Author's Note: Hey guys! First fanfic on this site. Definitely more to come, both in Sherlock and other fandoms. I don't have a solid plot planned out yet so any suggestions are welcome.
Disclaimer: Clearly I don't own BBC Sherlock, I just like to embellish their canon.
-JK2
John was his doctor. John saw the signs. Sherlock, being Sherlock observed the signs. And promptly dismissed them. Sprinting through the dimly lit streets of London, nearly losing sight of Sherlock's coat billowing behind him wasn't exactly John's idea of was being too far away from Sherlock to fail to catch him as he stumbled and fell, head hitting the concrete with a sickening crack. John caught up with the detective bad leg protesting as he swiftly slid to kneel next to the semi-conscious man.
"Sherlock mate, can you hear me?Sherlock!" there was no response. John ran his hands through Sherlock's hair, feeling his scalp for cuts and bumps. His hands came away red from his temple, light bruising surrounding a shallow contusion. He wiped his hands off on Sherlock's coat and continued his examination. Gentle fingers prodded Sherlock's neck, moving down his chest to his arms. Upon reaching his right wrist a gasp escaped the raven-haired man, "Sherlock?" There was no other reaction, eyes still behind closed eyelids. John lifted Sherlock's sleeve, taking in the swollen limb, dark bruising coloring the joint. With further prodding Sherlock groaned, eyes flitting open.
"Sherlock, you with me mate?"
"Yeah," Sherlock's teeth ground as he pulled his arm out of John's loose grasp. A tremor ran through the thin man's body, eyes squeezing shut until the shaking ceased.
"Sherlock, you've hurt your wrist and cut your head, on top of whatever made you faint, considering the extent of the injury of your arm, you were unconscious before you hit the ground. Do you remember what happened?"
Sherlock pried his eyes open, stifling a groan, "I don't remember… he got away didn't he?"
John mentally rolled his eyes, "yes Sherlock, considering you were on the ground, and dare I say I care more about your well-being than some arse that decided to rob a liquor store," He paused, a sudden thought occurring, "Sherlock? When's the last time you ate?" Sherlock paused, eyes flicking away from John's face.
"I had some tea this morning." John scrubbed a hand over his face realizing the problem.
"Sherlock, that's not what I asked, I'll rephrase the question, have you eaten within the past 48 hours?" Sherlock's eyes remained tuned on the ground, lips pursed. "I'll take that as a no, that's it, I'm calling Lestrade."
"John!" Sherlock sat up quickly, only to fall back down as he paled further. John took his pulse as the phone tone sounded, ignoring Sherlock's feeble protests.
"John? What's wrong?" John smiled at the worry in Lestrade's voice.
The ambulance arrived within ten minutes, Lestrade's car in town. John continued to kneel by Sherlock's head, Sherlock was still unconscious, tremors running through his body, eyes flicking around behind pale lids.
"John, what happened?" Lestrade ran over, taking in the unconscious man and his concerned friend. John stood up, bad leg protesting from the change of position.
"Sherlock passed out while chasing a lead, he has a broken wrist, probable concussion, and he hasn't eaten since Monday, we haven't had a case, I…" John's voice cracked slightly, "I think Sherlock might be anorexic."
Lestrade ran a hand through his thinning hair, "I mean, I've had my suspicions, but if I ever brought it up he turned it against me, talking about my eating habits, we've never had a complete conversation about it." John's lips quirked, recognizing Sherlock's avoidance techniques.
"One, two three!" The paramedics lifted Sherlock onto a backboard sliding him into the ambulance.