(( Below is a story containing eating disorders and a sad little scuttle between John and Sherlock. It's angsty and it's not pretty, but it's a story I felt like I should write. Perhaps I will continue to add chapters, but perhaps I will leave it as a one-shot, I can't really decide if more of the story needs to be told or not. Thank you for reading. I've always felt that if Sherlock were to have an eating disorder, events would follow in a different way- because let's face it- Sherlock is different. Enjoy- ))
In our lives it is irrevocable that we will experience hell in every sense, but hell in my experience isn't an awful place because of its fires or even because of it's weeping promises, wether hell is real or not- metaphorical or physical- hell is awful, because it is personal.
He's standing alone in his room now, ritualistically putting his clothing on. Chances are he's already figured John is staring holes into him- chances are he's lost the ability to care for John's concern. Skeletal fingers tremble tirelessly over the buttons, as if they were all that kept him contained in his earthly form. Surely, inside of Sherlock was a yellow eyed monster of bubbling fear and rotten gore, putrid with the smell of death, festering with rotten limbs and maggoty flesh, and if for an instant a button were to be un-wound that monster would be released to the world.
John swallowed and touched the grain of the door, breathing in sync with the creak that followed, calloused fingers clenching at his side.
His personal hell.
Well, if you'd asked him about it a year ago he might have told you his hell was in the rubble of war- on the shoulders of the wide-eyed shadow of himself , I don't even know how to use this gun? What am I doing here?
I'm going to die alone.
But, now- hell to John was watching Sherlock from afar, without a single ounce of influence over the man as he dressed himself. Sherlock looks thin. He looks thinner, he's lost weight, he's killing himself.
"Sherlock?" The clockwork shuffled into motion as John's started softly, pushing forwards so the door that separated them creaked open. In an instant John could feel the tension burning in his fingertips. He looked to Sherlock, and Sherlock looked to him- their partnering gaze touched.
John and Sherlock sometimes held entire conversations without raising a single word. A glance, a risen lip, an exhale of breath- all little poppets that aided in their communication.
John told Sherlock with his eyes that he was going to ask him to eat again.
Sherlock told John with his eyes that he was going to refuse him. Again.
The curly haired man broke their gaze and turned his back to John, he entertained John with a soft "Hum?" his lips hardly opening as he fiddled with the very last button. John sighed, Sherlock wasn't fooling anyone.
John took a step into the room, the bag he held behind him stung his fingers, it hissed at him. "Tackle him." The bag whispered. "Tackle him and force him." It prickled to his touch. "Take him by surprise."
John cleared his throat and decided he would start easily, he would give Sherlock a chance before he- before he did what he had come to do- " Sherlock, If there was something- ailing you, would you feel comfortable confiding in me?"
Sherlock finished the button, ashen cheeks raising as he inhaled a couple of breaths. He had grown so sickly. Sherlock must have been touched with a dizzy spell, because he swiftly moved his hand to the head of the bed, body crumbling forwards grunting softly, he shook- knees quivering. It became apparent that he was no longer able to hold himself up-right.
"Shit." John hissed, dropping the paper-bag he'd been clenching as he ran towards Sherlock, setting a hand on his back, Sherlock blindly touched John's shirt, only accepting his help for the few moments that he was disheveled "Sherlock, you have to eat." John growled, carefully stern hands found their way to Sherlock's shoulders. He helped the other sit at the edge of his bed.
"You know my answer, John." Even though John had known it , it still sickened John to his very core.
"You selfish bastard." John's words were feral, brinking on the edge of a sob as he grabbed Sherlock's wrist and checked for his pulse. "You fucking selfish asshole." He continued to utter obscenities as his trembling fingers danced along that pale wrist. "You are going to die and you're going to leave me here alone-" He moved his hands to Sherlock's face, he cupped both of Sherlock's cheeks with his hands, thumbs raising to just below the bottoms of his eyes as he looked at Sherlock.
Please don't make me do this. John asked Sherlock with his eyes.
Please don't do this to me. Sherlock asked back with his own eyes.
"You don't eat. It's been days. Now tell me, why?"
"Because, John. Because I am beyond human necessity- I cannot focus when I'm stuck with something as menial as a belly full of worthless human fuel." Sherlock seemed satisfied with his answer.
"You're lying." John countered. John was not satisfied.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he slapped John's hands away, quickly standing up. While he acknowledged that it wasn't the issue, he made no move to explain himself, and John realized with an ache that Sherlock would never offer his reason for unnecessary starvation.
John watched the other as he trudged around his room, obviously searching for something. Sherlock stopped when he saw the paper bag John had brought into the room and set down on the ground. John watched as Sherlock studied the bag for a moment before he turned to look at John.
Catharsis. John reasoned. It was about Sherlock's twisted sense of catharsis.
When his mind wound and wound and wound and then released itself- twisting and shuttering at thousands of miles per hour, his sense of well-ness was perhaps shoving a finger down his throat and releasing himself of his earthly barrier. Of not touching what perhaps made us the most human, of watching his body wither at his own hand. Sherlock didn't cope, he didn't have to cope- but he did have to cleanse himself. This was about Sherlock and his very personal flaw. Sherlock had gotten a taste for emptiness, and perhaps he had glorified his disorder. He was the king of empty stomachs- of the withering limbs and the longing gazes. Sherlock was the ruler of the bones, of the dry mouths and the weeping mirrors.
Somehow, Sherlock's superior hold over an eating disorder frightened John, Sherlock was the king of starvation.
"What are you going to do, John?" Sherlock growled, enraged by the bag. "Did you bring that in hopes of sitting me down? Getting me to eat it and suddenly the world is so rosy and peachy and wonderful?" Sherlock continued on in his rant, but he ceased making sense, sounding like nothing more than a cornered animal.
John stood to his feet and shook his head. "No, Sherlock."
His personal hell was about to become what he knew he had to do.
John's feet creaked against the floor as he stepped towards the consulting detective, and for once he wondered if he was about to surprise Sherlock, the great Sherlock Holmes who could read John like an open book.
"You're only going to waste your breath." Sherlock uttered.
John stopped in front of Sherlock, breathing coming in heavy doses now as he wound his hand back at his side, fist clenching. "Please. Sherlock." He tried one last time, one last time to get Sherlock to do it compliantly.
"No-" Before Sherlock's face could have even twisted without he severity of his 'no' John had wound back his hand and sent his fist sailing into Sherlock's stomach. What followed was the first time John had ever seen Sherlock in true unadulterated pain. The man dropped to his knees immediately, mouth spluttering open as he struggled for breath. Sherlock had momentarily been taken aback by the sudden and foreign attack from John, in an instant he less than delicately dropped onto his stomach, lips still parted as he gasped against the unkind floor- dribbles of saliva slid from his lips- touching to the floor as he flailed.
"John-" he knew now. He already he knew what John was about to do.
John didn't waste an instant. Before Sherlock recovered he got on top of him, pushing the man onto his back as he sat on Sherlock's aching stomach. Sherlock cried out, fingers raising to tighten around tufts of John's clothing, perhaps his feeble attempt at freeing himself from the military doctor.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John pressed- eyes burning as he grabbed the paper bag. Earlier, he'd been walking home- past the countless bakeries, wishing, dreaming, hoping that he could help Sherlock. He'd spied a devilish looking pastry, pecans- some kind of god-awful coma inducing sponge-cake. It was then that he decided he was going to force Sherlock to eat it, he was going to force that bastard to eat, and he was not going to side aside any longer watching the man's waist shrink. 28- 27... 26…
Sherlock watched with shockingly calm eyes as John grabbed the cake from the paper bag- balling it up in his grip. "I'm so sorry." He whispered again as he placed his hand over Sherlock's nose- this forced Sherlock to moan, resorting to opening his mouth to breath. Sherlock shuttered from beneath John, kicking meekly as he attempted to free himself from John. It didn't work, his struggles were in vain, Sherlock was just too emaciated- John was just too strong.
Hell was when Sherlock bent over his table, eyes boring into the microscope, because when he did this John could see the imprints of his otherwise glorious spine prickling out of his shirt. The zipper that held away the monster of his flesh, the monster who yearned to reach out with its dirty finger-nails and infect anyone who dared to inhale it's existence.
Sometimes people stared at him.
Nobody ever said anything.
Sherlock suffered at John's hand, but when John neared Sherlock's mouth with the article of food the detective hastily shut his mouth- choosing to release himself from breathing before he would eat the food.
"Don't make me hurt you again-" John gasped, his vision fogging up slightly- he did not cry for this, he would not allow himself- but he did feel that distant sting deep in eye-sockets. "Oh god, Sherlock please don't make me."
But, Sherlock was not going to comply.
John swallowed, cursing softly under his breath as he shoved his knee into Sherlock's stomach with as much force as he could muster.
Sherlock's eyes widened, practically splitting at their seems as he opened his mouth in a blind fit of unfathomable pain. Sherlock's chest rose slightly, but not a single sound was wrung from Sherlock's throat- this perhaps was the most frightening thing John had ever experienced. "Breath you stubborn asshole." John bit his lip, and watched as a heart-wrenching moan tore from Sherlock's abused throat. He struggled to find his breath as he crumpled underneath John. Sherlock's grip relaxed from John's clothing and John stole his opportunity to grab Sherlock's Jaw, he used the blunt force of his grasp around the other's mouth to force it open.
Sherlock remained still, reeling in blinding pain undoubtably. John felt all of the sorrow in the world for having to harm the man he loved so dearly- and yet he pressed on, he pressed on because of his love, because of that rage and the fury that bubbled up inside of him. Sherlock was not going to die, he was going to eat no matter what- he was going to eat and John was not going to sit idly any longer.
John forced the food into Sherlock's mouth and in an instant felt Sherlock's body convulse beneath him as he tried to spit the food out. John kept his hand in place over Sherlock's nose, his plan was calculated, he'd thought it through- and perhaps for once he was one step ahead of Sherlock. If Sherlock wanted to breath he was going to have to swallow.
It was a grudging process, and a few times John wondered if Sherlock had lost consciousness, but Sherlock finally swallowed the food, he finally gasped for breath as the corners of his lips had become stained from the desert. Then, after the struggle, after Sherlock's lips remained slack with fatigue- there was pure unholy silence.
Hell. John decided. Was the way Sherlock looked at him, betrayal and hatred thick in his dead-gaze. Hell was the realization that John would not always be able to force Sherlock to eat- and while perhaps a simple cake would fuel him for a day or two, there would come a time when Sherlock would have to decide for himself- to eat or not to eat.
John touched Sherlock's cheek and leaned forwards, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's chest as he eased the weight off of Sherlock's stomach, only slightly. "Please forgive me." John sputtered.
"Get off of me." Sherlock's voice wasn't distorted with any sort of emotion, it was a simple demand a simple cause and effect. His organs crumpled beneath John, whimpering with their last whims- surly they would give away soon.
"You know I can't." He wouldn't allow Sherlock the opportunity to purge himself of his food. He would not stand outside of the bathroom door anymore listening to Sherlock choke up his food. Sherlock knew John wouldn't free him.
Hell was the silence that followed, the way Sherlock's eyes folded upwards to stare at the celling. It was the fact that for once in his life John could not communicate with Sherlock's gaze- that perhaps their bond was broken. Hell was the twenty minutes John spent pinning Sherlock down. Hell was Sherlock's pain, and the uncertainty of what was to follow.