"Elorie."
Elorie's eyes blinked open, slowly. Her ears were ringing, and everything seemed blurry, but she knew the man standing above her was her older brother.
"Myc," she grunted, struggling to force her body into an upright position.
"Don't sit up. How long have you been out?"
Elorie's brows furrowed, head pounding. "Out?"
"I found you here unconscious."
She dragged in a breath, the action making her head spin. "Oh."
Myc stood over her, phone in hand. If it was Sherlock or John, Elorie knew they would be on the ground next to her, but Myc was too high class, too powerful, too full of himself. He wouldn't ever get on the ground, not even for his little sister.
"I've phoned Dr. Watson. He should be here in a few minutes to look you over. I've no doubt Sherlock will be with him."
"Great," Elorie muttered under her breath. Whatever case they were out on needed no interruption from her.
"Have you eaten today?"
She looked back up at her brother through locks of her brown curls. "What kind of question is that?"
A heavy sigh gusted out of Myc, the kind only her eating problems and her other brother's drug problems could provoke. She was the second disappointment in the family, and Myc made it very clear.
"Care to tell me how long you've been unconscious?" Myc's disapproving eyebrows were pointed down at her, and it made her feel as subordinate as he meant her to. How was it that he was more of a parent than her own parents?
Because he was her real caretaker.
Since her parents gave up on her three months ago, sent her to live in the city with her brother and his partner - professional, they swear. They decided that intensive outpatient care at Bart's would be good for her, good enough to cure, maybe. Myc would be a good enough guardian - though he wasn't around much, leaving her in the care of their middle brother, Sherlock, and his partner John, who was, coincidentally, a doctor.
It was an all-around win in their opinion.
In Elorie's opinion… well, she didn't much care anymore, to be honest.
"Elorie."
"I don't know, care to tell me the time?" Elorie snapped back, forcing herself to sit up.
"Tea time. Four o'clock." Myc glanced down at his phone, no doubt wanting John to show up already.
Four o'clock. She was surprised; the last thing she could remember was standing up to get water around 1:30pm, which meant she had been out for over two hours.
Far longer than normal.
"So?" Myc was starting to get impatient.
"I don't know," Elorie lied, deciding he would be more worried to know the truth.
At that moment, John burst into the room. "El." His eyes zeroed in on her from the doorway, and he hurried over to her, pulling a small flashlight from his pocket which he happened to have, coincidentally. He bent down next to her. "Look up," he ordered, shining the light into her eyes.
Elorie couldn't help but roll her eyes, which was what made her other brother, Sherlock, snort as he moseyed into the room, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
"She hasn't been eating," John informed Myc, as Elorie squinted into the light.
"Cutting, too," Sherlock observed, and Elorie's eyes flicked up to her brother's.
"Thanks a lot."
John reached down to draw up her sleeve, and frowned at the scars lining her forearms. "How did you know?"
"Oh please, John. Even you should have seen it."
"How long have you known? Why didn't you talk to one of us? We would have done something," Myc declared.
"Oh please. If you had cared to show up once in a while to check up on her when you're supposed to be her guardian-"
"Sherlock," John warned, not looking up as he examined the scabbed cuts on Elorie's arm.
"Elorie's not an idiot, John, not like Myc."
"Not an idiot, just busy," Myc corrected.
Elorie's eyes rolled again of their own volition, and she yanked her arm back from John. "I'm fine. Can I go now?"
"Go where?" Myc and John inquired at the same time.
"Anywhere but here," Sherlock answered before Elorie could. He eyed her for a moment, then stepped forward and grabbed her hand to pull her up. "We're going down to the cafe for tea. Don't bother joining us."
He yanked her down the hall and stairs, and into the cafe.
Her middle brother had always been the closest to her. Even since they were little, through the age difference and everything, they were close. Elorie supposed it was because they both disappointed regularly - disappointed their parents, Myc, everyone really. Sherlock and his drug problems, Elorie and her eating disorder. At least he couldn't make her feel like a disappointment, not when he too was one.
Sherlock ordered tea and a biscuit for himself, and then sat down with Elorie.
"Don't ask me-" Elorie began, but he interrupted.
"Why would I?" He smiled at her, that smirk he made whenever they actually spoke. "At least learn how to treat them, though. I'm not going to tell you not to do it, but I'd rather you not lose an arm to infection, that would be terribly unpleasant for everyone involved. You could ask John to teach you-"
"Not likely," Elorie snorted.
"-but I supposed that wouldn't be your first choice. His equipment is in the hall bathroom. Wash, alcohol wipe, antiseptic cream, bandage."
"Thanks."
She eyed him as he sipped his tea, nonchalantly. "I suppose if you can relapse they are expecting me to, next?" He inquired, the corners of his mouth turning up.
"Sherlock, there was no relapse and you know it," Elorie rejected, leaning back against her chair.
"Ah yes, the time honored tale of remission and recovery," he mused, putting his teacup down. "Shall we consider exactly how long you can keep this up, dear sister? We both know you're not as-"
"We both know I'm smarter than you and Myc combined," Elorie cut in. "And I've got it under control."
The way her brothers showed affection had always confused everyone around them, even John. But the relationship that Elorie and Sherlock had had always appeared somewhat normal. They were six years apart in age, but matched in personality, and they could talk without speaking. They understood each other better than anyone else.
That was the thing about them, that they had grown up together. Myc was eight years older than Sherlock, fourteen years older than Elorie, and he had been gone before Elorie could even remember. The moments of time she had even met him had been a few times a year on holidays, if even that. Sherlock knew him better; he had been ten when Myc had left for university, but even in those years together, the two brothers had never really let each other in.
Perhaps it was the fact that Elorie did not share a father with the two boys that drew them to her. Half siblings may always be closer than full siblings, even in the case of geniuses.
"She may not wake, the next time she falls unconscious," John was saying in the living room.
Elorie could just hear her brothers arguing with the doctor through the door to her bedroom. She was sitting on the floor in front of the mirror with her legs drawn up to her chest, chin resting on her knees. It was two feet from the door, and she would go out, but she only wore panties and a bralette, and Myc wouldn't want to see her like that.
He wouldn't like to see each outline of her rib, cheekbones, gap between her thighs. The way he could probably hold both her wrists in one closed fist.
She always made it a point to cover up as if in the snow, whenever her oldest brother was around. Should he see her like this… well, she wouldn't be in Sherlock and John's flat much longer.
"You're not a pediatrician, John," Sherlock was pointing out. "She tells me she's got it under control."
"Yes, as do all anorexics, as you should know," Myc reminded him. "She is as addicted to starvation as you are to cocaine, and as we all know, no one decieves like an addict."
"I'm a physician, Sherlock, and Elorie being fourteen means she is almost fully grown - that is, she would be if her body were not deteriorating further, daily," John countered.
"Yes, well your input has been all but helpful, John, you can go sit down now," Sherlock spat, and Elorie rolled her eyes.
She could hear Sherlock move closer to her room, probably closer to Myc. "She is smarter than both of us, we all know that. She says she's got it under control, she's got it under control."
"And you'll take responsibility for her death under your supervision?" Myc responded.
"She's not going to die." Elorie could hear the annoyance in his voice. "She's going to stay 42 kilograms because she knows her limit and she knows how much she must eat to maintain-"
"Sherlock, she doesn't eat more than 800 calories a day," John protested. "At this rate she's losing a half kilogram a week, within the next month she won't have the muscle tissue to be able to move, and then her body will start feeding on her heart."
"In which case she will have the same amount of heart that Myc does," Sherlock quipped, and Elorie smiled.
"I think she should be put in hospital," was John's next suggestion, and Elorie tensed.
"I agree," Myc replied, and she felt her heart start to beat faster.
"And how well did that work when Mummy did that last year?" Sherlock reminded them.
"She was released after gaining seven kilograms," Myc recalled.
"And then she promptly lost nine," Sherlock shot back. "I'm not sure her body can withstand another stint in hospital."
"Point taken," Myc mused, "but something must be done. An action must be taken."
"I can place a feeding tube-" John suggested.
"Yes, what a fantastic idea," Sherlock scoffed, "until you leave her alone for five minutes and she yanks it out."
"He's got a point," Myc admitted. "We can't have her under constant surveillance."
"Not with our schedules anyways," John mused.
"I go back to the hospital idea," Myc returned.
Elorie stood up, grabbed the long coat she had stolen from her brother - he had tons - and pulled it on over her underwear, buttoning and tying it. She turned swiftly, ready to creep out the window, only to see black start to rush her vision as she lost all breath and succumbed to the darkness.