Sherlock heaved himself out of bed, noting the way his weakened muscles complained. Can't even lift yourself up you're so fat. How long had it been since he last ate? Well, there was that slice of toast a few days ago and the banana the day before that, but his last proper meal had been almost a week ago. Perhaps he could eat something today? Just something small. He glanced down at the toast John had left on his bed. It was brown bread: full of nutrients. But a familiar snake of anxiety was winding its way across his chest, its muscles constricting in time with the thoughts of eating. Perhaps not today.

It was a Saturday, but John was out when Sherlock finally made his way into the living room of the flat and sank down into the sofa. It was easier to tell how deprived his body was when he was moving about; his limbs felt heavy and his muscles ached. There was a pounding in his head that beat in time to the muscle he could feel contracting obtrusively in his chest. He sighed. How he relished this. The calm of it. How he wished he could remain in this state forever: half alive; half real; half disconnected from everything; tied to this weary body, yet distant in mind. But he knew he could not stay like this. The point of it was not to die; it was more an attempt at living really. How was it that the rest of the world found living so demonstrably easy? How was food so simple to them? How did they go about their lives without injecting class A drugs into their veins or starving themselves half to death or rushing about London after criminals or any other sort of crazy addiction?

He had managed it for a while of course, after that hospitalisation in his first term of University. But that had been before he'd discovered the narcotics: before he almost threw away a perfectly good degree by getting high and then higher; before Mycroft had found him lying in a ditch having overdosed on Heroin two months after graduation.

The steady rise and fall of his chest was the only movement Sherlock made. The rest of his muscles stayed perfectly, comfortably still, and the silence of the room matched the stillness of his thoughts. He used to sit like this often when he first became ill in his teens. He would focus on staying as still as he possibly could, telling himself that as long as he didn't move, everything would be OK. If he didn't move then he wouldn't have to eat and if he didn't eat then he wasn't really a real person.

The sound of a key in the lock downstairs signalled John's return, but Sherlock still did not move, savouring every moment until the spell had to be broken.

As John climbed the stairs, he felt his heart beating a little faster than usual. Despite having grown accustomed to his flatmate's many eccentricities by now, this latest one felt somehow bigger; more significant. This wasn't Sherlock documenting in excruciating detail the differences between types of tobacco ash, this was Sherlock starving himself half to death, and it was difficult to know what to make of it.

Sherlock was laying in his usual position on the sofa with his eyes closed when John entered the flat. He seemed not to be moving at all.

"Morning" John called, as he took his coat off and strolled into the kitchen. "Have you been up long?"

Sherlock did not answer. The silence caused John to take a moment to check that he could still see the detective's chest rising and falling.

"Sherlock, listen to me." John paused, but when there came no reply, he went on; "I'm sorry about this morning. I hope you know I was trying to help." John opened the fridge and began making himself a sandwich. "This is new to me. I don't know what to think or what to do. I mean, this is so much bigger than... than anything I'm used to. I hope that makes sense. Anyway, I'm sorry yeah?"

There was a minute or two in which John buttered his bread and Sherlock continued to lay motionless. Then -

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks"

John exhaled sharply, a grin playing across his lips.

"So are you going to do anything today then or just lay about like usual?"

"Hey! I'm usually running about after criminal masterminds thank you very much."

"Well, got any of that planned?"

"No, there aren't any cases. You could make me a sandwich though. Ham."

"A... what? Of course! A ham sandwich coming right up."

The rest of the day was spent with John reading in his armchair and Sherlock moving only to eat his sandwich and make trips to the bathroom. The painfully slow speed at which Sherlock ate his sandwich was difficult for John not to comment on, but he kept his thoughts to himself. At around 7pm, John put down his book, stretched and said;

"Dinner time I think. What do you fancy?"

"Nothing for me."

"...Right. Are you sure? I mean you've only eaten that sandwich all day. Shall I make you some in case you change your mind?"

"I won't."

John stayed a moment in his chair, thinking, then sighed and made his way to the kitchen, finding out the ingredients to make a bolognese. As he did so, he noticed Sherlock sit up on the sofa and open his eyes.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"How do you live?"

"Sorry?"

"How do you live day to day, hour to hour, minute to minute? How do you not tear yourself to pieces?"

The question startled John. Sherlock had fixed his gaze at a point on the wall opposite him, as if making a point not to look at his flatmate.

"I just kind of... well I have friends – they keep me sane. I read books... try to fill my time up."

"How do friends keep you sane?"

"Well, by sharing in my life... my triumphs and trials. I relate to them. They make me feel normal I guess."

"I've never had friends."

"What? Of course you - Sherlock I'm you're friend."

"Are you?"

"Of course I am! And I want to hear about your life too."

"There's a lot that you don't know about me John. A lot that very few people know."

"I'm listening."

Sherlock stood and began walking towards the kitchen.

"Mrs Hudson – she knows. She was perhaps the closest thing I had to a friend at University"

"She – what?" John paused halfway through chopping a carrot "You were at University with Mrs Hudson? I didn't know she even had a degree."

"She doesn't; she was working as a cleaner in my college. It was she who found me after my... my first suicide attempt."

"Your first...?"

"I had holed myself up in my room for days after someone I thought was a friend had read my diary. I was very ill and my diary held the truth about that illness. I was tired, by that point, of fighting and losing. So I gave up." Sherlock was still avoiding John's gaze "I took a cocktail of over the counter drugs and waited for the end but it never came. Mrs Hudson did."

"Sherlock..."

"My whole life has been addiction John; even as a child it was sweets or books. It gets exhausting after a while."

"I can imagine" John swallowed hard, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No you can't John. The number of times I have had to pull myself back from the brink – I'm sick of it. I was hospitalised for my eating disorder three times and for my drug addiction twice. If it weren't for Mycroft having paid for private rehab clinics, I would probably have died some time in my early twenties, and perhaps, really, I should have. I've had three accidental drug overdoses and two suicide attempts. And yet, here I am, against my better judgement, still alive."

"Sherlock, I... I don't know what to say... I'm sorry... that you had to go through all of that. I had no idea."

"Why are you sorry? It wasn't your fault."

"No, it's just... it's something people say."

"Do they?"

"Yes. Look, go and sit down. I'll bring you some spaghetti when it's done."

"No, really, I -"

"You don't have to eat it. Just let me bring it to you OK?"

The men exchanged a glance. That John had heard his tale and was still there was reassuring to Sherlock.

"OK."