Sherlock, eat.

Please eat.

It can't be that hard, can it?

You're wasting away, just skin and bones.

I can't take much more of this.

You can't take much more of this.

Please.

Please eat.

...

Sherlock had always been thin. He'd always been pale. Maybe he'd always looked a bit ill, too.

Or maybe John was just too used to it all to remember otherwise.

"So it's really quite obvious, if you'd paid any attention at all, that this was an inside job. Someone the victim knew personally. Talk to her sister again." Sherlock was pulling his gloves back on emphatically as Lestrade nodded and turned to bark orders to Anderson.

John noticed the sudden constriction of Sherlock's pupils, the hard line of his mouth, the way he stopped moving, as if focussing on nothing but consciousness.

He put a hand on the detective's arm. "Sherlock. Are you okay?"

When no answer came he tightened his grip on his arm and looked up at him.

Damn.

Not here.

"Let's go." He didn't wait for a reply and tugged Sherlock toward the sidewalk and led him away down an empty street. He took his pulse inconspicuously as he did so, and was displeased to find it was quick and jumpy.

"Can you look at me? Sherlock. Focus. Deep breath. Don't you pass out on me."

Of course Lestrade had noticed what was happening the last few months.

Everyone had noticed.

They would have to be blind not to.

But they pretended they didn't, for whatever reason, be it trying to preserve his pride, or simply not knowing what on earth to say. John didn't blame them.

Except he did, because his best friend was killing himself slowly and no one could do a damn thing about it.

Sherlock was looking at him, he realized, and he quickly took his pulse again. Better, but still fast.

"Talk to me." His military doctor attitude had kicked in, and he issued commands, not requests. "I need to know you're alert."

"...and say what, exactly? I'm not a trick pony."

"Don't. I'm not playing." John didn't bother to hide the deep scowl that crossed his face, and turned Sherlock's head so he could examine his pupils.

"Oh come on, lighten up." Sherlock blinked and pushed his hands away. "I solved the case. One and a half days. There's a real record you can put on your little blog."

"No, I'm not going to lighten up! Are we going to talk about this or what?" John had crossed his arms over his chest and clenched his teeth stubbornly.

A veil immediately fell over Sherlock's countenance, like a door closing and locking tightly. "What is there to talk about?"

"Don't give me that bullshit! You almost passed out at the scene of a murder just now! That's not nothing!"

"But I didn't, so it's fine."

John's mouth almost fell open, and he bit his tongue to stifle the harsh words that threatened to jump out of his throat and smack the detective in the face with cold reality. "Sherlock, no, it is not 'fine!' It's not anywhere close to fine! Not even a little bit! Look, I just-I just want you to be okay, yeah?"

Sherlock frowned. "I am okay."

This was getting too difficult to stifle.

"You're-no, this is-I mean-really? Really? Because from what I just saw, you're far from okay. That's not normal, what just happened. I think you know that. People aren't supposed to just black out randomly like that."

"And I'm not 'people.'" Sherlock shrugged his coat up on his shoulders with finality. "I'm not talking about this."

"You can't just ignore it forever!"

"I can, because there's nothing to ignore."

John's shoulders slumped. He was talking to a brick wall. A rock. Just as helpful as shouting at a piece of wood.

But much, much more infuriating.

He sighed. "Look... Will you at least come with me to get a cup of tea?" Food would be more like it. "That might help steady you a little." No it wouldn't. Hot water and tannin wasn't what Sherlock needed so desperately.

But it would have to do.