Chapter One.
Sherlock Holmes regarded his reflection in the bathroom mirror forlornly.
The face that stared back was gaunt, hollow cheeks, sunken tired looking eyes, red rimmed, hugely dilated pupils edged by colourless irises.
He looked like a man who had spent a couple of days on a vodka bender.
Felt like it too, body fragile, legs shaky, head pounding, but he hadn't had anything stronger than tea or coffee for days.
He could understand it if he were working on a case, but there was precious sign of one of those darkening his doorstep.
Famine or feast.
That was often how his line of work was.
Things had got a lot better since John Watson had started his infernal blog, amidst the dross, the mundane and the downright crazy time wasters, he had managed to sift out one or two interesting cases, and of course, LeStrade still called upon him now and again, but it seemed that the criminal fraternity were all out of town on their summer holidays and things had been quiet for several weeks now.
Sherlock normally could not stand inactivity. He much preferred to keep his brain active because when he was bored, he got manic and self destructive and literally anything could happen.
This period of inactivity, however, was different.
He hadn't been feeling himself for a while, hard though it was to have to admit to himself that he was a frail human being after all and that the receptacle for his massive intelligence was mere flesh and blood, prone to all humanity's weaknesses and failings.
Weak and endlessly weary, he had told himself that it was his body's way of rebelling after all the years of abuse he had put it through, not eating properly, often not eating at all when on a case because digestion took up too much energy, wasting away only to over indulge when a case was over and he was in celebratory mood.
Nicotine withdrawal was a bitch, but he was doing well and he no longer thought about smoking every second of the day, and his other 'distractions' no longer interested him. He much preferred the clarity of thinking he had these days, knew he no longer needed that kind of 'enhancement'.
When his lack of general well being and a nagging headache had continued beyond a couple of weeks, he had put it down to a virus, his immune system again weakened by his haphazard lifestyle.
Basically he had dismissed it from his mind, ignoring it, unable to actually put his finger on anything specific, and loathed to invest any time in speculating, relying on the occasional dose of painkillers to do for the headache, which he was convinced was caused by having to deal with the mind numbing pap and boring minutiae of day to day trivia, focusing instead on his experiments at Barts and the specimens he currently had in the fridge, writing monographs and fending off Mrs Hudson's attempts to mother and smother him, because she too had noticed that he was 'looking a bit seedy, dear, under the weather' and 'needed looking after'.
She fussed and blustered, ignoring his protestations, insisted on cooking ample meals for him, even though she continued to protest that she was not his housekeeper, and out of politeness he would eat a mouthful or two, smile benignly, showing his gratitude, despite his lack of appetite, because he had no desire to insult her or hurt her feelings, and when she was satisfied and returned to her own domain downstairs, he would empty the rest of the contents of the plate into the kitchen bin and discreetly get rid of the evidence.
He had tried taking John's advice, to get plenty of sleep, drink plenty of water and take more exercise, eat proper meals at regular times, not just microwave dinners or beans on toast, or perish the thought, Pot Noodles, and try to stay calm and relaxed, but alas, after a couple of weeks, his healthy lifestyle regime had gone by the wayside, mainly because he was not hungry and sleep often eluded him even when he was bone weary and could not think straight, his head feeling like it would explode, his thoughts a jumble, crowding in, reason clouded by pain.
Grudgingly, Sherlock had had to admit that things were not getting any better.
Now there was this.
Blinking rapidly several times to clear his vision, the sudden blurriness a new development, in the mirrior, he watched a thin trickle of blood slide down his jaw line and out of the corner of his eye caught the tremor of the razor blade that he was still holding in his right hand.
Drat.
He hadn't cut himself shaving since he didn't know when, mainly because he did not often wet shave, preferring the speed of an electric shaver, but today he had decided to do so because he had neglected his ablutions for a few days and the itchy, scratchy stubble had begun to jar and irritate.
And there it was.
A great chunk missing from his chin.
He dropped the razor in to the sink, because suddenly it seemed too heavy for his hand and gently bowed his head as he realized that he was swaying slightly.
He held on to the sink for a few minutes, then reached out, running the tap he cupped his hands under the cascade and carefully splashed cold water over his face, then moved cautiously to the toilet commode and sat down, reaching for the toilet paper to blot his face and wad a scrap into a tight ball, applying it to the stinging spot on his jaw.
Time to admit, if only to himself, that there was definitely something amiss.
He had done a good job of hiding the situation from John Watson, so far, not wanting to worry his friend.
What the eye can't see, the heart can't grieve over.
It was easier now that they no longer roomed together, but John was a doctor, and he was not blind, and Sherlock had begun to suspect that he had noticed one or two little lapses recently, even though he had not laboured the point with him.
There was the slightly drunken slur when he had been pontificating about the monogram he was writing, and the tremor in his hand, only slight, only now and again, but it was definitely affecting his ability to play the violin and making his usual appalling handwriting even worse, and now, apparently, his ability to shave the fuzz off his chin.
Sherlock had quickly been able to dismiss the other incidents as part of his nicotine withdrawal, and fortunately John had accepted what he had said on face value.
Then there was the unusual, inexplicable clumsiness, fumbling and almost dropping his phone on a couple of occasions when sending a text, and nearly dropping his laptop when he misjudged the distance to his desk.
Then there had been the slight stumble the other day when he had missed his footing on the stairs, and the trip as they had been leaving Scotland Yard, the ever graceful and sure footed Sherlock seeming to trip over his own feet and needing to reach out to a wall to steady himself.
That time the slightly startled Sherlock had dismissed it as low blood sugar and they had gone their separate ways with him promising to eat something decent when he got home.
And then he had blacked out.
He had been alone, in the Baker Street flat at the time, and had decided that John definitely did not need to know about that.
Least said, soonest mended.
However, although he had tried not to dwell on it, the incident had concerned Sherlock.
He wasn't the kind of man who fainted dead away for no reason.
And now there was this, further visible evidence of his apparently worsening infirmity right there on his noble chin.
Damn.
Sherlock did not need to have superior powers of deductive reasoning to know that he could no longer ignore the evidence of his own eyes, even if they were slightly blurred.
Procrastination is the thief of time, and he might already have wasted too much of that with his obstinacy and his refusal to acknowledge that he had a problem.
He did have a problem.
Ignoring it wasn't making it go away.
Slowly, Sherlock rose to his feet, returning to the sink. He reached into the soapy water and retrieved the razor, relieved to see that his fingers were now steady, curling strongly around the handle of the razor, replacing it on the shelf, then returned his hand in to the sink to pull out the plug, watching as the scummy water swirled around the plug hole and drained away, then slowly he raised his eyes and regarded his reflection in the mirror once more.
He barely recognized the tired, haggard man staring back at him.
He let out a long, shuddering sigh then drew in a deep, refreshing breath.
'Man up, Sherlock. Don't be a wimp,' he told himself in a gruff voice, steadying his shaking body against the sink, and in that instant he made a momentous decision.
He knew what he had to do now, and there was no more time to waste.
