swallows painfully. “I guess I just.. wasn’t enough.” John watches a tear fall on the mattress. 

“No, don’t say that. Don’t even think that, ever. Things like that, they just happen, okay? Nobody is at fault, apart from the addiction.” John immediately says.

“Is that how.. how you felt, when you knew that I.. relapsed that one time? That you hadn’t been enough.. to stop me?” Sherlock asks, carefully looking up at John with watery eyes. 

John knows what he’s getting at, and closes his eyes with a sigh before answering “of course I blamed myself, because I thought I should have seen it coming, thought that if I had just… called one more time, or been with you, I could have prevented it.” He says honestly, and another tear falls from Sherlock’s eyes. John doesn’t falter, though, because he finally has Sherlock’s eye contact. “I think it’s just a normal reaction, to blame ourselves. But once we finally got you more stabilised, I just came to terms with it. There’s… Mycroft told me something that really helped me get over it. He.. he said that this wasn’t the first danger night that we’ve missed, and it won’t have been the last. Relapses happen, it’s a coping mechanism that often goes on for many years before it gets treated. Nobody holds it against you, okay?”

Biting at his lip, Sherlock nods. When he blinks, there are more tears, and part of John is actually glad that Sherlock isn’t fighting them or trying to cover them. He’s finally letting himself feel. Raw emotions.

“‘M sorry.” The hoarse voice breaks.

“Don’t be.” John whispers. “Can I hug you?” He could hardly keep from just doing so until Sherlock gives him a nod in permission. He gets off his bed, joins Sherlock on his and wraps his arm around him, pulling Sherlock against his chest, tightly yet mindful of his hardly protected bones and unstable joints. Sherlock cries quietly into John’s shoulder, and John’s own eyes are leaking stray tears into the dark curls that lack their usual ‘poofy-ness’. 

They don’t separate even after they both stopped crying.

“Sherlock.. why now..? If you don’t want to use, why are you doing it now?” John asks, because as always, the more Sherlock tells him, the more questions he has. Although this time he has a pretty good idea, thanks to his online researches. He carefully lays his head on the back of Sherlock’s bony shoulder, being mindful not to accidentally hurt him. “Could it be that you feel like you lost all control when you got sick?”

A moment of silence. Then, a nod. 

“And to make matters worse, you still feel guilty about not solving the Schall case quicker and bringing her to justice.” John adds, feeling pretty proud of himself for figuring this out. ‘People who are on the spectrum often feel an intense need for justice.’ It’s a trait that basically describes Sherlock’s whole life, even if John never wanted to compare Sherlock to the autism traits described on the internet. 

He mentally cheers when Sherlock nods again, then sobers up and feels bad for his friend. It’s all good and well to want justice, but not to the point where it’s eating you up. Like the show on YouTube always says: "it’s not about what you’re eating, it’s what’s eating you."

“And I’m also guessing that what happened to your mother and Astra, and maybe even Victor, is playing a big part.” John adds carefully.  Plus, I don’t think he ever really came to terms with what happened to him, growing up. That’s definitely not helping with his new problems.

Sherlock sighs. “Basically anything would attribute to.. well, this.”

“Well, yes, it’s rarely just one thing. One key point may have started it, but it’s the emotional part that is at fault for causing eating disorders.” John explains. “What you’re doing, with restricting food intake, do you know what it does to the system?” He asks.

Sherlock shrugs. “Are you going to tell me that I’m destroying my body and slowly killing myself?” He’s heard that enough for a lifetime.

John shakes his head. “Nope. I’m going to tell you that starving yourself like this, causes your emotions to become numb, a bit like dissociation in a way. You’re starving away your feelings so you feel like nothing else can hurt you.”

The words have Sherlock pull away to look up at John with shock.

John continues. “The malnourishment causes changes in the brain similar to major depression, anxiety, OCD and body dysmorphic disorder. Your judgement is clouded, you’re emotionally numb, yet anxious about anything and everything. Now add your autism into the mix, and what do you get?”

Stunned into silence, Sherlock looks away, thinking it over. “..Me..?” He asks, not seeing where John is going with this.

John’s face gives nothing away. “A person at their breaking point. Maybe already past it, actually.”

“I’m not broken.” Sherlock defends.

“Trust me, everyone is. Some more than others, granted, but everyone has to figure out how to put themselves back together. Others can’t fix the cracks. They can hold the pieces where they have to go, but only you can glue them back together.”

Sherlock’s forehead scrunches as he frowns. “What’s with you and these strange metaphors lately? What books are you reading?”

John just laughs, because Sherlock is always missing the point with his need to take things literally. “Never change, Sherlock.”

“I thought I’m supposed to glue myself back together?” Sherlock asks innocently, and John just laughs and hugs Sherlock again, who doesn’t really know what John is suddenly laughing at, but he’d take that over the crying any day. 

Plus, John is a great heat source, and maybe John isn’t the one holding Sherlock’s pieces together, and is instead the glue to put everything back together.

“When did it first start?” John asks suddenly.

“Hm?”

“Your eating disorder. When did it first start? At what age?”

“I think 17 or 18. It.. it started after Victor died..”

John’s eyes widen at that. “Hang on, you were in rehab at 17? When did you start.. you know.. taking drugs?”

“At age 10 or 11, I can’t remember.”

Holy f… “You shot up at 10 years old?” John asks in disbelief.

“No. Remember that I started with morphine tablets?”

“Oh.. right.”

“At first I only took them to help me sleep, you know?” Sherlock asks guiltily. “I had horrible insomnia, sometimes couldn’t sleep for 3 days straight.”

John can’t imagine what a stress that must have been. Sherlock was still at school at that age – obviously. Going 3 days without sleep and having to take tests? Do homework? Pay attention? John remembers how he had barely been able to keep his eyes open when he’d stayed up all night studying for a big test once. He immediately fell asleep when he got home and collapsed in his bed. But of course you couldn’t really compare that.

“Where did you get the pills?” He asks.

Sherlock’s entire body language emits an aura of shame. “I stole them.. from a neighbour.” He closes his eyes so he couldn’t see John’s reaction. “I think she must have had Alzheimer’s or something, because she never noticed the pills missing. She um.. she’d asked me how I was doing and I told her about my sleeping problems, and she told me about her pills. I figured out that she always gets them in a bag from the pharmacy, and whenever she brought shopping bags along with them, I offered to ‘help’ her carry them, and just sneaked the morphine out..” He remembers how scared he had been at being found out, but it had simply never happened. “After we moved to London, I had to find other ways to get them. At that point I was taking them 3 to 5 times a day, but I still hadn’t realised that I was already addicted. I didn’t even know what they were, or anything about them.”

“You were young. I doubt anyone would have realised what was happening to them at that age if they developed an addiction.” John tries to console him.

“Maybe.. but I always thought I would be smarter than that.” Sherlock sighs. “Eventually, Mycroft caught me with the pills, and got me sent off to rehab the first time. I met Victor, we ended up sharing a room. He got there just two days before me, so we pretty much went through the same shit.” 

John can’t help but grin at Sherlock cussing. 

“He..” Sherlock shakes his head a little. “Out of the both of us, he actually wanted to get better, from the start. For his family. And.. eventually, I wanted to get better for him. It turned out that he even lived in the neighbourhood, just ten minutes away from us. We.. we made plans, you know? For when we got out. For the future, what we wanted to become.” The more he says, the more his voice loses its colour. When he first started talking about Victor, it was vibrant, like a rainbow. Now it has turned into black and white, monotonous words that hold no life.

“I’m sorry.” John whispers. He really is.

“After he died..” Sherlock breaks off completely. John waits for him to continue. “I felt.. betrayed.” He briefly looks over at John before turning away again. “I felt so betrayed. And of course my first stupid thought after getting the news, was to- was to- was to-” he briefly shuts his eyes and his head gives a twitch, almost like a tic. “-take drugs.” 

John wants to tell him that it’s normal, that it’s a coping mechanism that his brain had developed, but Sherlock continues before he could make a sound. “But I didn’t. And to punish myself for even thinking of doing that, I didn’t eat.” He sighs. “Nobody thought anything of it. I had just lost my first and only friend, of course they assumed that I just didn’t have much of an appetite.” He lets out a dry laugh. “So I turned it into an experiment. Seeing how long I could go without eating until someone noticed. At first I caved a few times, ate whatever I found when I was alone. But nobody seemed to care. But who would care if their screwed up, drug addicted son starved himself? Nobody.”

“Sherlock-”

“I went one week without eating a single thing before Mycroft brought me to a hospital, where they shoved that tube down my nose and force-fed me. And you know why he did that?” Sherlock asks, his voice and entire body are vibrating, trembling in anger. “Because I wanted to eat again, but couldn’t. I couldn’t swallow it. My whole body rejet- rejected it.”

Shit. John is speechless.

“Then I got out after a week, and saw no other way out than to steal morphine at the hospital.” His voice and body have lost their fire again. “So Mycroft took me back to rehab. Went through it, got clean, but they never worked on the actual problem. I got out, and ironically, there was a group of junkies near the parking lot. That was the first time I took cocaine, intravenously. Mycroft wouldn’t be there to pick me up for another hour, so I had enough time and money on my hands for them to teach me how to inject myself.”

John wishes he could turn back time and make sure that young Sherlock never got in touch with them. Of course he had known that Sherlock had learned how to shoot up at some point, but he sort of hadn’t expected it to have been this way.

“When my brother picked me up, he could instantly tell that I was high. At that point, Mycroft realised that rehab wasn’t going to work out. Instead of forcing me right back in, he told me to get into the car. And on the drive home, Astra happened. You know the rest.”

Damn. But something doesn’t sit right with him. “When I first asked you how you met Astra, you told me that you went right back to drugs after the first rehab.” John says, confused. He remembers Sherlock saying that.

Sherlock sighs heavily. “Yes, because I never wanted you to know about.. all of this.” He gestures to his body. 

“I’m sorry.” John repeats, for lack of anything better to say. 

“Any other questions?” Sherlock asks. 

“Just one.”

“Shoot.”

“Why did Briggs know about your.. drug addiction?”

Sherlock tenses beside him and John regrets asking that. “It was a few years after I got her, rehabilitated her both physically and mentally. She was at a very good point, so I started riding her. Not very often, but just so she could see other things besides the stable grounds. It was going so well..” he wraps his left hand around his right wrist. “And then those kids happened.” The left hand tightens its grip.

John could see him screwing his eyes shut and breathing rate picking up speed. He watches the heart monitor that Sherlock was still connected to, which showed a row of quick extrasystoles that make Sherlock give a weak cough, before going back to steady 54bpm. “Sherlock.” He gently lays a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. His whole frame jumps, like he just got thrown off the horse and broken his wrist upon impact. Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at John, left hand releasing its grip. 

“I thought that it was happening again. That she was going to die, too. I was lucky that she ran back to the stables, completely unscathed. But I was so scared, I couldn’t be near her anymore. I thought, next time, I wouldn’t be so lucky.” Sherlock rubs at his eyes, which had become glassy. “So, once again, I did the only thing I could think of.”

“You fell off the wagon, but that’s completely understandable, after a scare like that.” John reasons knowingly. Especially knowing about the trauma of the barn fire, and the disastrous effects it had.

“I stayed on the streets for months, couldn’t face the disappointment from my family. Until one night I became witness to a murder, and Lestrade, back then a Sergeant, needed my statement. He first thought that my deductions about the killer were some made up hallucination from being high. Normally he should have put me in a cell to sober up, or made sure that I got home. But he didn’t. He took me to his place. Got into a heated argument with his, back then, fiancé. We talked a lot, and he offered to let me have a look at some cold cases if I stopped shooting up.”

John remembers Sherlock telling him about how he had kept taking morphine pills for a while after he started working with Greg, and has an inkling that Sherlock would have taken Greg’s request for ‘no more injecting’ literally. “He saw your potential, when everyone else only ever looked away.”

“So, we both did as asked, and I got ten cold cases solved, plus the murder I witnessed, which got him the promotion.” Sherlock says proudly. Then he pauses. “Wait, what was your question again?”

“Uuuhhh..” Yeah, how did we get here? Oh! “How Briggs knew about the drugs.”

“Ah, right. Well, someone had to take care of Astra, and when I finally came back, we just.. talked. Keep in mind that we didn’t have much of a relationship before, he was just the owner of the estate and I was just one of the occupants to him. Though he’s always had an interest in me and how I was rehabilitating a traumatised horse all by myself.”

I think he always knew that you were someone special. John grins to himself. Some people just do.

“So you were still anorexic when you started working with the Yard, correct?” John asks conversationally.

Sherlock shrugs, unsure. “Yes and no. The more I focused on the cases, the less I thought about… other things. Plus I needed to eat in order to gain strength, to work with Astra and so I could chase suspects or run from danger at top speed. It never really went away, but it was a lot less active. Just.. in the background, hiding in the shadows, always ready to pounce back when I least expect it.”

“You know.. mental illnesses are quite often insidious, especially eating disorders. You don’t know what’s happening to you, for a pretty long time, until it has taken full control over your life.” John rambles, gently stroking Sherlock’s arm with the hand he has around him. “No other illness is so much about hiding, to keep the signs hidden from other people, and even the person them-self. It’s what makes it so dangerous.”

Sherlock is silent for a while, absent mindedly watching John’s fingers on his arm. “I didn’t mean to hide it from you.” He eventually says, his voice just a whisper. “In fact, I can’t tell you how often I just wanted to call you, or send a text, or just bloody say it.” 

John gently squeezes his arm, silently telling Sherlock that he wasn’t mad at him.

“But I never could.” Sherlock finishes, and tiredly lays his head on John’s chest as they both lean back.

Mertens pays them a visit, and sighs sadly when he sees Sherlock. “I had hoped to never see you in this state again. What’s going on?” He asks kindly and takes a chair next to Sherlock’s bed, sitting down on eye level with him.

John, who is holding Sherlock’s cold hand again, gives him a reassuring squeeze.

Sherlock takes a shaky breath and looks almost fearfully at the cardiologist. “I might have a problem with..” his throat feels tight. Don’t go mute again. Don’t. “I- I- I- may- maybe have an- an-” he feels so damn stupid. John lays a hand on his shoulder, causing Sherlock to jump slightly and turn to him for a second. “E-eating disorder.” He finally chokes out, not daring to see Mertens’ reaction.

“Your blood work was highly suggestive of it, so thank you for telling me.” The cardiologist says in a soothing manner. “I would like to have a look at your heart, before we decide on anything. Is that alright with you?”

“How am I s-supposed to get there?” Sherlock asks. He was on strict bed rest, much to his annoyance.

“There’s someone waiting outside the room with your wheelchair.” Mertens says with a grin.

Sherlock frowns. Who would come here with that? My brother wouldn’t wait outside. Did John call Mrs Hudson?

But when Mertens opens the door, it’s not his landlady waiting there with a big smile. It’s Mary.

John walks over to her and they coddle and kiss for a moment. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me, remember?” She reminds him before coming over to Sherlock. “Hey, big softy. How are you?” She asks sweetly.

“I sssuppose we’re about t-to find out.” Sherlock replies, eyeing the wheelchair wearily.

“I’ll disconnect you real quick,” Mertens says and turns off the heart monitor before unclipping the leads from the patches on Sherlock’s chest. It felt oddly freeing to not have the cables connecting him to the damn machine.

“And I’ll be off.” Mary tells them. She briefly squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder in good luck, before walking out into the hallway with John. 

Sherlock carefully climbs from the bed into the wheelchair. He has to grip the arm rests with his hands tightly, feeling dizzy and out of breath from the strain. He could now see why he wasn’t allowed to get up and walk.

“Alright?” Mertens asks concerned.

Thankfully the feeling goes away again, and Sherlock nods.

John comes back in again, and they take Sherlock to Mertens’ office for the ultrasound.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had an echo on you, with your heart beating this slowly.” Mertens comments half jokingly during the echo.

“How’s it look?” John asks, worrying his lip as he watches the screen.

“Thankfully, it doesn’t look as bad as I feared. But I really have to forbid you to exercise in any way until you get your strength up. No walking stairs, no fast walking, no heavy lifting, none of that stuff. You have to rest, and eat.” He says pointedly. “I might have to get you transferred to the eating disorder ward, have a nurse sit with you during meals to monitor that you’re eating enough.”

Sherlock closes his eyes at the stern words, and he feels his heart slowing down again as the feeling of hopelessness tears in his chest.

The change is not lost on the two doctors, and John rubs Sherlock’s calf, since it was the closest thing he could get to. “Hey. It’ll be okay, alright?” He simultaneously watches Sherlock and the screen, relieved when the heart chambers are moving at a healthy pace once again. “Everything will be okay.”

Sherlock pretends that it’s not a tear that’s slipped past his eyelids. 

Nothing will be okay. This thing is going to kill me.

Everything goes to hell when a nurse comes into his room with a pill. John had left Sherlock to discuss a few things with Mertens about how they would proceed, and hasn’t returned yet.

“Alright Mister Holmes, they want you to take this.” The nurse holds out the little plastic cup that houses the pill.

Sherlock eyes it suspiciously and stays away. “What is that?”

“I am under strict orders not to tell you.” She says and places the cup down on his bed table. 

That was not the response Sherlock had been looking for. His fight or flight instincts kick in immediately. “Under strict orders to poison me, you mean! Get the hell away from me!”

“Mister Holmes, I can’t leave before you have taken the medication.” The nurse says, perfectly calm.

“Get. The fuck. Out!!!” Sherlock throws the cup across the room, hands violently shaking when he pulls them back to himself.

“I’m going to call-”

“GET OUT OF MY ROOM!!! In fact, I am discharging myself, right now. Get me the papers that I have to sign and then stay the hell away from me.”

The nurse swallows down her response and just leaves. She calls John the moment she’s out of earshot, explaining the dire situation.

Sherlock leans back against the pillow when the door is closed, trying to let all of the anxiety and adrenaline out of his body now that the threat is gone and over with. 

He only gets roughly a minute of peace before his heart beats out of rhythm. First once, then so many times at once that it just feels like his heart is fluttering in his chest instead of regular beating. He uses his watch to take an ECG, and watches through bleary eyes the electric mess his heart is producing. Almost every single beat is accompanied by a premature one, sometimes even two, making it look like multiple, very quick beats. Oftentimes the extrasystole is much taller than the normal beats.

He is used to getting these arrhythmias. He ignores the palpitations resulting from them, ignores the accompanying dizziness, just holds onto something when there’s a few at once that make him feel like he’s about to collapse or even pass out.

But never has he had this many. Not even at the trial had they been this prominent, and he’d had quite a lot of them, then. 

The thought scares him. Is this a bad sign? Have I done more damage to my heart? He wonders when his heart finally beats normally again. Maybe it was just a one time thing.

Ignore, ignore, ignore.

His heart doesn’t start acting up again, and by the time he decided that the odd event never happened, the door opens to his room. “Ah, finally. What took so-” Sherlock cuts himself off when it’s not the nurse, but John Watson. 

John looks down at the cup on the floor, searching for the pill for a moment. 

“Don’t bother.” Sherlock says, not liking John’s cold demeanour. 

But John finally discovers where it had flown to and places it back into the cup before standing up and facing Sherlock.

“I won’t take it.” Sherlock points out.

“They only wanted to give you a mood stabiliser.” John says calmly, not giving Sherlock the cup. He stays standing a few paces away from the bed.

“Then they should have just bloody told me!!”

“They went about it all wrong, I know. They thought that the last time you were struggling so much with taking the Ivabradine was because you knew what it was.” John shakes his head. This could set Sherlock back so much, he’s worried that Sherlock might not take any pills at all, again.

“I want to get out of here, John. I’m not staying here another minute.” Sherlock’s voice is hardly above a whisper, then he climbs off the bed, walks a few steps, then has to pause and hold on to the wall.

John sighs but doesn’t interfere. He’s just waiting for the moment where Sherlock collapses and he has to catch his fall.

The moment never happens. Sherlock just lowers himself down, wincing when his bones make contact with the floor he’s sitting on. He closes his eyes and sighs in defeat.

John sits down next to him on the floor. “It’ll be okay.” He repeats his earlier words. “I know it’s scary right now. I know that everything is too much. But if I know one person who can get through this, it’s you.”

Sherlock gives him a weary side glance. “Why do I always have to fight? To prove myself? Why can’t I just be weak, for once? Will everyone just stop cheering me on if I don’t get back up on my feet? Are they going to turn their backs on me, and pretend they never knew me?”

“No. We- I will stick by your side until you find the strength to get up again. You know that I won’t leave you.” John reminds him, though he couldn’t help the stab of sadness from having to do so.

“..help me get off this damn floor.” Sherlock says, openly wincing when he shifts to get his legs beneath himself.

“Gladly.” 

Chapter Text

They knew it would be hard for Sherlock. John had managed to convince Mertens to keep Sherlock on the cardiology station, and under his ‘food watch’. Even if it meant that John had to do the one thing he knows gives Sherlock anxiety: watching him eat, and writing down how much he’s eating.

If Sherlock doesn’t manage at least half of his meals, he has to drink an Ensure as well, which he never manages, either. 

So between the yelling of a defensive and upset Sherlock, John is busy trying to comfort him when he breaks down. Sometimes he breaks down before the meals, sometimes in the middle of it, but most of the time, Sherlock just fell apart shortly afterwards, when the thoughts suddenly screamed at him, demanding to know why the hell he ate this or that, and pressuring him to rectify his ‘mistake’. Luckily, that state of intense guilt, anxiety, major discomfort and upset only lasts a few hours at most, which sadly means that sometimes, he’ll just be okay again in time for the next meal, and then the whole cycle starts all over again. 

They weigh him every two days, as opposed to once a week, which would normally be the standard for such cases, — because they have to keep an eye on signs that his heart was starting to fail, which would lead to him gaining multiple kilos of water weight.

Sherlock deliberately looks away every time he has to get on the scale.
He confessed to John that he’s been secretly weighing himself at home and that it only ever made him more upset, but he hadn’t been able to stop checking. So John had suggested that he should just get on backwards, so he couldn’t sneak a look even if he suddenly wanted to, and Sherlock had gladly accepted. Even though the need to know how much he’s gaining is almost constantly nagging at him, he knows that the demon inside his head will never be happy about any number.

Unbeknownst to him, John grows more and more worried each time they have to weigh Sherlock, because so far, he’s only gained a marginal amount, which he always loses until the next weigh-in. It’s a constant up and down, and he knows how much the stress of having to eat ‘so much’ (for Sherlock) is probably how he keeps burning everything off. He feels like he’s playing a game that he simply couldn’t win, but he’s not upset about it for himself.

If Sherlock doesn’t gain a pound by next week, he’s getting the tube, to ensure he’s getting the needed calories.

They haven’t told Sherlock, yet. John didn’t want to cause more unnecessary stress on him, worried that more pressure on Sherlock would only lead to disaster.

The game is up when Sherlock refuses to eat, again. “I just can’t, I can’t do this anymore. Please. I.. I need a break.” Sherlock begged him. John had relented – some. 

“If you’re not going to eat, you have to at least drink the ensures. You know that I can’t let you go with no calories all day.” John reminds him, and has to hold him while he silently cries as he slowly drinks the high caloric drink. It takes ages for Sherlock to get the cup downed, but John holds him the whole time.

No… John thinks. “Do it again.” Please..

“Doctor Watson.”

“No, it has to be faulty.” He denies, takes away the clipboard and pen from the nurse. “Sherlock, get on it again.” 

“Doctor Watson, the scale is working fine.” 

“John, what’s going on?” Sherlock asks, frowning at his friend. 

“Nothing, please just get on the scale again.” John says with a straight face, but his voice portrays how upset he really is.

Sherlock looks from John to the nurse, questioningly. She sighs and motions for him to step on the scale again. Sherlock looks back at John, who is pressing the clipboard to his chest so Sherlock couldn’t peek.

He gets on the scale, backwards again so he couldn’t see. A loud noise behind him startles him, and John suddenly rushes out of the small exam room. Sherlock looks back to the table, seeing the clipboard that John must have slammed down.

“It’s okay hun. I’ll just take you back to your room, hm? Go sit in your chair again.” The nurse tells him, and Sherlock reluctantly does as he’s told, more just because he couldn’t stand much longer. 

He couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that has settled into his stomach, which he knew had nothing to do with his organs.

His room is empty, and Sherlock genuinely wonders where John had gone. What is going on?

“You just rest for a bit, the doctor will be with you in a bit.” The nurse says, and Sherlock looks up in surprise.

Doctor? Oh, she probably meant John.

He tries to relax, but finds that he couldn’t. He’s tachycardic again, the familiar feeling is both reassuring and very annoying. It’s been ten minutes and John hasn’t come back or responded to his texts. He debates whether to text Mycroft, but so far it’s like his brother has stopped bothering with him. It’s been over two months since he’s heard from him in any way, and he feels like he’s lost something important. 

Finally there’s a knock and the door opens, but it’s not John. 

“Who are you?” Sherlock asks, eyeing the new doctor he hadn’t seen before.

“Hello Mister Holmes, my name is Doctor Mortimer, I am a psychiatrist at this hospital and here to tell you what’s going to happen. You were admitted..” he looks through a notepad. “Two weeks ago, and haven’t met your goal weight, which is why you’ll be getting a nasogastric tube.”

Sherlock has never hated a person he’s only just met, so much in his life. “I don’t want it! I’ll eat, you just have to give me another chance!” He tries to argue.

“You’re getting the nasogastric tube. If you don’t want to die in the next few weeks, you have to gain weight, and it needs to happen soon. I’m going to set up a meeting with the nutritionist for you.” The doctor says in a cold voice and leaves, obviously not intending to listen to a single word from Sherlock.

Initially fighting off a panic attack, Sherlock decides that it’s over, now. 

He is finally done with everything.

There is no point in his stupid life anymore. He’s useless in every sense of the word and nobody will listen to him, anyways. 

He runs off, as much as it could be called ‘running’ in his state, and hides in one of the empty pathology labs, seeking the familiarity – and more importantly: the privacy. 

I just can’t do this anymore. I’m so over it. Over everything. He thinks as the first of many tears start to run, quickly picking up in volume until he breaks down into sobs.

I don’t want to be alive anymore. There’s literally no point in it. I’m already at a morgue, just saves everyone the time, I guess.

Knowing that he won’t find any substances that he could overdose on, his twisted mind fills him with a different idea. He remembers the cut he had had on his leg, from a suspect gone rough. Lestrade had a hard time getting the bleeding to stop.

Sherlock knows exactly where the scalpels are in the labs. He wipes the tears away from his eyes and strides over to the cabinet drawers, fishing out a fresh blade from its aluminium wrapping before going back to the wall and sitting down on the floor. 

Pulling up the trouser leg and pushing down the sock, he cuts into the skin just above his ankle joint, over and over. But he had forgotten about one small detail.

The neuropathy.

He watches as the blood slowly accumulates in the slashes, but he feels absolutely nothing. Neither when the blade had cut through at least two layers of skin, and still not as he watches them fill with his blood.

Part of him had wished for the pain. He wanted the pain. He yearned for it. Now he would just slowly bleed out without suffering. Not exactly what he had had intended.

He just lets the blade fall to the floor with a small, high pitched clatter and goes back to crying. People keep saying how crying supposedly helps, but he never feels any better because of it.

And then he hears commotion. Someone has come into the lab that’s connected to this one. 

Sherlock quickly presses a hand over his mouth and nose as not to make any noise, eyes flitting down to the slowly forming puddle of blood beneath his leg. If I get caught now, I’ll have to explain myself, and that’s the last thing I want. He reaches down to pick up the scalpel blade again, intending to add a few more, deeper cuts to speed up the process, but his hands are shaking violently and he drops it, his fingers unable to feel the metal. He briefly wonders when exactly the damn neuropathy had gotten so bad and spread out. Completely freezing with his hand still in the air, he listens to the other person, who seems to have stilled as well.

Right when he thinks that he’s safe, he hears the other person place something down on a table and walk over to the door that leads to him. No no no no no no! Why do I fail at everything?!?! 

The door opens, Molly Hooper stares at him in utter shock, and Sherlock just breaks down into sobs again. 

“Oh my gosh.” Molly mumbles to herself as she takes in the.. rather disturbing sight. “You’re bleeding, you need bandages, you-”

“Please go.”

“Sherlock I can’t-”

“I’m fine, just go!”

“I’m going to get bandages. Don’t move.” Molly commands and even locks the door from the outside. She takes a shaky breath and pulls out her phone from her pocket, sending off a quick text to John.

S is in lab 2, hes really upset and bleeding i dont know what to do pls help

Then she runs off to grab a first aid kit and hurries back to Sherlock, unlocking the door again and finding him still alive – and still crying.

She kneels down next to him and opens the first aid kit. “I don’t know what is going on, Sherlock. But I have to treat those. We’re in a morgue, you could get all kinds of germs into these.” She admonishes and starts unpacking the bandages. “You’re bleeding an awful lot..”

“That’s the point.” Sherlock mutters in a very raspy voice.

Molly only shakes her head and starts trying to clean up the wounds, taking great care in trying to avoid hurting him.

Sherlock takes notice, and when she apologises for ‘hurting’ him, he says “I don’t feel it. Any of it. Neuropathy.” He shrugs. “You could probably put stitches in and I wouldn’t feel it. Or cut my foot off.” 

Molly frowns as she looks at his face, then glances back and forth as she touches the open wounds with a tissue to absorb the blood, and he doesn’t so much as bat an eyelid. “That’s not a very comforting thing. Wanna tell me what got you so upset?”

Of course her question is met with silence. Sherlock turns away from her.

“I really need you to try to calm down a little, being so tense and trembling isn’t helping me stop the bleeding.” Molly comments softly.

I don’t want you to stop it. I want you to leave me alone. He thinks as new tears leak from his eyes. He wonders how much a person needs to cry to cause severe enough dehydration and electrolyte imbalances to hopefully give himself a heart attack. 

He definitely feels upset enough to expect one. You can literally die from a ‘broken heart’. I feel like mine has shattered, like a mirror, and is already dying off.

His thoughts definitely aren’t helping with the shaking, and he hears Molly cursing quietly. He watches her try to soak up the blood before trying the bandages again, and he still doesn’t feel a single thing. Doesn’t feel the pain that should have taken hold by now, even with endorphins and adrenaline. Doesn’t feel the blood that got smeared on the skin around the wounds. Doesn’t feel her – probably cold – hands. Doesn’t feel the tissues she keeps pulling out of a package being pressed on the wounds to soak up the blood over and over. 

I could have really chopped off my foot and not felt anything. Would have killed me faster, too.  

Sherlock just leans back and closes his eyes with a sigh. 

“You’ll be okay, Sherlock. I promise everything will be okay.” Molly tells him as she pulls his leg onto her lap, probably hoping the elevation will reduce the bleeding.

I don’t want everything to be okay. I want to be dead. I don’t want to be alive anymore. Why can’t anyone understand that? For probably the billionth time today, a new round of tears trail down his face. 

He doesn’t see how Molly has to wipe away her own tears so she could see what she’s doing. Sherlock is so thin underneath his clothes, she could see that now. His legs are just skin, bone and muscles, and the one she’s holding up is covered in bloody bandages. 

Molly really doesn’t understand why the blood isn’t stopping. The wounds aren’t deep enough to even require stitches, yet the blood is hardly ever clotting. She knows about the Ivabradine, but it’s not a blood thinner. She just hopes he didn’t take or use anything that is one.

She looks out into the hall, staring for a moment, until finally John is coming their way. When he sees them in their current situation, he runs the rest of the way over.

“Oh hell..” he murmurs, throwing Sherlock a concerned glance but the detective has turned his head away. Did he have a meltdown..? He doesn’t look like that’s still going on.. maybe gone into complete shutdown after he hurt himself..? 

“I’m trying to stop the bleeding but it just keeps going, I don’t know what to do, John. I need fresh bandages, he’s completely bled through these.” Molly explains, desperate and sounding close to breaking down, herself.

John takes a quick look at the bandages before making up his mind. “Unwrap those.” He tells her and takes a kitchen towel paper, folds it in half and runs it under the faucet a little to make it wet. 

Molly finishes unwrapping the bandages, checking in on Sherlock every now and then but he’s just as unresponsive as before, yet still clearly conscious. Molly makes eye contact with John. “He says he doesn’t feel anything, because of neuropathy.”

John nods sadly. “Yeah..” He crouches down next to her and presses the wet towel onto the cuts. “Molly, go and take the blade away, please.” He points over to the scalpel that still lays discarded next to Sherlock. He doubts that Sherlock would hurt himself again with either of them present, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Molly nods and retrieves it, then throws it into the ‘sharp objects’ bin. “He hasn’t made a move to try anything since I found him, so I was more focused on trying to stop the bleeding.”

John nods in understanding. “I need you to tightly wrap this with a fresh set of bandages. Like, really do them tight. Don’t worry about hurting him or cutting off circulation for now, we have to stop this bleed first.”

Molly only nods mutely and unpacks a fresh set of bandages before starting to wrap it around the kitchen towel, which had started getting a few red spots but nothing too bad. 

John sighs to himself as he holds up the leg even higher, watching Sherlock’s catatonic state. If it weren’t for him snivelling his running nose every now and then, and eye lids twitching when more tears flow out, John would have honestly thought that he was passed out or maybe even dead. He is showing absolutely zero recognition to what they are doing, and John has to wonder if Sherlock had taken anything or if this is really only the neuropathy making him feel nothing in his leg.

“John? Is this alright?” Molly asks hesitantly, still holding on to the tail end of the white bandages. 

John pulls off the sock, revealing a normal looking, yet freezing cold foot. “Should be good. Tape it.” John says and holds the end in place. Even though he knows that Sherlock doesn’t feel any of it, he is still conscious about not pressing on any of the wounded areas as Molly tapes it. 

“We need to get him a blanket or something..” John comments when Sherlock keeps shivering. Molly hands Sherlock a tissue, which he takes without looking at her.

“I have to get his wheelchair. Can you watch him for two more minutes?” John asks.

“Of course.” 

“I’ll be right back.” John promises and hurries off.

Molly watches Sherlock with a sad smile, wiping her own tears away again. It wasn’t the first time that she had found Sherlock like this. Granted, last time hadn’t involved bloodshed; Sherlock had overdosed on morphine for reasons still unknown, even now, years later. So it wouldn’t surprise her if she’ll never know what happened to push him over the edge this time, either.

John comes back with the wheelchair, a warm blanket is folded on its seat. He spreads it out over the back and wheels, so he could wrap Sherlock up. Now they just had to figure out how they’d get Sherlock into it, as John is already expecting complete un-cooperation from Sherlock. 

Sherlock looks up at John when the mobility aid was placed in front of him. He doesn’t feel like moving at all, he just wants to stay here and pretend not to exist.

He doesn’t want to exist.

He just wants to disappear.

“You take this side.” John says to Molly, Sherlock closes his eyes again. 

He is carefully lifted and heaved into the chair, then covered with the blanket. He doesn’t open his eyes, just hangs his head in shame, the tissue from Molly still clutched in his hand. 

“Thank you.” John thanks her.

“Of course. Go make sure he’s alright.” She replies, then lays a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Everything will be okay, you hear me?” She repeats, tears threatening to overcome her again.

John nods at her before taking Sherlock back to his room. As soon as Molly is alone, she looks back to the spot where Sherlock had been, a puddle of dried blood still on the floor. 

Nobody hears her crying. It would always break her heart to see Sherlock like this.

John quickly gets things in motion. With the help of a nurse, he gets Sherlock back on his bed, and soon after, injected with 0.5mg Xanax, then hooked up to an IV and electrodes monitoring his heart.

Then he lays down behind him, arm over Sherlock, soothingly running his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s once again freezing cold hand. Despite his best efforts, Sherlock is still shivering in his sleep. John worries about hypovolemic shock, even though it’s getting more and more unlikely. 

A few hours later, Sherlock couldn’t open his eyes for more than five seconds. “Why do I feel so weird?” He suddenly asks, his voice only a rough and broken mumble.

John is still right by his side. “We gave you a low dose of Xanax to calm you down. You’ve been asleep for a while, do you need the loo?”

“I don’t know.. ask me again in five minutes..” Sherlock mumbles tiredly.

John smiles sadly. “alright.”

Sherlock rubs at his eyes stiffly before letting his hands fall on the pillow in exhaustion. “I don’t want to get this sedating stuff ever again.”

John nods, mostly to himself, “noted.”

“What’s going to happen..?”

“You’re on suicide watch for the next few days. After that.. we’ll see, I guess.” John answers, keeping his voice soft and completely judgement free. He keeps running his thumb back and forth on his hand until Sherlock suddenly pulls away.

“I’m just such an idiot.” Sherlock says angrily at himself, his hands doing nothing to stop new tears from leaking from his eyes.

“You’re not an idiot.” John murmurs, pushing away the stray curls that are now too close to the eyes of his distraught friend. “You’re just at the end of your rope. It’s okay.”

“It’s not ‘okay’!” 

“You’re not okay, but it’ll be okay. I promise it’ll be okay.” 

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s the truth.” John grins.

Sherlock sniffs noisily. “I’m sorry I’m so stupid.” 

“Please stop saying that. Sherlock, you are not..-” John shakes his head, retries. “You are a lot of things, but ‘stupid’ is definitely not one of them. You have a disorder, those thoughts are not yours.”

“But I’m stupid enough to follow through with them.”

John sighs. “You’re also smart enough to know that you need help. That what you’re feeling isn’t normal. Many people refuse to acknowledge that they have a disorder.”

“I don’t want the feeding tube.” Sherlock admits. John hugs him tighter, feeling his own heart tearing apart.

“I know..”

Chapter Text

John is having a heart attack. Okay, he isn’t, but he feels like it was coming. It was definitely coming.

He startled awake when the monitor started sounding the alarm, and his first thought was that Sherlock just died in his arms, in the middle of the night. 

Only, it’s not the middle of the night. It was, funnily enough, exactly 4.44am, and when he looks up at the monitor’s screen, he watches the heart rate go back up from red 42bpm to white 54bpm as Sherlock woke up as well.

“What now..?” Sherlock grumbles.

“Your heart rate got too low.” John says, and all of a sudden the emotions and all the recent stress just pour out of him. They’d gotten Sherlock stable enough to not go below 50bpm anymore, and now it felt like a punch in the gut. He turns away from Sherlock, sitting at the edge of the bed with his back to him, face in his hands.

“John..?”

He couldn’t reply, or he would just start bawling and sobbing, when he felt like he didn’t have a right to be so upset.

He feels Sherlock shifting behind him, and then, a hesitant pair of arms comes around his middle, hugging him close.

Sherlock is hugging him. 

Sherlock is hugging him.

Sherlock is hugging him.

“What.. what are you doing?” John asks.

“..trying to comfort you, but I don’t think I’m doing a good job.”

“No, no, you’re good. You’re great, Sherlock.” John reassures, then laughs at how absurd this whole situation is.

“Why are you so upset?” Sherlock asks, not letting John go.

“I just..” John rubs a hand over his face. “I’m so, so scared of losing you, Sherlock.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Sherlock promises, and it feels so surreal to say that after what he’s done just hours before.

John sobs. 

“I’m sorry..” Sherlock whispers, laying his head on the back of John’s shoulder.

“Me too.” John says, honestly. 

“I’ll accept the tube.” Sherlock states randomly. 

It takes John’s brain a moment to understand what he means. Then, his eyes widen and he looks at him. “You will?”

Sherlock lets go of John and sighs. “I won’t make any promises on how long I’ll let it stay. And I want you to do it. I don’t trust these idiots here.”

“Sherlock.. you don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do. I..” Sherlock fiddles with the cables on his chest. “I have to get better, and.. even though I know it’s going to be absolute hell, I.. I think this is how it has to be.”

“You sure?” John asks, uncertain. He doesn’t know how he feels about inserting the tube himself, knowing how much distress it will cause his friend.

Sherlock nods. “I need food to regain spoons, but I need spoons to be able to eat. I’ll.. I’ll try to bear it, but I need you to remove it as soon as I tell you to. Because I will pull it out, myself.”

“Got it.” John says, though he really doesn’t know how he’s feeling about any of this. A mix of hopefulness and sadness, maybe?

“Have you heard from Sherlock?” Sally asks Greg in his office the next day. It’s been rather quiet, crime wise, and she couldn’t help thinking of their consultant.

“Hm? Ah, no.” The DI says, sounding nonchalant.

“..aren’t you worried about him?” 

“Of course I’m worried about him! But he just ignores all of my texts when I ask how he’s doing.” Lestrade complains.

She didn’t push it further with Greg, but decided to visit Baker Street when her shift was over.

Unsurprisingly, Mrs Hudson opens the door for her. “Oh, Sergeant. Sherlock’s not in.”

Weird.. “Oh that’s alright, I was just wondering how he’s doing.” She smiles at the elder woman.

Mrs Hudson gives her a sad frown. “Oooh I wish I knew.. John took him back to the hospital a few weeks ago.” 

Sally’s smile drops. “Is he.. is he okay?”

“I’m sure he will be. You know, I try not to worry too much. He’s got John with him, that gives me hope.”

That’s so cute. She thinks with a smile. “I’m glad that John is with him.”

“Isn’t he always?” Mrs Hudson asks with a wink. It makes Sally chuckle awkwardly. 

Is this how it is for them all the time? People assuming they’re more than friends? Granted, she had done the same, at one point. But ever since Sherlock really told her that there has never been anything more between them, she now feels the awkwardness on his behalf whenever people make comments like this. Just yesterday, she’d overheard Officer Sampson tell some Sergeants that “the Freak’s probably too busy shagging his blogger friend to show up anymore”. She almost stepped in and probably would have slapped him, but she had enough self control to turn the other way without a word. 

How odd, that it took a similar disorder like hers for Sally to suddenly feel almost protective of him. But when she really thought about it.. she never would have thought that they could ever relate to each other. 

She feels like she now considers Sherlock a friend, and wonders if he feels the same way.

“It won’t be pleasant.” John warns, the thin, white tube ready in his gloved hands. He has everything ready: glass of water, anaesthetic spray, puke bag, syringe, gauze, tissues, measured the correct tube length needed, and lubricated the tip. They’re holding eye contact again, in their special, personal way.

“I know.” Sherlock says. “I’ve had one before, remember?”

“Yes, but that was over ten years ago.” 

“Weird, I still remember it like it was yesterday.”

“It was an act against your will. I know you hate to have any sort of tube inside of you, which is perfectly understandable.” John reassures.

Sherlock closes his eyes, taking deep breaths to appear calm, but the heart monitor behind him is giving away his distress. Something around 120. Probably 123. 127. 132. Breathe. Calm down.

John watches the climbing numbers with unease. Should I really do this? He wonders, looking down at the tube in his hands. 

“Okay, I’m ready. Just get it over with.” Sherlock decides right when John wants to suggest they just forget this.

“Okay.” John whispers, mostly to himself. “Open your mouth.” He tells Sherlock and applies the local anaesthetic to the back of his throat. “You okay?”

Sherlock nods, reflexively coughing and trying to swallow. His throat quickly feels like it’s thick with cotton pads.

“Okay, I’m gonna insert it now. Tap my arm if you need me to pause.” John tells him. God, I’m so sorry about this. He thinks as he starts to insert it. Sherlock is trying his best not to cringe and make a face or pull away, but John repeatedly checks the once again rising heart rate.

He’s trying his best to make it quick, but also be very gentle and keep an eye on Sherlock and his vitals. He keeps telling himself to just think of Sherlock as any other patient, but who was he kidding? 

The hardest, most uncomfortable part was almost over, when Sherlock suddenly repeatedly hits his arm. It’s not painful, just a rapid motion, almost like muscle spasms, and John stops immediately.

“Do you want to sip a bit of water?” John suggests sympathetically. Sherlock keeps his eyes screwed shut in discomfort, shaking his head a tiny fraction, his hands halfway up to his face as he tries to keep from pulling it out again. His pulse was now at 164, no alarms are sounding because John had turned them off, knowing that this was likely (definitely) to happen, and the noise would just overwhelm Sherlock even more, and probably break John’s concentration.

Sherlock starts gagging a little, and John is quick to hand him the puke bag, but Sherlock just pushes it away from him. His breathing rate and pulse start to slow down again.

“You alright?” John asks gently.

Sherlock takes some deep breaths, then nods and makes a hand sign for John to continue.

“Okay..” John starts to push it down further, always keeping an eye on Sherlock. “Almost done.” He promises. Sherlock doesn’t reply in any way, just waits for John to finish. He tests the pH level, to check that it’s placed correctly.

“There, it’s in.” He announces. “Hang on one sec.” He tells Sherlock, and tapes the tube to his cheekbone before snapping off the gloves and washing his hands again. “Do you want to drink something?” He asks, noting down everything important on a printed form.

Sherlock shakes his head. With his throat still numbed up, he was just going to choke on it. Besides, it seemed like way too much effort, and he’s bloody exhausted again.

“Alright.. I just have to set up the pump and then we can sleep for a bit. I’ll set it to run really slow, so you hopefully won’t feel so full and bloated.” John informs him.

Sherlock only gives a weak nod and lays down. Thankfully his heart has calmed down again and was below 100bpm again. 

John sets up the pump and food bag and connects it to Sherlock’s tube, then joins him on the bed. “Try to sleep.” He whispers. It would probably be for the best if Sherlock could sleep through it. The tube will feel more uncomfortable for the next few hours.

Sherlock nods, shamelessly cuddling up to John, like his close presence would protect him from all evil. They both nod off quickly.

“John. Mh. John! Turn it off! Turn it off!” Sherlock’s desperate, hoarse calls bring John back to awareness. His eyes snap open and he jumps up from the bed, to the other side of the bed, and presses the stop button on the pump, disconnecting it from Sherlock’s tube without a second thought.

Sherlock is sitting curled up, arms wrapped around his stomach, face morphed in pain. The monitor shows a heart rate of 112; not alarming but also not good.

“What’s going on?” John asks, mentally going through the steps he’d made, to look for a mistake on his part that could explain it. But he finds nothing.

“Stomach hurts.” Sherlock grits out, matter of factly. His finger nails are piercing into the skin of his arms.

Maybe he’s sensitive to something in the bag? John wonders, re-checking the ingredients. They’d talked about allergies and sensitivities with the nutritionist, and chosen a mix without soy and wheat, as suggested by the nutritionist once Sherlock’s IBS issues came up. It had made John realise something.

“You’ve been eating liquorice.”

“Yes. So?”

“There’s often wheat in it.” John said, remembering a patient with celiac disease telling him about it once. 

“What?” Sherlock had looked at him completely surprised. The nutritionist nodded.

“You didn’t check the ingredients, did you?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I have to admit, I never expected it to contain any.”

“How long have you been eating it, and how often?” The nutritionist asked.

“Just.. every now and then, to keep my blood pressure stable. Maybe one or two at a time.”

John and the nutritionist nodded. “So that could have already caused irritation before the antibiotics.” John realised, referring to the IBS flare up.

“It’s possible.” The nutritionist agreed.

But there was really nothing in the food bag that Sherlock might be reacting to. So John honestly didn’t understand what could be causing this. Unless it was the stress, in which case they might be truly f*cked.

“Do you need the loo?” John asks. Is it or is it not the unpredictable IBS? That is the question.

Sherlock gives a low moan. “No, at least not yet.”

“Do you need pain killers?” John asks seriously.

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Sherlock.”

“No. I’m fine.”

John sighs exacerbatedly. “Sherlock.”

“If I need anything, I’ll tell you.” Sherlock more or less snaps, voice tight and strained, and scratchy sounding. John wishes he would just drink something.

“Okay.” John mutters, because honestly, what was there left to say?

“There’s nothing either of us can do.” Sherlock grumbles and lays back down, curling up under the covers.

John sighs sadly, knowing that Sherlock was right. He checks his watch. It’s been barely 45 minutes and the food substitute bag had just a third missing. This was going to be even tougher than he’d first thought. And he’d already expected it to be an awful nightmare.

He decides to disconnect Sherlock from the heart monitor, since they may have to hurry later on.

‘Later on’ turned out to be barely ten to fifteen minutes, when Sherlock suddenly sat up and declared that he needed the loo. So John quickly got him there with the wheelchair, running his hands through his hair as he stood outside. He decides to bring Sherlock the water he’s been hoping he would drink, wondering if another IV was in order.

When Sherlock is done some ten minutes later, and John brought him back to his bed, they both felt hopeless. “I hate this. I hate all of it.” Sherlock complains, head in his hands again. His blood pressure was low, he could tell. He felt absolutely wretched again.

John sighs softly, rubbing circles on Sherlock’s back. 

“I guess I’ll never have to learn how to- how to- how to purge. My body does it all by itself.” Sherlock remarks darkly. 

Ignoring the dry attempt at humour, John asks “so it is another IBS attack?” If that’s the case, then we’re seriously just fucked. If his digestive tract rejects everything, what else can we do? Damn it. Damn it all.

“I’m not sure yet, but I’m 65.3% certain that it is.” 

John couldn’t help but smile at the strange number. “We can call in the nutritionist again, see if maybe you can tolerate a different brand better.”

Sherlock shrugs. “We can try, but please only for about five or ten minutes, because that was tediously disgusting.”

John chuckles. “Okay.” He’s just so glad that even with all of this, Sherlock is still willing to try. 

“How about we take a break from feeding and I have a look at your.. cuts..? I have to change the bandages.” John suggests.

Sherlock just nods mutely. “That may have not been the last of it, just a warning.” He mutters, pointing in the direction of the bathroom. 

“That’s okay, just let me know before it gets too bad.” 

After flushing out Sherlock’s tube with a syringe full of water, John starts to unwrap the bandages that sit above Sherlock’s ankle. His feet are so cold, John is a bit worried that the wounds won’t get the needed circulation to heal properly. But so far, they didn’t even look too bad.

John gently applies a zinc salve to the crusts, then remembers how Sherlock hadn’t felt anything yesterday. “Do you feel that?” He asks, deliberately running a finger in between the wounds and watching Sherlock’s face.

But Sherlock shakes his head. “No, nothing.” 

It was as much fascinating as it was worrisome. “Maybe we could do a nerve conduction velocity test once you’re feeling better.” John suggests.

Sherlock only shrugs his shoulders.

“No?”

“It wouldn’t really tell me anything new, I guess. Just.. putting another label on it.” Sherlock mumbles.

Hmm, he’s not wrong. “You know you don’t have to do any tests, or just anything you don’t want.” John says, then laughs lightly. “I guess I’m just being too doctor-y, always thinking of tests to have official diagnoses.”

“Well, is there a way to treat it, if they diagnose it?” Sherlock asks curiously.

No point in lying to him, is there? “Eh… no. Nerves are one thing that medicine has yet to learn how to cure, to be honest. We just recommend iron, folic acid and B12 supplements and some physio therapies, but nerves that are damaged may only repair themselves over years, or not at all.” 

Sherlock sighs. “Didn’t really expect anything different..” he looks down at his hands, wondering how this whole thing was going to progress. In a year’s time, will he still be able to walk? Or will it spread all the way up his legs, to his thighs? He already feels like his feet don’t exist, like everything below the knees is just gone. Whenever he walks, it’s like he’s floating. His gait is unsteady, from not being able to feel the ground beneath his feet, and he couldn’t balance at all when standing on one leg. He’d found out that last part the hard way, some time ago. 

It was pretty logical, when you thought about it. The whole skill of balancing is only possible through tactile feedback on his soles, and the communication between those nerves and the equilibrium in the ears. A healthy person would automatically adjust the amount of weight being borne on certain parts of the foot. 

Sherlock’s feet don’t adjust. They are practically a dead part that’s still held alive. If he doesn’t explicitly think about moving his toes, they just stay in that default state. (He may or may not have done a couple of self-experiments.) Which is part of the reason why he sometimes doesn’t lift his feet high enough when he walks, making for rather embarrassing, clumsy moments that remind him of that black and white film that always runs on new year’s eve, ‘Dinner For One’.

John finishes wrapping it up again, noticing how withdrawn Sherlock has become again. “Hey.. everything alright?” Is he having ‘thoughts’ again..?

“Hm, what? Oh,.. yes. Yes.”

“Are you ready for more food..?” John asks hesitantly.

Sherlock gives a tiny nod.

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s body tolerated the different brand. For reasons unknown, since there wasn’t really much different in terms of ingredients, he’s managed to keep the new formula. And with digestion being successful, came the problem with his mind.

Being forbidden to exercise, and pumped full with calories (he really never has been a calorie counter, but he knows how many are in those feeding bags, and even though he knows that he needs those calories..) his brain is screaming bloody murder at him.

John tries to comfort and distract him as best as he could, but he knows that Sherlock’s mind is tearing him apart at the seams. He’s so quiet and withdrawn that John is scared that he might try something again, if John turns his back for just a second.

“Why am I so damn tired..?” Sherlock complains in annoyance. His eyes are closed again before John could reply. He couldn’t hold a conversation with how fatigued he was.

John’s nicely warm hand is on his shoulder again. “Your body has to restock on everything you’ve starved it of. That process takes a lot of energy, which you don’t have a lot of, so it’s using all of that energy on repairing itself. Sleep, you’re not exactly missing out on much.”

John’s gentle voice telling him to sleep was just too hard not to take, made impossible with his comforting touches. Sherlock was asleep faster than he’s probably ever been before. 

John is partly relieved, because at least this means that Sherlock’s body is working on recovering, and when he’s asleep, he can’t think and worry about the feeding tube and calories. 

Sherlock lasted all of three days with the tube. John didn’t know what it was that suddenly had him screeching at John to get it out right now, but he’s glad for how long Sherlock had tolerated it in the first place.

Without saying it out loud, John feels more at ease because Sherlock is looking a lot better already. The difficult part is to keep Sherlock eating regularly, but the near constant feeds seem to have woken up Sherlock’s stomach a little. He’s eating more of his own free will than he has before he had the tube. 

But eating a bit more, has the nasty side effect of making him feel even more bloated and self conscious. John has to try his best to keep Sherlock distracted, but he’s often too upset to engage in conversation of any type.

Sometimes, John reads their old cases from his blog to him, eliciting a weak but genuine chuckle from time to time. Every time he hears that little sound, John grins to himself. 

There is hope, he reminds himself.

There is hope.

Since his vitals have stayed stable and the wounds on his leg were healing without complications, they start allowing Sherlock to get up and walk around their room, a privilege which he’s quickly abusing by pacing in circles until he almost passes out. John didn’t say anything, just gave Sherlock a pointed, reprimanding look, and Sherlock gave him a sheepish, apologetic smile in reply.

“Hey John..”

John had been about to fall asleep. “..yes?”

“I want to go home..”

This was another touchy subject, because Sherlock had to gain another 3 pounds before they’ll release him, but only after the assessment with the therapist (a competent woman, as John and Sherlock have been reassured). Of course, Sherlock is an adult, and he could technically sign himself out against medical advice at any moment. John suspects he’s only still here because he feels like he would disappoint him if he did. 

“Soon.” John decides on saying.

There’s a short silence, long enough for John to drift off again.

“John..?”

His eyes are open again in an instant. “Yes, Sherlock?”

“I’m cold.. without you here.” Sherlock mumbles awkwardly. 

“I thought you wanted to have some space?” John asks. They’d had a bit of an argument, earlier, because of lunch. Apparently, food is all they ever argue about. Either way, Sherlock had turned his back on John again (now that he thought about it, it’s been a long time since he has done that), so John hadn’t even asked if Sherlock wanted him to sleep in his bed with him. 

Truth be told, they had both been sleeping a lot better when they were together in one bed. Sherlock, because he had a constant heat source and felt safe and protected. And John, because he could always make sure that Sherlock was still breathing and his heart beating, whenever he woke up from a nightmare where that wasn’t the case. 

“Right.” John mutters to himself and pushes the blanket away, before making his way to Sherlock’s bed and slipping in under his blanket behind him. He wouldn’t quite call their positions ‘spooning’, but it was close.

John isn’t sure if it’s his imagination when he hears a whispered “thank you” in Sherlock’s voice as he finally falls asleep within seconds.

It’s the day of his next weighing, and John is watching Sherlock fidgeting anxiously already early in the morning, before the nurse has even come in to wake them up.

“Are you nervous?” John asks, already knowing the answer.

“John..? C-aan I please see the- see the n-number this time?” Sherlock asks shakily, with slight hints of the stutter slipping through again. 

John wishes he could say something other than what will upset Sherlock, but it’s for the best. “Sherlock.. I’m sorry, but you know we can’t allow it. You don’t need to know it, your disorder is just seeking control.”

“John..” 

“No. At least not yet. Maybe after you make progress with finally dealing with… well, everything. You’re not ready, now. I fear that you’ll just relapse if you saw it, and please don’t even try to deny it.” John says pointedly, keeping his voice gentle.

Sherlock makes a noise that sounds like a mixture of whimpering and an unhappy puppy that was woken from a nap. He curls in on himself, the fingers of his left hand curling around his right arm just above the elbow. 

It’s then that John realises that the scale’s numbers hold more power over his friend than he first thought. His brain, his disorder craved it, like a drug. 

He regrets the metaphor as he thinks of it.

Okay, don’t even go there. We got enough problems to deal with right now.

“Sherlock.” John starts. The younger doesn’t look up. “You are still thin.”

At that, he finally looks up, giving John a questioning look.

“You don’t need a scale to tell you that. Everyone can see it, without knowing the numbers.” As he says it, John wishes he could reverse time and stop himself before saying that, but the damage was done.

“Everyone. Except for me.” Sherlock grumbles angrily.

John knows that Sherlock is only mad at himself, but he still flinches at the tone. “You will see it, too, Sherlock. Sometimes you already do, remember?” He tries to redirect.

Sherlock looks down again, at his clothed arms. After staring at them for a good twenty seconds, he suddenly takes off the hoodie, and his unprotected skin is immediately covered in goosebumps, but he doesn’t care (or notice?).

John watches in puzzlement as Sherlock stretches out his right arm, up, to the side, hand touching the bed sheets in front of him. Sherlock is watching every part of his arm with an intensity like he has when he’s deducing strangers.

“Sherlock.” John says, though he isn’t sure what he even wants to say.

Sherlock ignores him, only has eyes for his arm. He could see the protruding bones and tendons in his wrist and hand, but the further up he looks, there’s only fat. He twists his outstretched arm over so the back of his elbow is facing upwards, and John exclaims at the sight.

“Sherlock! Don’t overstretch your-! Jesus-!”

The yell makes Sherlock look up, confused. “What?”

John covers his eyes and turns away. “Your arm. Turn it back to where it belongs, please.”

At that, Sherlock looks back and realises that this is probably not the normal rotation range of the shoulder joint. He twists it back to ‘normal’ and brings his hand to his chest, inadvertently finding a new interest in feeling his ribs and collar bones. It was so comforting to him, that it was nothing but fucked up. “Sorry.. you can look.” He mumbles distractedly. 

John sighs but comes over to sit next to Sherlock on his bed. He wants to try something that the participants almost always do on Supersize versus Superskinny. He pushes up his right sleeve and holds his underarm out for Sherlock. “Here, hold your arm against mine.”

Uncertain, Sherlock does as he’s told. His own arm is about half the size of John’s, his pale skin looking like porcelain against John’s much healthier colour. Not to mention that John’s arm is of a much better temperature, almost radiating; Sherlock is tempted to press his icy cold arm against John’s, but he doesn’t really want to make the poor doctor die from the shock.

“What do you see, Sherlock? Describe it for me?” John asks, watching Sherlock’s blank expression carefully.