"Sherlock, come eat." John tipped the scrambled eggs onto two plates and examined the salt and pepper shakers carefully for chemical residue before using them on his own.
"Not hungry."
"You didn't eat anything yesterday."
Footsteps from the living room where Sherlock was pacing. "I'm on a case, John. I don't eat while I'm on a case."
John frowned, then tipped Sherlock's eggs onto his own plate.
"I made you a sandwich."
"No." Sherlock stretched his impossibly long legs even farther across the sofa cushions and pressed his fingertips to his temples. "I can't think about food now."
John brought him the sandwich anyway. Then threw it out several hours later when it hadn't even been touched.
"I'm cooking tonight, actual cooking, and I expect you to eat something." John set down the Tesco's bag on the miraculously clear counter. "If you don't like chicken and dumplings, tell me now - I can come up with something else if you prefer."
Sherlock poked his head through the kitchen doorway. "Why are you so eager to feed me, John? I'm fine."
"You're bloody well not fine. You haven't eaten in two days. And yes, I know you've spent most of it in your bloody mind palace, but you're not eating there either. Your brain can't run without fuel - surely you know that. Or did you delete it?"
"I think better when I'm hungry."
"No you don't." John set the pot of water to boil and pulled out the cutting board to start on the chicken. When he turned around again, Sherlock was flopping theatrically on the sofa in his "leave me alone I'm thinking" pose. Bloody drama queen.
John spent the next hour cooking, reveling in the tactile sensation of flour on his hands and the smell of chicken stock simmering. Chicken and dumplings wasn't a particularly difficult dish, honestly, just a time-consuming one. It was a nice change from the surgery, though - no rush, no precision necessary, just chopping up chicken and putting it in a pot and then mixing up some dumpling dough to plop in on top by the spoonful. The smell was heavenly, and John rather thought that if Sherlock wasn't hungry by this point, he might very well be the robot Donovan kept accusing him of being.
"Come eat," he called once it was done.
Sherlock flopped over on the sofa. "I told you I don't need any."
"Yes you do."
Silence.
John leaned against the doorframe, thinking. Sherlock in a strop was hardly an easy target for persuasion, but this was getting ridiculous. John had bloody well put a good deal of effort - well, time, anyway - into cooking dinner, and it was grating for Sherlock to ignore him so thoroughly. If only there were a way to train him -
The idea came to him in a flash of brilliance like the ones he usually only saw from his flatmate.
"Sherlock, you're gay, right?" he asked as casually as he could manage.
Sherlock stilled at that and turned to look at him. "Where did that come from?"
John shrugged. "Just - you are, aren't you."
Sherlock nodded slowly. "If you want a label, then that's as good as any."
"And you've had an orgasm before. With a man."
"That's rather a large part of that definition, yes." Sherlock turned fully so he was lying on the sofa facing John. "Although there wasn't just one man, if you want to be pedantic. Why? You're not homophobic, and if you were, it would be a little late to start now."
"And you found sex to be a generally positive experience, I assume?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Surely you don't need me to explain the neurochemistry involved in an orgasm?"
John bit his lip and nodded. "Right then. I mean, no, I did actually attend medical school, and I do know about the neurochemistry. I just wanted to make sure an orgasm would be a suitable positive reinforcement for you."
Sherlock looked like he was about to say something, but instead he closed his mouth again and blinked a few times.
Well he's not yelling, at least. John straightened and crossed his arms, trying not to look as nervous about this as he felt. "Here's what we're going to do," he announced. "You are going to get up from that sofa and come sit at the kitchen table with me like a civilized person. I am going to give you a bowl of chicken and dumplings and you are going to eat." He held up his hand, cutting off Sherlock's immediate protest. "That's the conditioned stimulus."
John could practically see the wheels inside Sherlock's head turning. "Classical conditioning?" Sherlock finally asked.
John lowered his chin in assent. "The unconditioned stimulus will be, literally, stimulation - my hand on your cock, getting you off, for as long as you keep eating. If you want to come, you need to eat enough for that to happen."
Sherlock frowned, but his eyes were bright. "You want to condition me to get horny whenever I eat."
"Trying to make you hungry hasn't worked, so I figured it was the next logical step."
It sounded positively ridiculous when he said it like that, but Sherlock didn't seem to be preparing a blistering retort. He looked like he was seriously considering it, actually. "Why would you want to?" he finally asked.
I'm asking myself the same thing. John felt his own "not gay" label flagging a bit, but at the moment he couldn't be arsed to care. "Maybe I want to be the one calling the shots, for once," he answered. "Or maybe I just want to see you get off. Maybe I'm gay too after all. Who the hell knows? I just want you to eat."
Sherlock waited a few moments longer, but then suddenly levered himself up off the sofa. "Right, then. I suppose I could manage a few bites."
