It began with the meatloaf.

Or, rather, John's weak attempt at making meatloaf. It had been a tedious week of chasing clues through the streets of London on one of their most intricate cases yet. As usual, Sherlock had barely slept and ate even less. A piece of toast here and there for sustenance and John was concerned at how visibly thinner Sherlock had become. Instead of ordering takeout as he normally would, John decided it would do Sherlock some good to eat a healthy, home-cooked meal.

He glanced over at Sherlock, who was currently sprawled out on the couch, not even bothering to remove his royal blue scarf and Belstaff. John chuckled, cleared his throat and announced, "Dinner's ready."

There was no movement from the lump on the couch.

"Sherlock!"

Sighing loudly through his nose, Sherlock slowly got up and made his way into the kitchen. John was already seated and enthusiastically digging into his meal. If there was one thing Harry succeeded at, it was her meatloaf recipe. John had carried it with him throughout university and continued to follow tradition.

Sherlock looked down at the plate set before him with distaste.

"What is it?" he asked flatly.

"Meatloaf. I told you when we got in that I was going to make it. Now sit down before it gets cold," John urged.

As straight as a tree, Sherlock stood firmly planted in the same spot.

"I don't like meatloaf."

John was just about to eat a mouthful but his fork stopped short and settled on the table with a clang. "And you didn't think to tell me that earlier?" he asked incredulously.

"Nope," Sherlock replied, popping the "p" with his lips.

John sighed. "Will you at least try it?"

"Certainly not."

Throwing up his hands, John exclaimed, "You have not eaten a decent meal in seven days. For god's sake, sit down before you fall down."

Unexpectedly, Sherlock sat down. Casting a suspicious eye at the meatloaf, he didn't show any signs that he was going to indulge John and try it. John took a moment to study his friend's scowling face.

"I don't understand how you do it, Sherlock. A normal human being would be nearly starving after what you put your body through."

Sherlock swung a small, sideways smirk in John's direction. "I've told you before. Everything is just transport. I obviously experience hunger but I can suppress it. Mind power, John."

"Well," John began, "If you're going to be so picky after I've spent an hour slaving away in the kitchen, then don't eat anything at all."

John grabbed his plate, stood up and walked with a huff over to his favorite chair.

The next morning when John emerged with tired eyes and wild hair, Sherlock was already dressed in a meticulous, flawless black suit and staring intently at his laptop.

"Morning," John said tiredly. Sherlock offered him no response. Probing further, John asked, "What did you end up eating last night?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replied.

John looked at Sherlock. "What do you mean, nothing?"

Sherlock briefly glanced at John out of the corner of his eye before focusing on the screen again. "You told me not to eat anything at all if I was going to be picky, so I didn't."

John's mouth fell open. "You're joking, right?"

No response.

"Sherlock, are you trying to tell me that you took my statement so literally that you really didn't have anything at all?"

"I'm not trying to tell you. I am telling you," Sherlock replied.

John walked over so he was standing directly in front of Sherlock. Running a hand through his hair, John began, "Okay, you need to eat something NOW. What do you want?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment then confirmed, "Chinese."

"It's a bit early for Chinese. I'm not sure they're even open this early."

Shrugging his shoulders, Sherlock said, "I can wait. And please, never make meatloaf again. The taste and texture are an assault on my senses. I haven't touched it since I was a child and I don't intend to ever again."

John didn't grace Sherlock with a reply, but a thought started to form. He had briefly learned about it during his time in medical school. Asperger's Syndrome, a subset of autism. People with Asperger's often took statements literally and had sensitivities to certain tastes and textures of various foods. Shaking his head, John willed the thought away.

Sherlock on the autistic spectrum? It seemed unlikely, yet the pieces fit. Still, John was not keen on generalizing due to two instances. He decided that he would observe the detective a bit more carefully over the next few days.