Now, John Watson was a doctor. He was a damn good doctor too. He'd go to work every morning, talk kindly and politely with patients, diagnose the problem, prescribe the medication if need be, and then he'd go home in the evening pleased with the knowledge that he's helped someone.
However, there was one person, no matter how hard he'd try, that was beyond help. When it came to being difficult, Sherlock Holmes didn't just take the biscuit - he took the whole bloody cake.
It was safe to say that John had seen his fair share of eating disorders in his line of work. Anorexia, bulimia, binge eating, some terrible cases of depression, and then there was that person who ate cigarettes. But these were nothing compared to Sherlock.
Oh no, he didn't suffer from some fatal disease that was triggered by the consumption of food. No, Sherlock just didn't see the point in eating. He called it boring on more than ten occasions when John was trying to coax him into having dinner. Other times he claimed that it took up too much time and was a distraction.
John was at his wits end with his flatmate. How could someone be so intelligent, yet not see the need to eat? It was baffling to John, and he was beginning to lose faith in his ability to make Sherlock eat something. Anything.
Now that he'd thought more about it, he'd never seen Sherlock actually eat. Maybe he was one of those people that didn't like an audience. Wait, no. This was Sherlock Holmes. He loved an audience.
Well, there was no harm in trying, John mused.
Very carefully, so as not to disturb Sherlock, who was in his mind palace, John slid a plate of toast onto the table. It was early morning, so John was ready to leave for work, meaning it was the perfect time to put his new plan into action.
Tugging on his jacket, John exited the flat and waited for a cab. He was feeling rather chuffed with himself. See, Sherlock's not the only clever one, he praised himself.
All he had to do now was wait. Sherlock may not eat the food left today, but he would eventually. This was something that John was sure of.
Nothing. Nada. Squat. Zilch.
It had been a week. A whole week. All for nothing.
John was definitely starting to lose faith in his abilities. And he was no longer chuffed. He'd stopped being chuffed after day four.
It's hopeless, he thought. This was the seventh day he'd come home from work to see the food still sitting there. He'd been angry at first, then frustrated, and now he was downright concerned. There was no way he could pay the rent if Sherlock ended up hospitalised due to lack of certain necessary nutrients. John couldn't stress the necessary part enough when talking to his insufferable flatmate.
John, after hanging up his jacket a taking off his shoes, picked up the, unfortunately, still full plate and padded into the kitchen. A nice cup of tea would calm him down. One with lots of sugar and milk. Oh, and one of those nice muffins Mrs Hudson brought up. Yeah, John thought, that'll do the trick.
Opening the fridge, John went straight for the plate of muffins and set one on a plate at the kitchen table. He went back to the fridge, trying to find the milk.
"Sherlock!" John called to the lump currently curled up on the sofa. "I thought I asked you to pick up the milk this morning?"
The lump shifted slightly before a head of inky black curls popped up. John glared intently at the innocent look on Sherlock's face, waiting for the imminent excuse.
"Yes, you did." And that was it. No apology. No excuse. Not even a little bit of denial.
John waited; he wasn't budging until he got a proper answer. Apparently Sherlock wasn't budging either. John sighed loudly before going to put his shoes back on.
"Fine, I'll go get the milk," John grabbed his jacket and wallet, still glaring, "because, whether it be eating or buying the milk, God forbid Sherlock Holmes does something I ask him to. God forbid he actually listens."
And with that, John began his short trek to the shop around the corner, not hesitating to slam the door behind him.
Okay, maybe I was a bit harsh on him, John thought as he walked back to the flat, milk in hand. No, wait, he never gets the milk though, and he just admitted to hearing me and still not getting it. But maybe he's working on a case… No, if he was working on something important, I would know. Or not...
Never mind, John decided, I'll just let it go this once. Let's take it one step at a time. All I should really be focussing on is getting him to eat.
Before John knew it he was already back at the flat and inside. Sherlock looked to be sulking on the sofa, and John didn't feel sorry for him at all.
He just put the kettle on and went about making his tea. Once he was done he took a long drink and sighed contentedly. Oh yeah, he had a muffin on the table, didn't he?
John looked to the table, only to find the plate empty.
"What…? Oh, never mind…" He mumbled, confused. Maybe he forgot to put a muffin on the plate. Maybe he was just too frustrated about the milk to notice.
However, if John had only turned once more to face his flatmate, he would have seen Sherlock smirking to himself. And he might have noticed the few chocolate crumbs on Sherlock's dressing gown. And he might have come to the right conclusion. And he might have noticed that, just this once, Sherlock Holmes did listen to him.
Oh my, did I just write a vaguely fluffy Sherlock fic?
Well, I haven't had much to do today, and this just came to me last night. I hope you enjoyed it and please review!
- Callie