It sounded ridiculous, a person /slowing down/ after eating just a tiny bit, but the more John got used to Sherlock's body language he noticed that, indeed, Sherlock seemed to slow exponentially after eating. Within several minutes of ingesting anything Sherlock usually walked slower, the way he walked on the outer edges of his feet indicating that he was trying to keep from jostling his stomach. It was only after John made made Sherlock eat lunch, and he spent the rest of the night curled up in his chair in obvious (to John at least) discomfort, that he brought it up.

"Sherlock, have you ever been tested for allergies?"

Sherlock looked up indignantly, "Surely you can tell that I am not having an allergic reaction, Doctor Watson."

"Not all allergic reactions are anaphylactic shock or hives."

"I am not allergic to anything." Sherlock waved his hand, as if he was shooing away the very thought.

"You try to avoid eating because you feel ill after." John stated.

"No," he insisted, "it's because eating sows me down."

John rolled his eyes, "It slows you down because you feel ill."

Sherlock says nothing in response and looks away.

"Just answer some questions for me, okay? How does your stomach feel after eating?" John waits to see if he's blessed with an answer.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, "Nauseous, a bit bloated even after small amounts."

John nods, "Any vomiting?"

There is a long stretch of silence "Occasionally," Sherlock admits, "Usually self induced to get rid of the ill feelings."

"Alright," John keeps his voice neutral, but he is upset to hear that his friend, who already eats so little, would do that to himself, "Any diarrhea?"

"Yes," is the immediate response.

"Right then," John reached for his laptop, "I'm making an appointment as soon as possible to get you tested."


Three days passed before the day of Sherlock's appointment arrived. John had to bribe Sherlock with experiment privileges to get him out the door. They were just about to walk in to the office when Sherlock abruptly stopped walking.

"Seventy-two." he said.

John gaped, "No. No, you agreed to forty-eight!"

"I've decided a visit to an allergist is definitely worth more than two days of fridge time." Sherlock looked over at a passing car.

"I'll give you fifty-five hours." John shuffled on his feet. He had to convince Sherlock to go in, no mater how long there would be a head in their fridge.

Sherlock continued to look at anything but John.

"Fine. You can have your three days. Let's go." He took a had a hand on the door handle when he noticed Sherlock still hadn't moved. "Bloody hell, Sher-"

Sherlock was slightly rocking back and forth, drumming his fingers rapidly on his leg.

John had to do a double take, "Sherlock," he started quietly, "are you-"

"Don't." he hissed.

"-scared?"

Sherlock had a strange expression on his face that looked a mix of disgust and holding back tears. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it and fixed his gaze on the golden numbers above the door.

Looking at his watch John made a small, sympathetic noise, "Do you want to take a walk? We've can have five minutes, but then we really need to get in there."

Sherlock, obviously against John's pity, stormed inside and sat in one of the overly cushioned waiting room chairs.

Sighing. John walked up to the desk to sign in, "Appointment for Sherlock Holmes." he said to the woman at the computer.

The older woman clicked the mouse a few times, "This is your first time here?"

John pointed back at Sherlock, "His, yeah. Not too pleased about it either."

She smiled, "Well then, he just needs to fill this sheet out with his details and return it when finished." She passes John a clipboard, "Both sides."

"Thanks." John walks over to where Sherlock is sulking. "Here, fill this out."

Sherlock yanks the form out of John's hands and fills it out at lightning speed, then he takes it to the front desk himself.

"Alrighty," the woman says, "the doctor can take you back right now, his last appointment was a no show."

Sherlock freezes, for a short moment John thinks he might faint, then he turns to John, "Coming?"

John stands, but the desk woman laughs, "Oh, no, dear. We don't allow non-family in the rooms."

When Sherlock's right knee buckles and he nearly falls before straitening it again the desk woman doesn't notice, but John does and his stomach clenches. Something is wrong.

Three chapters of his book later a different woman with red hair hands him some more papers. "What happened?" he asks quickly.

"What? Nothing, your friend just said he needed the loo and to give you the bill and the results." the lady hands him a pen and he signs the bill quickly and writes a check.

"Where are the bathrooms at?" Sherlock hardly ever uses public toilets, and when he does it isn't in a place he hates.

The woman points him in the right direction and he goes quickly, hoping to catch Sherlock before he makes a grand disappearance. John arrives just in time to nearly be hit in the face by the opening door. "Hey!" Looking up he realizes it's Sherlock, "Watch where you're- shit, are you alright?"

Sherlock's eyes are red and his lower lip is trembling slightly. "John," his voice cracks and he clears his throat, "John, I would like to go home now."

"Sure, yeah." John is about to start walking when he pauses, "Would you, uh, would you like a hug first?"

Sherlock glances around and peeks down the hall before nodding unsurely.

It's an awkward hug, Sherlock is stiff as a board and John isn't sure what would be helpful versus what would put Sherlock off. John pats Sherlock on the back before pulling away. "Good?"

Now Sherlock's eyes are shining and he simply nods once before walking away with longer-than-usual strides, only stopping to let John catch up after he was out of the building.

When John is back at Sherlock's side he sees him tilting his phone around. Looking at his eyes, John realizes.

Sherlock leans closer to the phone screen and swears under his breath. He turns to John, "Have you got the results?"

He flaps the small stack of papers, "Yeah. Want to look?"

"In the cab." Sherlock states, waving one down at that exact moment, as if some sort of author in the sky writing their lives liked to make things more dramatic. Sherlock climbs in and John follows.

John centers the papers on his lap, "Right then, the test results." He doesn't miss the sudden concerned glance in the rear-view mirror from the cabbie, so he adds, "Time to see if you're allergic to anything, Sherlock."

Sherlock is attentively paying attention to John, for once.

"The moment of truth." John says and opens the folder. The top sheet was a list of what had been tested and the highlighted items were what tested positive. "Oh, God."

"What? What is it? Peanuts? Shellfish?" Sherlock looked concerned.

John looked over the sheet again, there were fourteen items highlighted, nine of which were food items. "Birch, dandelion, poison ivy, ryegrass, and meadow grass," he read off.

Sherlock sighed and grinned, "I thought it would be something serious. Allergies to pollen can be avoided by simple shots. You could even bring them home from work."

Clearing his throat, John continued, "Onions," Sherlock's cheeky grin falters, "tomatoes," the grin is gone now, replaced by a look of confusion, "green peas, filbert-" he breaks off and looks to Sherlock in confusion, "Filbert?"

Sherlock blinks to snap himself out of his daze, "An alternate title for hazlenuts." he explains.

Nodding, John takes a breath and continues, "Cinnamon, flounder, milk, eggs, and wheat. That's everything."

Sherlock takes a deep breath, opens his mouth to say something, then just shakes his head.

"We need to cut all of that out for a month at least to see how you feel," John quietly explains what Sherlock probably already knows, "Then we can try adding one thing back for a week and see how you feel after eating it."

Sherlock doesn't say anything in reply.

"Think of it as an experiment," John suggests in the hopes that Sherlock will get involved.

Still, there is no reply from Sherlock. Something is wrong.