Hey guys! I am SOOOOO sorry that I haven't uploaded this sooner! I have had finals to study for in high school and college so my brain was fried. BUT NOW IT IT THANKSGIVING BREAK AND I HAVE A WEEK OFF WHICH MEANS I CAN DO WHATEER I PLEASE!
*I attempted to upload this earlier but 1. forgot to spell check it, and 2. forgot to put the message. So if you got an update saying I posted a new chapter but there was no chapter there I apologize.
**Runs up and hands you fanfiction and runs away giggling**
With a gasp Sherlock woke against his bedroom door in a pair of jeans, bare from the waist up. His face was red and puffy from tears, that had grown cold on his cheeks and left a rash, his eyes were red from crying, and he had a horrid taste in his mouth.
Sherlock raised his shaking hand to run it through his hair but gave up when he realized just how tangled it was from last night's events, and not wanting to think about what had happened between John and himself, he rose quickly and busied himself with finding a change of clothes for that day so that he could shower.
That was the day that he realized that he loved John, but vowed that if it took starvation as punishment, last night's happenings would never occur again.
It is truly amazing how much someone can actually avoid a subject when they put their mind to it. John learned this as the days turned to weeks, than months as the Night of the Almost Dream-Come-True (as John called it). The morning afterwards was the last time it was spoken of, and that was a very brief exchange between the two men that went a little like this: "Morning." "Mhm." "..." "..." "Sherlock, last night-" "Was an accident, and was never intended to happen."
After that Sherlock had barely spoken to John, the only real-time he did was during a case and needed to explain something. It was normal behavior for the consulting detective, but this silence was off. There was something not quite right about it, like he needed to say something-was dying to say it- but couldn't bring himself to.
He had also removed all evidence before John had even gotten up the next day, when he came out into the living room the couch was back in order with its decorative pillows in place once again, all the clothes that had been thrown onto the floor in a hasty stripping were picked up and nowhere to be found and framed picture that usually hung in the corner-the one of Mycroft with his arm slung brotherly over his younger brother's shoulder, leaving a pouting Sherlock was gone. That's what John's shirt had broken.
Now here he was, sitting across the dinner table from this man who had his hands steeped against his lips, staring out the window, lost in thought. Of course, he hadn't ordered anything even though John pleaded, so his company sat there eating a plate of his regular: fish and chips. He normally ate his food in silence without looking at Sherlock, but today he couldn't help it. He sat there slowly raising chips slowly to his mouth while he attempted to figure this mysterious genius.
His face was pale- paler than usual which could mean he was either malnourished again (like he becomes often) or there was something bothering him, and judging by the steeple hands something was bothering him.
After a second more John looked away to pick up his glass of water, and when he looked back he jumped when he found Sherlock's face less than fifteen centimeters away, staring straight at him.
"Bloody hell Sherlock." He muttered and dabbed at the front of his pants that were now wet with splashed water.
"John," Sherlock paused and leaned backwards a bit. Now that John was studying him up close he realized just how ill the other man actually looked, "you need to," a pause like he was unsure what he was saying, "you need to stop."
John was concerned about his friend now, he was never unsure about what he was saying, and he always said it with confidence when he said something. As Sherlock began to sway in his seat like he was about to pass out, John jumped up and went around the side of the table and grabbed the faint man as he started to fall to the side-this caused him to be pulled towards John and into his concerned embrace.
"Sherlock, are you okay?" When the man didn't answer John glanced around and saw worried faces as people realized what had happened so he called out, "I'm a doctor, everything is fine." Which caused most to murmur and turn back to their dinner.
Just then John heard a whisper from the man he was clutching and squatted so that he was almost level with Sherlock (which wasn't hard due to the fact that 1. John was short in the first place and 2. Sherlock was tall. And in a chair.), while still holding him with his arm around him and a hand on his leg, "What Sherlock?"
"You need to stop.." he whispered and leaned forward so he was closer to John's confused face.
"Sherlock when was the last time you ate? Hell, or even drank anything?" John pleaded for a sane answer.
"Doesn't matter. You need to stop." Sherlock was acting drunk but John knew for a fact that he hadn't drunk anything because he had been with him all day. But what baffled John the most was what Sherlock was talking about. Stop what?
"Sherlock you need to eat something. Here." John gripped more tightly around Sherlock's back and leaned across the table to retrieve his plate of chips and proceeded to feed them to Sherlock like he was a small child who was refusing to eat his peas.
People in the restaurant were looking at the two men oddly, but John had grown accustomed to getting started at when he went out with Sherlock because the man was known to be rude to others and was found to be beautiful by most women.
After four fries, Sherlock clamped his lips together and lifted his hand with great effort, and tried to slap the plate from John's grasp- but ended up with his hand falling back into his lap due to lack of strength. He was still very pale, and his eyes were unfocused and foggy. John studied him for a moment after he set the plate down and tried to find the source of the problem. His hair hung in lazy curls off the side of his head due to the tilt of it, and his posture was horrid like always. The only thing out of place that John noticed was that the man was shaking underneath of his steadying hands.
"Sherlock you need to eat more. You are ill." John whispered. He was really worried about him, he had never saw him like this before, but Sherlock answered with a small shake of his head. "You irritating man." John hissed and started to rise so that he could call Mycroft, but was stopped when Sherlock grabbed John's hand that was grasping his upper thigh.
"John, stop-" he began.
"Stop what Sherlock?" He groaned louder than meant and caused several heads to turn.
Sherlock's icy eyes finally refocused and locked onto John's own and he gasped, "having this effect on me." Then leaned down and his lips made contact with John's momentarily before he fell into the other man's grasp, unconscious.
John struggled to get the other man onto the floor, but he was pretty much a dead weight. Several people in the diner volunteered to help, and after he was lying passed out on the floor John grabbed his phone and dialed first Mycroft, then an ambulance.
He ran a shaky hand through his sandy hair and sighed. He didn't know what Sherlock had been talking about: 'Having the effect on me'. Was Sherlock saying that it was John's fault that Sherlock never ate? Or was it John's fault that Sherlock had feeling for him? And what the hell had the kiss been for?
Ten minutes later as he climbed into the back of the ugly yellow ambulance, he realized that Sherlock really felt for him, but was trying to hide it and was failing, and oh how he loved Sherlock.
The small man leaned forward to shift a curl out of Sherlock's face when a small drop of water splashed onto the white linen the other man was wearing . That was when John noticed he was crying.
