Yes, yes, I just updated the other day, but here I am again. I want to thank you all VERY MUCH for all your kind words in reviewing. Hugs and kisses and cookies to all of you! Now if you can just do it again...
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Gluttony, n. habitual greed or excess in eating
"Oh, I haven't eaten in days," Sherlock moaned around a mouthful of French bread. He had a solved a days-long case just a few hours ago, and the fact that it had been nearly a week since he last had a meal– he never ate while on a case, though John tried to force him to take in at least a piece of toast– was catching up with him. John made spaghetti to celebrate the solving of the very difficult case, and Sherlock couldn't contain his hunger.
"You can't keep doing this, all right?" John demanded. "You can't just starve yourself for days."
"I have to. Digestion slows me down, and I cannot afford the luxury of even the slightest distraction from my work," the detective mumbled, shoving a forkful of pasta into his mouth. A dab of red sauce stained the white skin next to his mouth; John wiped it away absently as he stood up to rinse his own bowl.
"You're already too thin, and that's coming from a doctor. What if you had an even longer case, eh? What would you do? You'll just run yourself down without any energy in your body, you'll keel over from starvation, and then what'll I do?"
Sherlock waved his hand impatiently. "Have we got any more?" He peered in the pot, but after John had eaten and after his own two servings, it was empty. He dropped the bowl in the sink with a noise like an angry cat and rummaged through the fridge. "There's nothing here!" he wailed, pulling back and slamming the door. "John…" He turned his gaze to John, eyes enormous and pleading.
"Whatever you want, no," John replied, heading into the other room to update his blog about the case.
"Order Chinese food, John? Please?"
"You just ate two dinners, and now you want takeaway?"
"Please, John, I haven't eaten in a week! Wasn't this what you wanted? For me to eat?"
John sighed, exasperated. "For you to eat all the time, not starve yourself and then eat anything you can get your hands on immediately! I'll order, but you have to promise that you'll eat something on cases, all right? Just a bit?"
"Yes, fine, just hurry, please!" It seemed hours until the food arrived, but when it did, Sherlock dove on it like a falcon. "Oh, I've never tasted anything so good," he said thickly. He ate ravenously until John felt sure he should have burst, but he just sat back with a satisfied sigh.
John cleaned up after him with a small smile; it was good to see him content. Soon, he knew, he would catch up on sleep, probably just collapsing in his armchair and curling up for a good long nap. Just as the doctor was putting away the last clean dish, he felt lanky arms wind around his neck from behind.
"Sherlock, what are you–"
"I wanted to thank you," the other man purred. It didn't sound sensual, though it ought to have– it merely sounded like the lazy yawn of a cat. "You keep me going. You keep me alive, though I'm sure I could manage on my own somehow. So, John, thank you."
The army doctor was a bit ruddy in the face, though he tried not to show it. He didn't want to be caught blushing like a young girl. "Can't just have you dying on me, can I? How would I pay the rent?"
After receiving no answer, he made to move back into the living room, leaving Sherlock alone in the kitchen. However, he hesitated in the doorway and turned back to face his flat mate. "Don't eat too much, though," he cautioned, wondering all the while if he should be saying this. Still, he couldn't resist. "You might get fat."
The horrified look on Sherlock's face was almost worth it.
Because you were so good, here's a teaser for the next chapter, Vanity: John thinks I am beautiful. He tells me that every night. But as I look at myself in the mirror, I am forced to admit one thing: John is wrong.