For the third night in a row, John passed by the bedroom door on his way to bed and saw a light outlining the bottom of the door. The sandwich John had placed outside of it (with a call of "Lunch's ready") remained untouched, just as dinner had the night before. It was common for the man to lock himself away in a room, but he couldn't help feeling a swell of concern at the sight of the ignored meal. Unless Sherlock had been sneaking out during the later hours, then that meant he hadn't eaten or drank a single thing in three days.
John had only seen his face twice since this period of fasting: once yesterday to change the water for rinsing his brushes, and again today for the same purpose. Whatever project he was working on, it was taking an immense amount of his concentration. John had tried to wrestle out some clue as it what it was that he was working on, but he refused to divulge anything other than that it was a painting. That, of course, was obvious enough without him saying it by the stains on his shirt and pants which, John noted, he hadn't changed out of since he began.
After the second night, John had lay in bed and tried to puzzle out what it could be that Sherlock was working on. Generally, stretches of painting like these took place after immensely successful searches for inspiration. Those, of course, were an entirely different process in themselves.
Sherlock liked to depict the pain and the raw emotion of the world, and to find it, he would go everywhere. John, curiosity piqued by these trips, would often tag along and simply watch. Sherlock would tour abandoned buildings, back alleys, sleeping grounds for hobos, and even, on occasion, an animal shelter or two. Once, he sat perfectly still for over an hour, scarcely breathing as he watched a spider weave a web in the corner of a dumpster.
Rarely did he venture into such places as cafes or parks, but when he did, what usually came out of it was a woman with a latte crying silently in a corner ("He just texted her that they're breaking up," said Sherlock) or the look on a boy's face immediately after dropping his ice cream cone ("He really should've been more careful," Sherlock remarked). John had yet to see a painting of a couple in love or a dog chasing a ball or a gorgeous sunset or some such thing. And for that, he loved Sherlock's paintings. They were beautiful, in their own way. Different. New. Hardly anyone, of course, ever buys a painting of a tortured soul, which resulted in stacks of painted canvases leaned against every wall. A few earned places of honor on the walls, but for the most part, they were scattered about the flat in every direction.
Before Sherlock made himself a prisoner in his own bedroom, they'd visited a run-down building at the edge of the city so covered in graffiti that hardly any of the bricks still remained their original color. The building had been surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, but that didn't stop either of them from climbing carefully over the bounds and exploring the place. Their visit had been cut off by an inquisitive flashlight beam and a stern voice calling, "Is someone there?" They had sprinted from the building as fast as their legs could carry them and hurdled over the fence with the swiftness of a pair of professionals. Both of them had gotten cuts from the wire—John on his knee and Sherlock on his hand—but those weren't their immediate concerns. John remembered the pair of them having a laugh about the whole thing as he was bandaging up Sherlock's hand.
What had Sherlock seen in that building that was posing such a difficulty to paint? John found that question resurfacing over and over all day ever since his mental revisit of their small misadventure. Sherlock had never gone so long as three days without eating, even on his most difficult project.
His curiosity and worry pushing him to the limits, he hesitated by the door before making up his mind and rapping his knuckles against the wood. "Sherlock?"
"What is it, John? I'm busy," came the reply, his voice hoarse from lack of use.
"You should really eat something," John said, his anxiety showing through in his tone of voice.
"What are you talking about? I just had breakfast this morning."
"Sherlock, that was three days ago," said John.
There was a long pause as Sherlock processed this information. "I don't need anything. I'm fine," he called back finally.
John frowned. He most certainly wasn't fine. "How much sleep have you gotten?" he asked suspiciously.
"Enough," retorted Sherlock.
John remembered the dark circles he'd seen under Sherlock's eyes the last time he'd seen the man and knew that wasn't the case. He scooped up the plate off the floor, his inquisitiveness winning him over. "I'm coming in," he announced, his hand already on the knob. Normally he didn't intrude on Sherlock's privacy like this, especially in the middle of a project—Sherlock hated anyone to see an unfinished painting—but this situation called for special actions.
"No, don't—!" Sherlock started to shout, but John had already twisted his hand and swung open the door.
The man was more covered in paint than he had been before. There were even dabs of it on his face, and his fingers were coated in colors that weren't his own. No less than three palettes were laid out on the floor, each one caked in layers of dry paint. But it was the canvas, of course, propped up against a box with a sheet underneath to protect the carpet, which made John's breath catch in his throat.
Most of Sherlock's paintings had this effect on him—they were done in such exquisite detail that they could almost be touched through the canvas, but at the same time, there was that quality just under precision which gave them the look of a painting. This one, however, was different in that its subject matter was John himself.
He was looking at a portrait of himself, his head bent slightly forward and to the side, a smile lining the edges of his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes. His painted version wasn't making eye contact with the viewer, so it was rather disorienting to be looking at his reflection and yet know that he wasn't looking at his reflection at all. His face was lit by the soft, yellowish glow of a lamp—probably the one in the sitting room, if the background was anything to go by. His portrait was holding the pale, long-fingered hand of Sherlock, gently wrapping a strip of gauze around the palm. He could see the moment replayed in his mind: the two of them, snickering over their situation despite the blood literally on their hands.
"Is this what you've been working on?" John asked in a quiet, shocked voice, still staring at the picture with the enchantment of a charmed cobra.
He knew the answer before Sherlock said it. "Yes." There was a small pause, during which it didn't quite register in John's mind that Sherlock's tone wasn't completely at ease. "I've been working on your face for hours. I can't seem to get it right."
"It's perfect," said John, his eyes lingering on the canvas for a moment more before flicking to Sherlock's. His wonder was met by wariness in the other man's gaze.
"You like it?" he asked.
"Of course I like it," said John earnestly. Sherlock's blue eyes brightened at the praise, and he seemed a bit more relaxed. "It's fantastic. Probably your best one. Was this from the other night, after we broke into that building?"
Sherlock smiled slightly, looking at it. "You were doing up my hand, and you just said how ridiculous it was that we'd done that," he said calmly. "Then you just started laughing. And I started laughing. It was the silliest thing." There was another pause before he said, "I've never wanted so badly to paint laughter."
John was flattered. He really was. Sherlock's first painted smile, and it was his. Their moment of silent appreciation, however, was cut short as Sherlock said, "Now, if you don't mind, I think I'll catch up on the sleep I've missed…"
"Food first," said John, brandishing the momentarily forgotten sandwich. Sherlock reluctantly snatched it out of his hands and took a large bite.
In the weeks that followed, a handful of people stopped by to browse the art, and though almost every single one would've made substantial offers for the bright new painting now hanging above the fireplace, Sherlock refused to sell it.