"Sherlock"
There was no response. The detective lay motionless on the sofa, facing the wall, his eyes glazed and his mouth slightly open. Were it not for the slow, steady rise and fall of his ribcage, and the fact that it was not uncommon for John to find Sherlock lying this way, John might have believed him dead.
John set down his coat on the table, crossed the room and sank heavily into his armchair. The deathly pale appearance of his flatmate stirred the caring doctor in him, but his knowledge and experience of Sherlock's less than co-operative personality had so far fuelled his reluctance to confront him. This was, however, the third evening in a row that Sherlock had given John cause for concern, and the doctor's patience was wearing thin.
"I saw Mycroft today" said John, inspecting the back of his flatmate's silk dressing gown. Were those ribs he could see? "He's worried about you." he paused, hoping for a response: any kind of indication that he wasn't talking to himself. When none came, he continued; "Any idea why he might be particularly worried about you at the moment?"
"No you didn't"
"Sorry?"
Sherlock sighed heavily.
"You didn't see Mycroft, and he isn't worried. No more than usual anyway. You are projecting John. You're worried about me and you don't know how to approach the subject. Correct?"
John did not answer. It was quite true that he hadn't seen Mycroft, but he wasn't about to admit that. Sherlock had barely moved up until this point, but now he turned his body to face John and fixed him with a piercing stare.
"I appreciate your concern John, but did you really have to invent a meeting with my brother to bring this up?"
"I... how did you know - "
" - that you didn't see Mycroft? Because he's out of the country John. Until Monday."
John didn't bother asking how he knew this despite not having left the house for two weeks. He found that he didn't really want to know.
"Sherlock - "
"Sherlock! You look so pale, you haven't been eating! Look after yourself!" mocked Sherlock, turning back to face the wall. "I refuse to be involved in this tedious conversation."
John sighed. He had expected this, and yet he had no idea of how to deal with it. He couldn't just do nothing.
"I need to know Sherlock. It's only fair"
"Know what?"
John shifted position uncomfortably. Apart from a very brief discussion the day that Lestrade had decided to use the threat of a "drugs bust" to make Sherlock co-operate, there had been no mention of Sherlock's previous drug use in 221B Baker Street. John had been curious, of course, but he hadn't gone so far as to bring up the subject. However, his suspicions had been mounting and he could no longer sit by and watch.
"Have you been using again?"
"Using what?"
"What do you think?"
Sherlock cracked an amused smile.
"If you are referring to my past use of narcotics, then I have to tell you that I am clean and have been for a number of years. Any other wild accusations you wish to throw at me or are you going to leave me in peace?"
"You know, it would be a lot easier if you could just tell me what the problem is."
"Problem? What problem? Who said there was a problem?"
"Sherlock! You know bloody well that something's wrong. I am a doctor remember? When exactly was the last time you ate anything?"
"Mmmm, two days ago."
"Two...? Sherlock, you need to eat"
"Oh John! Don't be obvious! Of course I need to eat. Just like you need to hold down a girlfriend for longer than a couple of weeks. Funnily enough I don't see either of those things happening any time soon, do you?"
"No, don't turn it round, you need to eat. What are you trying to do exactly? Is this some crazy experiment? Makes a change from human heads in the fridge I suppose"
"I'm bored by this conversation. Please don't try to continue it."
Sherlock refused to say another word all evening. He remained on the sofa until long after John had retired to bed, apparently not moving an inch. The last sound John heard before drifting into an uneasy slumber that night was Sherlock entering his own room and presumably going to bed. John wondered faintly what the point of him moving to the sofa had been in the first place.
The next morning brought with it a dense mist that obscured the view from Sherlock's bedroom window. He barely noticed. He hadn't slept well, but this was hardly unusual, especially at times when he couldn't bring himself to eat. He decided to try one more nap before moving to the sofa and shut his eyes tightly, hoping for any kind of relief from the mental torture that filled his waking hours.
Suddenly his bedroom door opened behind him and he heard John enter the room, clearly trying to be quiet. It had to be John when you took into account the creak of the floorboards as he crept across them. It could be no-one of less than twelve stone. Then again who else was likely to come into his room at all?
"I am awake John" the frail man intoned without opening his eyes.
"Right" came the response, and Sherlock felt a slight pressure on the bed next to him, though not enough to be John himself. "I've brought you some breakfast" said John firmly; "you need to eat it please".
"Oh, what are you? My Mother?" Sherlock snorted, rolling over to see the tray John had brought lying next to him on the bed.
"No, but Sherlock for Christ's sake! You're wasting away, can't you see that? What the hell are you thinking?"
"I think you're boring me, now please leave me alone. You can take your food with you"
"No Sherlock, I'm not going to let this go. I've seen this before you know. In teenage girls who think they're fat. Wait..." he paused "you don't think you're fat do you? Is that what this is about - "
"Give me credit John, I'm the world's most brilliant detective. You don't expect me to believe something so obviously false? I am aware that I am not fat."
"Then why -?"
"Why does anyone do anything John? Because they're human. And though it pains me to admit it, so am I."
"But humans need to eat. That's one of our primary urges. Do you realise how dangerous it is to stop eating like this? You could die Sherlock!"
"Yes, and you know what else could kill me? Smoking, injecting cocaine and heroine into my veins, running around London after dangerous criminals; they're dangerous but I do them anyway."
"You said you were clean"
"I am clean" sighed Sherlock impatiently, sitting up in bed "but that's irrelevant. I'm an addict John, don't you see? This was my first addiction as it happens, and it's not about to disappear because you've brought me some breakfast."
There was a pause. John felt his fists clench and unclench as he tried to process what he was being told.
"What am I supposed to do then?" John finally exclaimed, his voice cracking, "Watch you starve yourself to death?"
"Oh, don't be dramatic"
"I'm serious Sherlock. This isn't on"
"I've survived so far haven't I?"
John scoffed "Barely. Sherlock, have you ever had any kind of treatment? For any of this?"
"Doctors? Yes, seven in my youth and one in my late 20s. They all "cured" me. Before you suggest it, there's no point in going back. I can recover by myself. I have done so too many times to count."
"Recovered from this?"
"Yes. My lowest weight was six and a half stone when I was fifteen. I was ever so proud"
"I thought you said this wasn't about weight?"
"Of course it's not." Sherlock paused, sighed and resigned himself to explaining the damned thing. "The weight loss is just a measuring tool. It's not that I want to lose weight. I want to deprive myself. To hurt myself. To push myself to the limits. Weight is simply a measure of how well I've succeeded in that endeavour."
The stunned look on John's face cut Sherlock like a knife.
"Why would you want to hurt yourself like this?" John breathed slowly.
"Because it's numbing!" Sherlock almost whispered. "Because how else am I supposed to live inside my own mind? It's not like normal people's. It doesn't work the same, you know that."
There was a silence in which John stared blankly at Sherlock and Sherlock at the wall opposite him.
"Look, I know it's difficult to understand but you must trust me."
Sherlock turned to stare straight into the eyes of the doctor, willing him to see through the lies, to force Sherlock to eat, to save him from himself, but at the same time terrified that he would.
"Please"
John sighed, shook his head and said slowly
"You need to sort this Sherlock"
Then he turned and left the room, leaving the breakfast tray behind him.
