"Could you stop eating everything in the flat?" John snaps from behind his laptop screen.
Sherlock does not have the good grace to even inhale between whatever he is shoveling into his mouth. John suspects it is either his cereal or that cake Mrs. Hudson had made them yesterday afternoon. It was a great chocolate thing. Three layers and John suspected that it was delicious but a) chocolate really wasn't something he particularly enjoyed and b) he really felt partaking in cake was far too celebratory considering he and Sherlock had met Moriarty two nights ago and had only walked away from said meeting because the man had been offered something more entertaining than their deaths.
Sherlock had spent a day trying to figure out who that better offer had come from but had failed to do so. Then he had locked himself in his room and had refused to come out until this morning when he had demanded a full and proper breakfast. John had refused to do so as he had been roused rather violently in order to provide said breakfast. John had told Sherlock just as violently to sod off and the next time his eyes had opened he had smelt toast and bacon. He could hear Sherlock wolfing down the stuff like it was about to vanish before his eyes.
Sherlock's eating habits could constitute an entire chapter at least in the textbook that John could write on his habits. Traditionally Sherlock barely ate while on a case though he certainly drank enough tea. John actually had an emergency fund for tea set aside after the fallout from the Lawson robberies that followed the Blind Banker case. Sherlock had drunk all of his own tea and all of John's Earl Grey and Sherlock absolutely loathed Earl Grey. Desperate times and all that but John is still shocked that Sherlock lowered himself to the level of the vile sludge that John drank by choice and not under extreme duress – Sherlock's words not his obviously. Needless to say it was now of paramount importance that neither of them ran out of tea.
You would suppose that Sherlock would just resume a normal (ish) eating schedule once a case ended if only to drive off boredom. This was in fact the minority of cases. Sherlock could binge eat like a champion when he wanted to; in fact John was fairly sure that eating contest record holders would have a challenge beating Sherlock in a certain stage of hunger or during a certain type of craving. He could both eat meals and snack constantly or he would fixate on one thing and that would be all he would eat before he got bored or sick or refused food again. Last time Sherlock had fixated on ham and cheese sandwiches and John had yet to see him touch either ham or cheese since that craving had run its course.
This go around it seems Sherlock is going for the eating constantly option. John is fine with this so long as there is food for him as well and he doesn't have to go outside to get more. He was not going to admit to feeling any particular ill effects to the Pool Situation but going out on his own, or at least out on his own unarmed, is not his first choice of activities. Neither is eating particularly.
John is never riding a taxi again no matter how much Sherlock revolts about accepting lifts in police cars – at least when under his own power and with full mental acuity – or how over stimulated Sherlock can get on the Tube. John will walk before he sets foot in a cab unarmed again. He really should have just bolted the second the cabbie had pulled over and asked him if he'd wanted a lift. That might have helped matters eventually. That being said he had put up quite a fight in said cab, he distinctly remembers shattering a window, but no one had heard or reported anything. His opinion of the neighbourhood may never recover.
He also cannot help but be irked that Sherlock hadn't just run when he'd told him to. Idiot didn't care about anyone else but he cared about him. Endearing and comforting but also annoying. Hell, John has to admit eventually and regretfully, if positions had been reversed he wouldn't have run either. He just needs to stop getting bloody kidnapped and one sure way to avoid a kidnapping is to not leave the flat. Despite how this all sounds if he were to speak it out loud he is not afraid to go outside; he just cannot be arsed to deal with another kidnapping. It has happened to him far too frequently and he is sure that word is going to spread that Sherlock will not leave him. He needs to mentally prepare for what he needs to be able and willing to do to ensure that neither of them is put in that position again before leaving the flat again.
John also would just like to spend a few days bonding with his chair and whatever telly Sherlock will put up with. Once he feels enough of that has gone on he can think about going down to Tesco's to restock the kitchen.
He hears the toaster pop again and he can hear the bread snatched, still hot, within a millisecond and then the frantic sound of jam being scrapped onto it. "It's not going to run away from you, Sherlock" John grumbles as he rolls his eyes and goes about poking at the blog entry that will someday be if he can ever get the stupid thing to flow properly. Right now it reads too much like the reports he used to give in the Army. Now if Sherlock wanted dull...
Sherlock starts coughing and sputtering and John can't help but laugh. "That'll teach you to eat my food," he bellows into the kitchen. Sherlock shoots back something that John is sure is scathing and very Not Good but most of it is lost in the coughing. The coughing eventually stops but John closes his laptop, sets it aside, and stands up. There was something Very Not Good about the way that last cough had ended.
"Sherlock?"
He hears a crash and he rushes in. Sherlock is on his knees and he is clutching at his throat; his eyes are bulging and his lips are very close to turning blue. John distantly notes the toppled chair as Sherlock's attempt to find a way to save himself as he hauls Sherlock up to his feet. Normally it is good practice to warn a choking victim about what is going to be done but John isn't worrying about that right now. He reaches one arm across Sherlock's chest and grabs his right shoulder tightly. He bends Sherlock over his arm until he's as parallel to the floor as John can manage and firmly hits him between the shoulder blades with the heel of his free hand five times. Then he stands Sherlock back up, stands behind him, balls one hand into a fist, and delivers five abdominal thrusts under his ribcage.
He repeats this sequence four times. It happens in utter silence.
He's on thrust number two of the fifth cycle when something that looks like it had once been jam on toast pops out of Sherlock's mouth and lands on the floor. Sherlock's knees give out but John is stronger than he looks. He manages to hold him up and get him to the one upright chair in the room. Then he leaves Sherlock briefly to get him a glass of water, which his now breathing friend and flatmate takes gratefully and sips slowly.
"Couldn't have eaten that slow could you?" That is both Not Good and Horrible Bed Side Manner but John does not care about either.
Sherlock does not reply to that. "I thought it was ill advised to strike a choking victim on the back."
Trust Sherlock Holmes to be more concerned about the procedure. At least that means that he's suffered no ill effects. "Not if it's done in combination with the abdominal thrusts." The 'official' guidelines as to procedure had changed a few months ago as they were wont to do but, really, when it came to severe obstructions you did whatever the hell worked. Had the fifth run through not worked he would have got Sherlock on the ground and done the thrusts that way. One way or another he would have had that out of him.
Sherlock is looking at him strangely and John is about to ask if he's okay when Sherlock says "Thank you again."
"Again?"
"For saving my life, obviously."
John is trying to remember the last time he actually did that when Sherlock waves his hand impatiently. "That...that thing that you were going to do at the pool. That. Never thanked you for it properly."
"You didn't have to then and you don't have to now. For either of them."
"Just doing your job, doctor?"
"Now you know that's not true." They both start and both look equally ill at John's choice of words. "Not Good," John apologizes as he shakes his head. "Very Not Good. How's your throat?"
"Usable."
"We should get that checked out properly."
Sherlock looks at him. It's not the usual "John, you idiot," expression. It's a much softer, much more amused version of the "Really, John?" look. He gets up and leaves the kitchen. He returns with John's medical bag and a small torch.
He hands the items over. "I agree." He sits back down, opens his mouth wide, and waits. John rights the other chair, sits down, and performs his examination.
When John declares Sherlock well he decides that he's done enough eating for the day. He's settled on the couch flipping through the papers when John looks over his laptop screen at him. "I didn't actually save your life at the pool. So I've only saved your life this once what did you mean..."
The 'John, you idiot' expression is his response. At almost the same instant John remembers their first case and a shot that went through two windows and one cabbie. Remembers being back at the flat and telling stories and asking questions, getting to know each other properly before going to bed. Sherlock hadn't been able to thank him then so he was lumping it all together now. Having a friend threatened in front of you, and having said friend attempt to die for you, certainly made some things clearer. John has firsthand experience with that.
"Any time, Sherlock."
The 'John, you idiot' expression is replaced by a barely noticeable smile.
