Sherlock
Sherlock was floating on a cloud.
"Sherlock."
Light as a feather.
"Sherlock."
No weight to him at all.
"SHERLOCK!"
Sherlock snaps back to reality; his eyes flew open as he realized where he was. He scrambles to get up, slipping on his jacket and crashing into the wall opposite to him.
"Sherlock, where the hell are you?" He hears John call as his footsteps pad into his bedroom.
Sherlock curses under his breath as he tries to wash his hands and mouth out, forgetting completely about the sick in the toilet.
Stupid, stupid, STUPID Sherlock!
As John opens the door, Sherlock jumps up and leans against the door, yelling,
"NO, NO, NO, JOHN, DON'T COME IN! JOHN!"
John tries to open the door, and is surprised when he feels a weight pressing against it. Although Sherlock is bigger than John, John's army strength won out and Sherlock's insubstantial weight was thrown back
John pushes him out of the way, peering into the porcelain bowl. "Sherlock, have you been sick?"
Sherlock finds his voice at last, "Yes, John, in fact I have, I am not feeling so well now that you mention it, so if you would kindly leave my washroom-"
John whirls on Sherlock. "No, Sherlock, I will not 'leave your washroom', you've made yourself sick! Sherlock, do you have an eating disorder?"
Sherlock stiffens slightly at the last words, and refuses to reply.
"Sherlock. I'm waiting."
Sherlock remains silent.
"Sherlock, I'm a doctor, and I can tell when someone is sick, and I know you have an eating disorder!"
It was Sherlock's turn to be angry. "John, I can assure you I am perfectly fine, I am not sick, I am not damaged, and I do not have an eating disorder!"
"Sherlock, that is complete shite, you know that, right? You are lying to yourself! You are lying to me! Do you realize how dangerous eating disorders are?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Yes, John, I know, I'm not an idiot. That's precisely why I do not have one. It is dangerous. It is stupid to put oneself to in danger unnecessarily."
John is an odd shade of pink now. "Then that makes you the most stupid, selfish git in the universe! Sherlock, you are the most brilliant mind I've ever met, why on EARTH would you choose to do this to yourself?!"
Sherlock's temper flares, a snarl twisting his mouth. "You think I want this, John? You think I have a choice? It's either eat or look like this-" he gestures to his body "-and I don't want to look like this" he gestures again "so I mustn't eat! WHY is this so DIFFICULT for you to UNDERSTAND?!"
Sherlock spins on his heel and walks into the living area, where he begins pacing the room like he often does while agitated or bored.
John hurries after him, shouting now.
"Sherlock, this isn't okay! You are as thin as a bloody rail; I can see your ribs when you're in a dressing gown, this is not 'perfectly fine', this is the EXACT. OPPOSITE."
Sherlock continues pacing, trying his best to block out John's angry voice and his equally angry thoughts.
Sherlock, you really fucked up good, now who knows what will he find out next: the cutting, the attempts, the depression? Fucking hell Sherlock...
"Sherlock..." John's voice is soft now. Sherlock stops in his tracks. "Why? Why would you do this? Please tell me."
"I already told you. I'm not repeating my weakness again. Goodnight John."
And with that, Sherlock disappears into his bedroom.
John
John stares after Sherlock, speechless. Never mind it being only 6 in the evening, much too early to go to bed, but Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, thought himself weak! John shakes his head with disbelief.
Suppose I'll try to get some information out of him (and some food into him) tomorrow.
John paces back to his bedroom, muttering to himself all the way.
~Several days later~
John
John sits at the table, scanning his computer screen without really absorbing much information.
Sherlock had been sitting on the sofa for the past hour, presumably in his mind palace; he shoots up without warning and declares,
I'm "JOHN. I'M BOOORREEEEDDDDDDDDD!"
John's knee rockets up in reaction and he knocks his cup of tea over.
"Blimey, Sherlock, a bit of warning wouldn't kill you, would it?" he says, mostly to himself as Sherlock was already up and pacing.
"There's nothing to do! There's no new cases-"
"Actually, I was just reading that Jemima Drew's aunt was killed-" John interjects
"It was her husband. It always is, isn't it? That's not the point though, I-"
"What about Norbert's fiancée, eh? She was accused of committing-"
"Arson, yes, I know, she actually was guilty of that, you could smell the lighter fluid from miles away; amateur..."
John throws up his hands in exasperation. "Well what would you like me to do, Sherlock; I'm not your entertainer, go find something to busy yourself with, for cripe's sake..."
Sherlock narrows his eyes at his flatmate and whirls around into his bedroom, from which music could be heard a short while later.
John shakes his head and returns to listlessly scanning the Internet for possible cases. His eyelids begin to droop after a bit longer, and he is pulled into sleep.
Sherlock
Sherlock plays a lively tune on his violin, taking great sweeping strides around the room and relishing the way the bow vibrates on some of the deeper chords.
After a bit, though, he grows bored, as Sherlock often does.
He sets his violin down after wiping the rosin off its strings carelessly. His eyes drift over to the box beneath his bed.
No. He tells himself very clearly: No.
He would not do this. He would not do this to John. He would not do this to his John.
His John? Where had that thought come from?
No matter, it was still settled. He would not do it. He would not worry John any further.
But still...
John
John wakes up with a start, going from 0 to 100 in 3 seconds the way he had always done ever since he found out about Sherlock's...disorder...
He holds his breath, listening for something he can't hear, but what was it?
His violin...
Hadn't Sherlock been playing when he fell asleep?
John resists the urge to jump to his feet and scour the apartment for his friend. Instead, he gets up slowly and casually, and strolls about the flat.
He comes to Sherlock's door after checking every other room.
"Sher-" His voice catches on the name, throat dry from worry. He tries again, louder. "Sherlock?"
He hears, to his relief, footsteps pad across the room and stop in front of the bedroom door. The door opens a crack.
"What, John?" Sherlock asks impatiently.
"N-nothing. Just wanted to know where you were is all." And with that John turns and quickly walks back to the kitchen.
He felt a relief as if he had avoided something potentially catastrophic, but he didn't know what. But he had a feeling he would know soon enough.
Sherlock
It's been two weeks, two days, thirteen hours, and-Sherlock checks his watch-nine minutes since the John discovered him in the bathroom puking his guts up. Sherlock had been able to avoid further discussions about food by eating in John's presence, and leaving the house a few minutes later and vomiting in the alleyway. Sherlock knew for a fact that John knew what he was doing, and he knew that John would bring it up again, but not right now.
"Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock!" John's voice cuts through his thoughts. Sherlock snaps to attention and tries to look indifferent, despite his mounting anxiety. "What?" he says, rather irritably.
John briefly looks hurt, which sends an unwelcome jab of guilt through Sherlock.
"Well...I was just saying that I know what you've been doing every time you leave after you eat. You've been making yourself sick. Now-don't interrupt me Sherlock or I swear to God I'll kill you," he adds with venom when Sherlock's mouth opens to argue. "Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that if you don't start eating, I'm...I'm going to tell Mycroft." He finishes with a forced finality.
Sherlock feels nothing for a moment. Then, rage edged with fear fills him.
"No, John, you can't. You can't tell Mycroft. He won't understand, he'll just lock me up again, I can't do that, I physically can't-"
"What do you mean, 'again'?" John interrupts, looking hard at Sherlock.
Sherlock freezes, realizing his mistake. As he tries to backpedal, John throws his hands up.
"Right, well I'm off to find Mycroft, you stay here and don't burn the house down."
"No, John, you can't-"
"Yes, Sherlock, I can! And I bloody well will! I can't have you do this to yourself, you mean too much to me." John says, looking at the floor when he said the last bit.
"What? What do you mean?" Sherlock asks suspiciously.
"Nothing. See you later Sherl." John turns and leaves, and this time Sherlock lets him.
John's been gone for an hour.
This is bad, this is so so BAD... Sherlock paces the flat, vaguely wondering if there was a path forming from his shoes treading the carpet so often.
Finally, Sherlock can't take it anymore. He strides over to his bedroom and throws the door open, stooping to pick up the gray cardboard box stowed under his bed, and locks himself in his bathroom. The voices in his head scream at him that John will find out, John will lock him up, this is the exact reason he should be locked up, he was crazy, he was downright certifiable-shutupshutupshutupSHUT UP Sherlock screams at them internally. His fingers shake as he opens the Ziplock bag of assorted razor blades, pulled from pencil sharpeners, shaving razors, and replacement Xacto knife blade packets.
Sherlock pauses as he picks up a yellow box cutter. He debates whether to cut a little or a lot. A little would be less noticeable, but a lot would feel better...hell, it might even kill him, if he were lucky.
Sherlock decides 'to hell with it' and starts carving.
His skin is so marked that he doesn't even bother finding a clean spot and he goes to town on his arm.
One cut after another, blood running down his arms, congealing and clotting into strings hanging from his forearm. Somewhere along the way he got the wonderful idea to just...let go. End it all. Cut too deep.
So he did.
He places the blade on the slightly pulsing vein standing out against his pale skin. The veins were easy to find since he drank so much water instead of eating, so they stuck up and presented themselves for the taking.
He breathed in once...exhaled...and...
"Sherlock!" Sherlock hears his name being called by John.
"Sherlock!" And Mycroft. Great.
Sherlock is caught in a moment of indecision. Should he do it? They might find him. They might lock him away forever.
This is the very definition of being stuck between a rock and a hard place, Sherlock thinks.
He hears footsteps pounding down the hallway toward his bedroom and makes a split second decision: he is not going back to Riverside.
He makes the cut as the door bursts open. He turns to face the panic-stricken and horrified faces of Mycroft and John, the latter almost breaking his heart. There wasn't much left to break at this point.
"Sherlock!" His name reverberates inside his skull for what may be the last time as he closes his eyes.