I REALLY hate Mycroft. Can you tell? I was never a big fan of him in the series (actually, I had a theory that he was Moriarty the first time I watched the first two episodes), but "A Scandal in Belgravia" just ruined all the good thoughts I had about Mycroft Holmes, never mind his part in his own brother's downfall in "The Reichenbach Fall." So, yeah, I dislike Mycroft. Maybe we can all dislike him together for a little while. Humor me.-SH
If I Say No
Part 4
"Sherlock,"
"What?" Sherlock snapped, drawn out of his thoughts. He was lying on his back on the couch, still in his pajamas and dressing gown, eyes closed, fingers steepled under his chin.
"You need to eat something." It had been a week, and John was no longer afraid of Sherlock's stroppy behavior. Sherlock had a quick temper that was quicker when he was bored, but John failed to sense any real hostility in it.
"Why?" Sherlock pressed his fingers to his lips. "We had Chinese a couple nights ago."
"Nearly a week ago." John got up from his chair with a grunt. "I'm making sandwiches. You might want one."
Sherlock scoffed. A week? He was fine! Better than fine! Able to survive for at least another three days! Longer if London's criminal underground decided to become interesting.
From its place on the coffee table, Sherlock's mobile buzzed. He'd kept the volume on it low ever since he'd been barraged with texts from his brother. Why Mycroft had decided to text him when he preferred to talk was beyond the consulting detective—not because he couldn't find the answer out, but because he had no interest in why. With a languid groan, he lifted his mobile and opened the text.
Not going to let yourself be seduced by John's cooking, are you?-M
Sherlock set his mobile down again with an impatient sigh and went back to thinking. Just as his brain had gotten on a nice, fast, luxury train of thought with a comfortable first-class box, his mobile buzzed again. Sherlock agitatedly grabbed it and read the text.
They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, after all.-M
Sherlock set his mobile on his chest and waited. It was obvious he wasn't going to get any thinking done until Mycroft was finished bullying him. If the consulting detective had had any appetite at all, it had vanished completely by now. Instead, the familiar feeling of emptiness replaced every emotion. Sherlock closed his eyes, fairly certain this is what it felt like to drown. Perhaps a more adequate feeling: suffocate. That was the same as drowning, in something you can actually breathe…
As expected, his mobile buzzed yet again. Sherlock looked at the text with empty, soulless eyes.
John likes to make pasta and sandwiches. Carbs. Isn't it so hateful?-M
Sherlock swallowed. Carbohydrates were not horrible. Foods of all kinds were required to keep the brain fully functioning. He hadn't even needed to experiment to know that. Protein gave him strength, sugar and caffeine in measured amounts gave him energy, vitamins were essential to different faculties of his transport, and carbohydrates…
Buzz. Well, what do carbohydrates do?-M
Sherlock hated that, how Mycroft could somehow sense what he was thinking. It made him feel raped. Invaded by an unwelcome party quite against his will. It made him feel like nothing was private.
But, what if carbohydrates actually did nothing? No, no, they had to do something: every type of food existed for a reason!
Sherlock liked carbohydrates. He was partial to a good meal of spaghetti and meatballs, or a small bowl of buttered pasta with cheese on top. Pasta especially was good to eat after the long, grueling cases when hunger was gnawing. Just half a plate warmed him, relaxed him, let him feel a warm, sleepy comfort. It was…nice. Pasta was like a warm bed on a cold winter's night.
Pasta? Really? You have a weakness for pasta, of all things?-M
Pasta is not food. Pasta is a bunch of yellow worms covered in cheese.-M
Remember when I told you where pasta comes from?-M
All food is bad. Meat is contaminated by disease, sweets will make you fat, you don't have to eat to get vitamins, and carbohydrates are just as bad as sweets.-M
Sherlock felt sick, the week-old Chinese (which he knew had been digested by now—that was the annoying bit) making him feel heavy and sluggish and slow beyond belief. He thought that he was going to throw up. If food was really this bad, why did Mycroft insist on eating it? Why had Mycroft taken him out so many times?
And why, why under the sun, would Mycroft retract his scolding and tell him to eat?
Oh.
OH!
Sherlock sat up, the revelation bright in his eyes. Maybe the reason Mycroft was trying to make him eat was because he was trying to make Sherlock fat! Well, that would never happen. Not if he lived to be a hundred.
"Sherlock? You okay?" John, a sandwich on a plate in hand, had been just about to return to his seat, but was startled by Sherlock's sudden epiphany.
Sherlock realized his heart was beating faster than usual. He needed several nicotine patches to calm down, to sedate himself, to get back to thinking. His mobile buzzed one last time in his hand.
Dead men tell no tales. Sleep well, Sherlock.-M
"I—" Sherlock's mouth hung open with words that strangled him and wouldn't come out. How did he explain that his older brother was bullying him, trying to make him fat? "Y-yeah, of course." He said shakily, running a hand through his unkempt hair as he laid back down.
"All right," John replied, a bit suspicious and not afraid to show it. He didn't know Sherlock all that well, but he knew how to spot an evasive tactic. He'd seen it all the time in patients who were loathe to admit something hurt, that something was wrong. The best thing to do was to offer comfort. "I'll be here if you need to talk." He took a bite out of his sandwich and went back to reading the paper. All was quiet, and then…
Sherlock shifted on the couch until he was propping himself up halfway. "John?"
John looked up, and saw that Sherlock had undergone a transformation.
The same face that could look so severe and inhuman, with the sharp, prominent cheekbones and the cold, light eyes, pale lips spitting words like a cobra spits poison…looked softer. Childish. The cold eyes were wide, held a distinct human wetness to them; not quite tears, no, but emotion definitely. His brow was crinkled in the most innocent way, like a pouting child, and he looked…worried. Afraid.
"Petrified" was the word John chose to think of. Sherlock was petrified by his emotion.
"If I—" He paused, took a deep breath, and started again. John saw signs of an elevated heart rate, but chose to ignore it for the moment. "If I—decide. To talk." He swallowed, his dressing gown falling away from his shoulders, revealing a glimpse of the milky white shoulder, the clavicle prominent against the skin, the sleeve of his shirt having slipped down. John forced himself not to tut-tut like a mother hen about Sherlock being far too dangerously underweight; Mrs. Hudson already did enough of that. "Will you—" But there was Sherlock looking fragile again. John couldn't help it: his heart melted with pity for the poor man. "Will you—listen?" Sherlock looked at his lap suddenly, running his fingers along the edge of his dressing gown. "Will you—let me say anything I want, no matter how…stupid," It was obvious he didn't want to use the word to describe himself or his actions. Had it been any other time, John would've laughed at the visible reluctance he saw in Sherlock's body language. "How stupid it sounds? Will you let me?"
John smiled reassuringly, half as a doctor and half as a friend. "Of course I will, Sherlock."
Sherlock, relieved, seemed to have lost all his energy, for he fell back amongst the couch cushions in an instant. He settled one arm above his head, curving it to make room, and placed the other across his heart. He closed his eyes as his breathing slowed, and in a few moments, he was asleep.
John smiled and shook his head. Noticing Sherlock was shivering, despite the flat being of adequate temperature, he pulled the blanket from where it sat behind him and spread it over Sherlock. Then, he finished his lunch and blogged a while.
After all, Sherlock deserved whatever rest he could get.
I cannot cry, cause the shoulder cries more.
I cannot die, I a whore for the cold world.
-Lyrics are The Poet and the Pendulum by Nightwish-
A note: head-canon also says that Sherlock pajama shirt is sleeveless, since it's hard to tell under the dressing gown. Dunno. It's head-canon. Roll with it.-SH
