A/N: This story is written for johnlockchallenges blog on tumblr, and it's written for earthfirefly. I do hope this lives up to her prompt and that she will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Darling, let me know if it was good enough (:

This is my first Sherlock fic ever, even though I have read so much of it. I hope you all will enjoy it and that it will be a good edition to the Sherlock fandom (:

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, any of the characters related to Sherlock, or any trademarked thing I mention in this story. I just own this specific fanfiction.

I hope you all enjoy (:

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Sherlock rustled and whimpered slightly from his position on the couch. John glanced at his flatmate, peaking over the edge of the newspaper he was currently trying to read, but seemed to have a hard time focusing on the political articles and the rainstorm that would be coming tomorrow.

221B Baker Street had been oddly quiet for the past three days. True, John and Sherlock had just spent a week and a half tracking down a serial child-molester (the statements from the victimized children had been full of loop-holes, which left Sherlock chasing ghosts and dead leads), but John was surprised that his bushy-haired friend had slept for almost 72 hours straight, only to come back to the world of the living to use the bathroom and drink a small cup of tea or water. John supposed that staying awake for ten days probably wasn't good for your health.

John sighed, trying his best to fold his newspaper quietly. The good doctor contemplated letting the detective sleep longer, but John wasn't quite sure when Sherlock had last eaten something more than a bite of toast with butter and jam. Doing his best to get up from his armchair (his leg had been bothering him slightly lately), John softly made his way over to the couch where Sherlock was still sleeping heavily.

"Sherlock," John whispered, his voice feeling much to loud in the silent flat. Said flatmate stirred slightly, nudging his head deeper into the couch cushion, but stayed sound asleep. John fought the urge to giggle at how sound his asleep friend was, but he thought it would be pretty weird if Sherlock woke up to his doctor standing over him and laughing.

Clearing his throat, John reached out and shook Sherlock's shoulder, saying "Sherlock!" slightly louder.

The consulting detective nearly jumped out of his position from the couch, rolling over frantically and throwing his arm out at John as if he were trying to hit his friend. John recoiled, slightly scared that the sociopath would actually hit him. Sherlock let out a slight noise of surprise as his eyes darted around the flat frantically, as if he were trying to take in as much information as humanly possible. Finally, his blue-grey eyes landed on John, a look of confusion and slight annoyance clear on his face.

"John – what the bloody hell - ?"

Watson sighed, doing his best to put his stern-doctor face on. "Sherlock, you have slept for nearly three days, you need to get up and eat something. This can't be healthy for you."

Sherlock sat up, running his hands through his hair. "What day is it?"

"Thursday, why - "

"I'm good for a bit then."

With a sudden burst of energy, Sherlock nearly jumped off the couch, rushing across the flat towards the washroom. John followed, slightly taken aback and a bit more than concerned with his friend's health.

"Sherlock Holmes, where do you think you are going? If I remember correctly, you haven't eaten in at least five days. That's not healthy for a human body, don't you know that? Sherlock, are you even listening to me? I am your doctor, you really should listen to your doctor's orders. Sherlock, what - ?"

With a slam of the washroom door, John was cut off. Aggravated, John banged on the door a couple of times with his fist.

"If you die from starvation, it will certainly not be my fault!"

The loud creak of the shower faucet turning on was heard, and John knew he had lost. With a huff, he went back to his chair, unfolding the nearly forgotten newspaper with such force that he middle ripped slightly.

"Oh, look at me, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I don't need to eat 'cause that's what common peasants do. Fucking prat."

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Adrenaline ran through John's veins, a breathy laugh escaping his lips as Sherlock led him into Angelo's. Angelo greeted them with a loud "hello boys!" and gave them their usual table in

front of the window. John shrugged off his overcoat and ordered the usual for both him and his friend. The restaurant owner gladly took their orders, then left them alone.

John smiled and sighed contently, running his hands through his hair. Running away from crazed killers with knives sure got the blood pumping. He glanced up at Sherlock, who was staring intently out the window. The case they were currently working on was far from over, but John thought the last time he ate was at some point yesterday morning, so he was famished. John honestly didn't know when Sherlock had last eaten anything substantial, so if the ash-blond was nearly starving, he had no clue how hungry his dark-haired friend must be. Even with John's efforts to sneak a little bit of food into Sherlock, he was always shot down.

"So, that was a bit of a close call back there, eh?" John awkwardly tried creating conversation, but all he got in reply was a grunt of slight acknowledgment.

John cleared his throat, trying again. "Doesn't it seem quite odd that Angelo's is always close to wherever we're running from death?"

This time, Sherlock turned his head slightly to look John directly in the eye, a bit of a glare pulling at the corners of his eyes, as though he were saying you are so incredibly stupid, John Watson.. John did his best to keep his stance with his friend, but that didn't stop him from nervously fiddling with his fork.

Silence dragged on and John knew Sherlock probably wasn't going to answer his awkward conversation-starter question. The doctor took a swing from his wine glass, finally breaking eye contact.

Oh, look at me, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I don't make petty conversation because that's what imbeciles do. John thought as Sherlock went back to looking intently out the window. I don't need to eat either, because I've become so fucking superior that my body will only eat gold.

"Alright boys! Here you go, on the house as always!"

John jumped a little, Angelo's loud voice startling him as Angelo set two plates on their table. He managed a smile, politely thanking him before picking up his fork and shoving a large fork-full of noodles in his mouth. The delicious taste of home-made spaghetti never got old for John, and he would gladly eat at this quaint restaurant any day of the week, regardless of criminals chasing him or not.

With another rather large fork full shoveled into his mouth, John glanced up at Sherlock, who had gone back to looking out the window at the dark streets on London, his food untouched.

"Aren't you going to eat anything?" John managed to say between chewing.

"No," the consulting detective nearly drawled out, his baritone voice a stark contrast to the homely atmosphere of Angelo's.

John scowled slightly. This conversation was very familiar to him by this point; usually starting with Sherlock going days on end without eating and refusing to even take a bite. When John would try and coax the stubborn 30-year-old baby into eating, it usually ended in Sherlock either ignoring him or violently playing the violent till the early hours of the morning. Even so, it didn't stop the doctor in John to at least try.

"Why aren't you eating?"

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes. "Because, doctor, I am on a case. Transport, remember?"

It was John's turn to roll his eyes. It took everything in him not to kick Sherlock's shin under the table. "Well, detective, eating one mouthful wouldn't kill you, y'know?"

Suddenly, Sherlock got up from the table, putting on his giant overcoat with a flourish, and quickly made his way to the exit. "Come John, our case continues!"

John scowled, looking down at his almost-full plate of delicious spaghetti that he would now have to abandon. With a sigh, the doctor shoved one last, large bite into his mouth, throwing on his overcoat and rushing to catch up with Sherlock. (Which proved to be a hard thing to do, since it's sort of hard to run and catch your breath with your mouth full of noodles.)

As the chilly night air hit John's face, the conversation about Sherlock not eating was almost forgotten, much like the beloved Italian noodles.

Almost.

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A long day of treating both the elderly and young children with the seasonal flu shots certainly did a toll on John. He loves taking care of people, he really does, but there's only a certain amount of screaming young ones he can take before he wants to rip his hair out.

Sighing, John rearranged the take-away bags hooked on his arm, slowly making his way up the 17 steps to his flat. Nothing like Thai take-away to soothe a stressful day.

"Sherlock?" John called out once he was able to get through the front door. Making his way to the kitchen, John found his friend hunched over the kitchen table, an assortment of vials, test tubes and plastic dishes filled with god-knows-what scattered about.. Experiments, John thought bitterly. It's always these dammed experiments.

Walking cautiously into the kitchen, John carefully set the plastic bag down on the counter, far away from the potentially dangerous experiment Sherlock was currently working on. Fishing out a plate and a semi-clean fork, John took his Asian noodles into the living room. The farther away he could have food away from Sherlock, the safer John felt it was to actually eat it.

Settling into his armchair, John turned on the telly with the volume low, absent-mindedly watching some late night drama with a plot he had no clue about.

A couple of hours later, John and Sherlock were pretty much in the same positions, only Sherlock had some sense to finally put some safety goggles on and John had at one point finished his food. Tiredness had begun to wear at the edges of the doctor's eyes quite some time ago, but John was slowly losing the battle to the comfort sleep promised him.

Turning off the telly and stretching, John stood up from his armchair, his back popping in a slightly satisfactory way. Grabbing his dirty dishes, John made his way back into the kitchen, shaking his head slightly at the sight of Sherlock sitting in the same position.

Placing his fork in the sink, John paused, staring at the counter.

"Sherlock? Didn't you eat your food yet?"

Said detective glanced up, eyebrows furrowed behind his goggles. "No. Busy."

Slightly exasperated, John glared at Sherlock. "Why do I even bother getting you food? You never eat it or it ends up as part of your experiments. You need to eat at some point, Sherlock, the human body needs food to function."

With a hiss, Sherlock ripped off his goggles and shoved his microscope away from his face. "Look John! Now the data is all messed up.' Sherlock turned to fully look at his friend, a hard glare present on his sharp features. "Why are you so concerned with my eating habits?"

John took a deep breath to speak, but paused when he realized he really didn't have a reason to be so bloody concerned about Sherlock and his dangerous eating schedule. Sherlock was a grown man, just like John, and he was perfectly capable of making bad decisions all on his own. But, the stubborn doctor in John just couldn't stand by and watch the self-proclaimed sociopath eat less than a high-school girl.

"I'm just trying to be a good friend, Sherlock," John finally said, running a hand through his short hair. Sherlock stared at him for a moment with a look on his face as if John were a new victim and the detective couldn't quite figure out what killed him. It made John very uncomfortable.

"Well, stop it," Sherlock briskly said, walking quickly into the living room. "It's quite annoying."

With a flourish, Sherlock picked up his violin, facing the window to look out at the street and began playing a loud, angry song that would surely keep John up for most of the night. John almost had half a mind to throw Sherlock's forgotten food at the back of his head.

John took another deep breath, doing his best to control his anger. Without a word, John stomped through the kitchen and up the stairs up to his own bedroom, leaving behind his stupid, ignorant, self-destructive, genius of a friend.

What John missed, however, was the small, private smile on Sherlock's lips.

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Three days had gone by and John still refused to talk to Sherlock. It wasn't like they had actually fought or anything, but for some reason, he was still furious whenever he thought of Sherlock straight out refusing to eat anything John offered. It was childish, but the army doctor just couldn't help it.

Another long day at the clinic of treating parents of children who had caught the flu had John wishing more than anything he could actually hail a cab without the assistance of his tall friend. John just about gave up and almost decided to head towards the tube when a cab finally pulled up next to him, but not before driving into a fresh, muddy puddle, splashing John's trousers.

Great, just what I wanted.

Instead of complaining, John got into the cab quickly. He regretted it the second he closed the car door.

"Baker Street, please," John said, doing his best not to cough or cover his nose. The cabbie, from outside the car, looked normal enough – middle-aged, short brown hair, unhappily married – but the inside of the cab smelled like it had been washed with garbage water about ten years ago. After spending all day with sick parents and crying children, John's tolerance of such things was wearing thin, and he wanted nothing but to get out of that cab, but it was already on its way to Baker Street. 5

John sort of wished he had considered walking.

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Though John knew the ride back to Baker Street from the clinic wasn't all that long, it felt extremely long due to the horrendous smell, and the fact that the cabbie had wanted to tell his entire life story (it was all his mother's fault, you know). And while he was usually a very polite person, John just didn't have it in him to even bother to try to make small talk with the cabbie. So, the ride mostly consisted of John doing his best to not breathe with his nose and listen to the driver complain about every single thing in his life.

Finally, John made it up the 17 steps to his flat at 221B, wanting nothing to do but take a shower, watch some bad telly and have a nice cuppa. He most certainly did not want to deal with Sherlock at the moment.

John sluggishly opened the front door, shrugging off his overcoat and throwing it on his armchair as he nearly collapsed into said chair, his body seeming to melt into his beloved sitting place. The flat was silent, just the way John wanted it to be at the moment.

"John?"

It was too good to be true. The voice came from the kitchen area, which meant he was probably doing more experiments. John repressed the urge to groan, closing his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Would you like some tea?"

John's eyes flew open, confusion knitting his eyebrows together. "W-what?"

"Tea, John. I'm not asking for your hand or anything." John could almost feel the annoyance in Sherlock's voice. John got up slowly, his leg giving him a bit of trouble. Turning around to face the kitchen, John almost fell over from surprise.

There, at the kitchen table, there were no test tubes or microscopes. Instead, the table was set with hot, home-made food, a candle lit in the centre. Steak, rice, bread rolls and two glasses of wine decorated the table. Sherlock sat on one side of the table, currently facing John. The seat across from him was empty, but a plate full of the wondrous food was waiting at the empty place. Next to the glass of wine was a cup of tea.

John's mouth was wide open, his eyes shifting between Sherlock's face and the cuppa on the table. "What – Sherlock?"

"Your tea is getting cold, John. Come, sit." Sherlock casually said as he reached for his own glass of wine, taking a small sip. He never once broke eye contact with John.

Mesmerized, John made his way to the empty chair, slowly sitting down. This is way too strange to be real, I must have been killed by the bad smell of that cabbie and went to heaven. Though, why Sherlock is making me food in heaven -

"I wanted to be a pirate when I was a child."

John shook his head. "What?"

Sherlock smiled slightly. "I do believe Mycroft told you that once, and I was just reminding you so that you can stop thinking you died. Come now, eat, I didn't do all this work for nothing. Do you know how long it took to clean this table?"

John laughed, his brain still half dumbstruck, half impressed that Sherlock would even think to do this in the first place. Sherlock's baritone laugh followed, making John chuckle just a little bit more.

"Now, let's eat," Sherlock said as he gracefully picked up his fork and scooped into his small pile of rice on his plate. To John's utter surprise, Sherlock then raised his fork and ate the rice, like it was something he did every single day of his life. John couldn't stop staring at Sherlock as he continued to eat his rice.

Sherlock glanced up at John, slightly confused. "What? Is the food not good?"

John smiled, his chest suddenly feeling very warm and tight. The doctor reached out and grabbed his wine glass, taking a rather large drink. "No, Sherlock. It's actually quite lovely."

Sherlock smiled, still eating. "Good, now eat up. I haven't seen you eat for days."

Both men began to laugh.

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A/N: Ohmygod, I was so scared that I wouldn't have this done on time for the contest! I really hope you all liked it, it's the first Sherlock fic i've ever written, so I hope it was in character enough for you guys (:

anywho, thank you flyingpigmonkey and my boyfriend for reading this for me and finding mistakes. I tend to write when im tired, and without them this story would be horridly flawed D:

again, earthfirefly, I do hope you loved this. Let me know if there was anything you were unhappy with (: