You couldn't live with Sherlock for two months without picking up some of his observational skills and since by profession John was trained to monitor the human body, the effects of Moriarty's little stunt on both of the Holmes boys had not gone unnoticed. He'd partially anticipated Sherlock's reaction but he hadn't expected it to be quite so extreme. Not that it had required much in terms of deductive skill to work out what he was, or rather wasn't, doing; when you consistently come home to find your living space clouded with cigarette smoke, your flatmate's cheekbones go from sharp to positively atom-splitting within a week and the only food leaving the kitchen does so in your own hands it doesn't take a doctor to figure out what's going on. It was Mycroft who floored him. He hadn't expected him to show any reaction to Sherlock's obvious decline.

The first time John realised what was going on was two weeks after what Mycroft persisted in referring to as the "debacle at the pool". Mycroft had 'abducted' John less than a day after the incident, to inform him that he wanted daily updates on Sherlock's physical condition and, sensing the genuine concern in the other man's face, he'd obliged. He hadn't sugar coated the texts, too worried himself to find a polite way of saying Sherlock was starving himself to death and that morning had simply said:

If no improvement within week will need hospitalisation - JW

So he hadn't been surprised, when he returned from his shift at the surgery, to find Mycroft in the flat.

Sherlock, who resembled a dressing gown clad Belsen inmate, had expressed his displeasure at his sibling's presence by remaining at the window, back resolutely to the room, using his violin to produce a series of screeches that John had previously only associated with some of the more unpleasant methods of torture. Mycroft was in John's chair, an expression of deep discomfort on his features, which John had initially put down to the appalling noise and the fact Sherlock was still in his dressing gown at four o'clock in the afternoon. But when, as he'd shoved the milk in the fridge, he'd realised that Mycroft was eating, something he'd never seen him do before, he'd looked properly at the man.

Mycroft wasn't just eating; that was too bland a description for what he was doing to the biscuits John had left on the coffee table in the hope it might tempt Sherlock into having one. He was inhaling them at a very impressive speed; the culinary equivalent of chain smoking, John had thought at the time. It was also clear, as he hadn't stopped the minute John appeared, that he was not aware he was doing it. He was also shifting almost constantly in the chair, in what John recognised as an attempt to relieve some of the pressure on his mid-section.

A mid-section that was straining the expensive fabric of his suit to its limits, distended stomach visibly bulging where the waistband of his trousers cut into the swollen flesh beneath the waistcoat. John had winced in sympathy and, feeling faintly sick at the thought of exactly how much Mycroft must have eaten to get like that, waited with baited breath for the harsh remark he was certain Sherlock would make once he deigned to acknowledge either of them.

It didn't come.

When Sherlock finally did turn round, after John had used his parade ground voice on him, his eyes flicked blankly over them both and then he just stalked out of the room. As John sat in shock at the lack of reaction from his flat-mate – where was the man who always had to have the last word - Mycroft had given John a sad smile, gestured towards a manila file that was next to the now empty biscuit packet and left, grimacing with every movement.

The file contained everything Mycroft had dug up on Moriarty's network, plus several medical reports from Sherlock's youth and early twenties. It had taken John three hours to read everything, another hour to compose himself and then approximately five seconds to text Mycroft to ask what the hell he was meant to be doing with the information. The subsequent meetings gave John ample data on how Mycroft responded to Sherlock induced stress but he made the point of never saying anything to the man.

John knew Mycroft was trying to pretend everything was still normal, despite the fact that his waistline was increasing faster than the Greek national debt. Since he wasn't Mycroft's doctor he felt no compulsion to give any indication he was aware of Mycroft's eating disorder or his attempts to hide it. Besides, he had no frame of reference for how Mycroft would react to his input and the thought of the havoc upsetting him any more could wreck on both of them was more than enough to ensure he kept his opinions to himself.

So he stayed silent and instead concentrated on trying to protect Sherlock, both from himself and from Moriarty, even to the point where he dragged the caffeine and nicotine crazed man to Barts for a day and inflicted him on poor Molly, just so Mycroft's team could update the surveillance equipment along Baker Street without him noticing.

He didn't completely ignore Mycroft's issues though. He took Greg to the pub. Two pints in, having established that yes, he'd made the right assumption about the cause of Greg's rather dramatic reaction to finding Mycroft standing two foot from live explosives at the pool, he asked - straight out, quietly wondering when Sherlock's refusal to conform to societal norms had rubbed off on him - whether Greg was struggling with the changes in his partner.

Greg's response had been eye opening. The expression on his face when he'd informed John that

a) Mycroft had been an awful lot bigger than he was now when they'd first got together,

b) he didn't give a monkeys what clothes size Mycroft took and

c) if John was really that shallow he'd better get the hell out of there before he lost his cool

had made John re-evaluate exactly what D.I. Lestrade might be capable of when riled.

An apology and another pint later he explained that he'd been asking whether Greg was concerned about Mycroft's mental state, not his waist measurement. Greg had shrugged, taken another sip of his drink and said, with a long suffering sigh, that worrying about both was par for the course when you shared your life with a Holmes. John had given a non-committal grunt at the time but later that night, as he'd held Sherlock - who was suffering from a starvation induced migraine - while he retched miserably into the toilet, he acknowledged to himself that Greg was completely, one hundred percent, right.

It took John a month to get Sherlock to eat more than half an apple a day and that had only happened because he'd almost made good on his message to Mycroft and admitted him to hospital for re-feeding after the migraine episode. He didn't think he'd ever forget the way Sherlock had said "Please don't send me away, John" although he knew that he attached a different meaning to the words than Sherlock probably did, given that he'd finally admitted, in the privacy of his own head, that was he felt for Sherlock went way beyond the bounds of friendship.

However the threat had worked. Sherlock began to slowly progress from apples to rice and then on to peanut butter sandwiches. As he did the irascible, irritating man who had returned the spark and colour to John's world began to reappear; his body slowly, millimetre by millimetre, moving from skeletal to painfully thin. The day Sherlock voluntarily ate a slice of Mrs Hudson's Victoria sponge John allowed himself to hope that the worst was over and filled the flat with fruit, peanut butter and a selection of highly appetising, high calorie treats.

However it wasn't until Mycroft and Greg had turned up one Saturday, discreetly yet very much together, to request Sherlock's help with a cold case which they thought might have been masterminded by Moriarty, that John got his Sherlock back; sibling rivalry, acerbic comments and all:

'Two stone, ten pounds in six weeks, brother. Is that a new record?' were the first words out of Sherlock's mouth after they walked into the room.

'Don't be tiresome, Sherlock,' Mycroft's voice held nothing but distain, 'At least my addiction does not harm anyone else.'

He coughed pointedly and Sherlock took another drag on his current cigarette in response.

'Well, are you just here to test the tensile strength of the floorboards or do you have something for me?'

Mycroft handed over the files, apparently content to ignore Sherlock's jibes, and Greg began to outline the case as Sherlock spread the papers across the table, intent on the shots of the crime scene. What followed was Sherlock at his best, mind whirring so fast even Mycroft seemed to be struggling to keep up. John provided coffee, biscuits and a suitably impressed expression every time he caught Sherlock's eye and pretended not to notice when Mycroft wandered out into the kitchen and ate an entire chocolate cake.

It wasn't until two incredibly intense hours later when Greg, having polished off the plate of biscuits that John had balanced next to him to keep them out of Mycroft's reach, sagged into an armchair that John realised what it was that had been nagging at him about Greg's appearance since he'd walked in. He had gained weight too. There had alway been a curve to Greg's stomach but this was a definite belly, more obvious now he was sitting down and it was pushed well over the waistband of his jeans, straining the buttons of his shirt. John turned, shaking his head at Sherlock, but it was too late.

'Eleven and three quarter pounds, Lestrade, ten of which have gone straight on your stomach.'

He turned to Mycroft, eyes flashing in triumph. 'Apparently your inability to control your appetite isn't so harmless after all, brother dear. Do you think he was just trying to make you feel better about your gargantuan gut by creating one of his own, or does he feel obliged to eat more than he should just because he knows if he doesn't eat it, you will?'

'Fuck off, Sherlock!' Greg sprang from the chair and marched out of the flat, his face red. 'Are you coming?' he called back to Mycroft over the thunder of his footsteps on the stairs.

'One moment, Gregory,' Mycroft stood and turned on Sherlock with an expression so contemptuous it could have scorched wood. 'That man saved your life and your sanity and gives you the work you love, yet you embarrass and ridicule him to score a point off me ... Really Sherlock, isn't it about time you grew up?'

John hadn't bothered to give Sherlock a piece of his mind after Mycroft had gone, the pink tinge to his cheeks in his otherwise ashen face told him he didn't need to. The fact that he remained frozen to the spot, in silence, for the next two hours and then sent a text to Greg that simply said Sorry – SH came as a pleasant surprise. John wasn't as happy that Sherlock didn't sleep that night, instead pacing the floor of the living room, muttering under his breath and occasionally playing snatches of what John recognised as Vivaldi, but he didn't complain about the result; Sherlock spent the following day practically glued to John's side, being far more tactile than John had ever thought possible.

Monday morning came with the reappearance of Greg, who turned up with a huge cardboard box just as John was leaving for his shift. John's quizical expression was met with a small smile and the assurance that he had just come to have a chat with Sherlock before he went to the Yard. When John returned home the flat was pristine, all the windows were open, the smoke and the ashtrays had gone and Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, eyes wide and leg bouncing.

'Patches,' He said abruptly, gesticulating to the open box in which nestled what looked like several months worth of nicotine replacement. 'Lestrade brought them for me.'

'That was kind of him,' John walked into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on, smiling as he heard Sherlock's footsteps behind him.

'He and Mycroft are going on a diet,' Sherlock said his voice devoid of the sarcasm that usually accompanied any sentence that included the words Mycroft and diet. When John turned and raised an enquiring eyebrow, Sherlock continued 'He came because he wanted to clear the air and he thought I might want to do something for you.'

'Giving up smoking shouldn't be for me,' John said as Sherlock moved closer, the oddest look in his eyes. 'It won't work if it isn't what you want, Sherlock. It has to be for you.'

'It's for both of us,' Sherlock closed the gap between them and John realised that the look on his face was fear, 'but that wasn't the thing I wanted to do. I want to ...' he hesitated, hands hovering in front of him but then he pulled them back. '... no I have to say this first because ... because I was wrong.'

Sherlock was panting, his pupils hugely dilated and John's eyes flicked to his forearms only to realise that he wasn't actually wearing a patch at all.

'Sherlock?'

'Don't you see?' Sherlock was now so close John could feel him quivering. 'Don't you see?'

'See what?'

'How often I was wrong! That when I told you I was married to my work I was lying. Lying to you and to myself. That when I said everything else was transport, I was just being ignorant. That when I told Moriarty I didn't have a heart I was just trying to sheild you.'

He spun away from John, hands clenching and jaw muscle jumping and, for a moment, John wondered if he was going to be sick. Then he was back in front of him with an expression so completely open that John had trouble breathing. When he spoke again his voice was barely above a whisper.

'I do have a heart, John. I do have feelings but ... I've spent all my life shutting them away, pretending I don't. I was convinced that allowing myself to love would destroy me, the way the taunts and then the cocaine almost did. Those times that I tried to feel were far more overwhelming than any drug. I ... I was scared of sensations I didn't understand, scared of emotions I didn't have any reference for and so I pushed them away, pushed you away, like a silly little boy.'

He reached out a hand, brushing a thumb along John's jaw and fought for breath, 'As much as I loathe saying it, Mycroft was right, it is time I grew up.'

And then Sherlock pressed his lips to John's.

This is the first time I've written dialogue in the Sherlockverse and I'd really, really appreciate any con-crit you can give me.