If I Say No

Part 14

John finished unpacking and thought he'd go back into the living room to check on Sherlock. If he was still eating, than the doctor would simply find something to do. If Sherlock felt uncomfortable eating while other people weren't (John didn't quite blame him for that one—he felt a bit awkward the first few times it'd happened to him, too), then he wasn't about to make the sick man feel put-out. He needed to feel comfortable with his eating habits, no matter what they were. Insecurities could be dealt with later, after the main problem (getting Sherlock to eat) was solved.

When John pattered out into the living room, he saw that Sherlock was resting comfortably. His eyes were closed, his hair tussled from the wind and the car ride, the dark curls sticking up in places and slicked down in others. His legs were crossed at the ankles and his hands were clasped loosely at his stomach. John noted that Sherlock looked better, even if the improvement was slight. Sherlock's stomach was flat instead of concave and he looked slightly less pale than he had before. Sherlock's breathing was calm and deep and even, and John thought he was asleep. He also knew that Sherlock's healthy look was temporary—he was just too malnourished to keep up the appearance. But he enjoyed the look while it lasted.

John was about to go figure out how to make some tea when a voice startled him.

"Here," Sherlock, without opening his eyes, stretched his hand back over the head of the chair absently, holding out his phone. "You should look at these."

John had jumped right out of his skin, because he'd been under the impression Sherlock was fast asleep. And Sherlock could be a heavy sleeper when he chose. "Sorry," John apologized lamely as he took the phone, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," Sherlock stretched his arms out above his head and twisted his torso to the side slightly. As he stretched, John thought he could literally see Sherlock losing the weight again, the ribs becoming stark, the hipbones severe, the stomach concave. "I was sort of awake, anyway,"

John read the messages with a sort of reserved annoyance. Yes, he was pissed that Mycroft's texts were still coming, but he didn't need to get worked up over them for nothing. Sherlock would know about his frustrations, anyway, without him having to vent. "Did you sleep at all? That's important, too."

"A bit," Sherlock admitted, stretching his legs out one after the other and then arching his back, his head tilted backwards, the pale expanse of neck beautifully exposed. His china blue eyes flicked towards John. "I'd love some tea if you're making it. The kettle's the same here as in 221B."

John smiled. "Okay." He handed Sherlock's phone back to him and went to make the tea. While the water boiled, he went back in to watch Sherlock.

The detective's eyes were glued to the telly, which still had on some ridiculous crap that was on reruns. After a moment, Sherlock flicked off the telly with a showy flick of his wrist and settled back into the chair with a weary sigh. He tilted his head back so that he was looking at John upside-down. "John?"

"Yes?"

"I…" Sherlock trailed off, and then he sifted until he was lying on his stomach on the chair. John frowned sympathetically. It didn't look comfortable; chairs were made for sitting, not for lying. But Sherlock wasn't doing it for comfort. The consulting detective rested his chin on his folded arms. "I…want to talk about something."

"All right. Do you want the tea first?"

Sherlock thought about it and then nodded. "Yeah. That sounds good."

"Right." And John went back into the other room to make the tea. He poured the boiling water into two mugs he found in the cupboard (clean mugs that were easy to find? It was obvious no Holmes had lived here for some time!) and located the tea bags that the Holmes family maid had obvious purchased. John recognized the brand as Sherlock's favorite and grinned as he stirred sugar into Sherlock's and tipped a tiny bit of milk into his.

When he brought the tea back in, Sherlock had pushed the recliner back into its original position and was sitting sideways in it, his back against the armrest. He was curled up, his knees pressed towards his chest, as if he was trying to make himself as small as possible. He accepted the tea with a nod and a small smile and sipped at it with the hesitant grace he was well known for. John set his tea down on a nearby coffee table and turned the chair slightly on an angle so he could sort of face Sherlock. The army doctor had guessed correctly that Sherlock's frankly uncomfortable-looking position was not merely the result of laziness, and that the lanky consulting detective was not inclined to move heavy objects. Nor, as the posture also indicated, was he about to let John do it for him. Oddly considerate of him.

As John sat down in his chair and took his tea and sipped it, Sherlock mentally prepared himself for this aspect of his recovery. He hated talking about personal matters, but John just seemed such a huge part of the reason why recovery at all was necessary (and John hadn't forced him to hospital upon finding out) that Sherlock felt it would be churlish not to tell him.

So Sherlock took a deep, calming breath and began. "I did almost throw up when I read the texts. But I refrained." He smiled. "I won't be doing that again any time soon. I like the feeling," he looked into his tea mug shyly. "I like the feeling of warmth in my stomach. It feels…nice, and I really want it forever. I don't want to deny myself if I don't have to."

"Good for you, Sherlock." John smiled approvingly, glad that the recovery was already going so well.

"I don't think it was ever about image for me, though," Sherlock went on, slowly getting more and more thoughtful instead of conversational. Which was fine with John, because when Sherlock was in a thoughtful, deductive move, he was more likely to reveal one too many details, or let something slip that he would've rather kept private. "At least, not until I threw up that one time. I'm not really sure what it was about—the reasons seemed to change. At first, it was about the job," he sighed. "Always the job. I had to be lean and fit and hungry to do what I do so well. And I think I will still starve myself on cases—but, then, it doesn't feel like starvation, never feels like when I would deny myself food off the case. It just feels like work."

"I understand," John interjected, because it helped Sherlock if he interspersed his monologues with little comments or questions. And also because John really did understand. Sherlock's job was his life. He would've been a great copper, had his brother not starved him into poor shape for the physical.

Sherlock nodded once to show John that he'd acknowledged the comment and went on. "But after I failed the police physical, I was angry. Frustrated. I don't think I listened—or maybe I deleted it—when the reasons why I failed were presented to me. I fled. I left Cambridge and ran away to London. And then I was homeless. I used to deal cocaine, but I dropped off the scene after gaining enough money. I'd flirted with danger at uni, but it was only once or twice. I was never addicted. I'm only ever afraid of a drugs bust because of all the experiments I do—there are chemicals in the flat that can easily be misconstrued, you understand. But when I was homeless, living off my wits on the street, I rarely thought about eating, because the starvation didn't bother me. I was already used to it. But eventually, I could rent a hotel room and I could wash and bathe. And I began to help out Lestrade. So I never really thought about eating. I was working, and I loved the work, and that's all that mattered."

"You probably would've been the best cop in the world," John mused, laughing.

Sherlock laughed, too. "Probably." He steepled his fingers and caressed his thumbs with his lips before continuing with his narrative. "And then, it finally became about Mycroft. When Mycroft began to tease me, it was about getting even, staying skinny, endless competition. It was as if I was scorning my brother, rubbing it in his face, if you will, that I was leaner, faster, maybe not cleverer but with better self control, than he. And then he insinuates that I'm fat, that I need to diet, that I'm doing so well. Years of that just made it all so…overwhelming, and—" Sherlock interrupted himself, his lips closing firmly. He was done talking for now. Maybe because he didn't need to tell John about the rest, because John was there for the rest.

So John nodded and stretched out a little, careful of his wounded shoulder, which still hurt when he bent or stretched it too much. "It's fine. Know any good places to grab lunch?"

Sherlock nodded. "Plenty. Shall I list some, and you can pick?"

"I picked for breakfast, though."

"I don't mind. At this rate, I'll eat anything with a decent flavor."

"Good to know." John smiled. Sherlock smiled back.

And inside, Sherlock remembered those smiles of relief, of approval. And his ever-active mind decided that it liked seeing John relieved and approving.

You're going to get better, Sherlock.

I am. I'm going to get better.