I'm so sorry it's been so long since my last update! I've been in the middle of a depressive episode, not fun stuff. Anyway, please leave a review if you like it, reading them always helps me get motivation to write more. Thanks!
(Also I'm sorry if I offend anyone with the language, I'm American and not familiar with British slang)
Watson called a cab as Sherlock stared after his brother's retreating car with narrowed eyes.
"Well?"
"What?"
"Let's hear it. What's wrong with him?"
"Mycroft has decided to stop eating again, it seems."
John blinked in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"It's obvious, isn't it?"
"I'll take your word for it. Why would he do that?"
"When we were children, he was a bit on the heavy side. But he slimmed down, and I see no reason for him to continue starving himself." Sherlock frowned.
John looked surprised. "Christ, I never would've guessed. Mycroft just doesn't seem the type."
"Type...?" Sherlock asked absently.
"To have an eating disorder."
"He doesn't have an eating disorder." Sherlock said sharply. "He's just on a diet, that's all. A stupid, extreme diet."
"That's um, kind of what an eating disorder is. You said it yourself, he's starving himself."
Sherlock shook his head. Eating Disorder sounded so serious. Worrisome. The kind of thing one might need professional help for. And Mycroft didn't need anyone's help.
"What are you going to do about it?"
He shrugged. "Nothing."
"Nothing? Sherlock, he's-"
"Got it under control, I'm sure."
John didn't look convinced. "Eating disorders are serious. Dangerous."
"Yes, I'm aware of that. But we've already established that my brother does not have an eating disorder." Sherlock snapped. "He's on a diet, and he'll stop before it goes too far. This is Mycroft we're talking about. He basically runs the British government. As he's constantly reminding me, he's the smart one. I'm sure he knows the effects starvation has on the body and mind. He wouldn't let himself deteriorate like that."
John sighed with exasperation. "Fine, whatever you say."
Two months later
Mycroft never thought he'd let it go too far. But today as he stood in front of the mirror, he didn't recognize the man staring back at him. Bony collarbones, sunken eyes and sharp cheekbones...He looked like a skeleton. He needed to stop.
But he couldn't.
Even the thought of food made him feel sick.
Still, he couldn't survive like this. Soon his body would begin to shut down. He needed to eat more, no matter how hard it was.
He took a look in his fridge and almost laughed. How long had it been since he'd gone shopping? Three weeks? Maybe more...
So he ate his usual four slices of apple and headed out the door.
Mycroft sighed. He was beginning to think he should have stayed home today. He didn't have the energy to deal with the drama unfolding around him. One of his assistants had been murdered during the night. He had been the one to find the man's body, cold and lifeless outside his office door. Pity, the man had only just started last week.
Mycroft called the police, but after only a few moments of examining the body he determined that the man had been killed by his wife, who had come here to confront him about having an affair. Or was it the mistress who'd killed him? The details were a bit fuzzy...or maybe it was just his own brain, starting to feel the effects of malnourishment.
Not a good sign.
Still, he informed Lestrade that they would want to pick up both the wife and mistress for questioning.
He sat at his desk, trying to get some work done despite the racket the crime scene team was making. True, a man was dead. But Mycroft still had a country to run.
"Excuse me, sir? There's someone here to see you," One of the young officers stood in his doorway. "He says he's your brother."
Mycroft sighed. "Tell him I'm busy, and that his presence would be more beneficial at the police station helping with the investigation."
"Investigation? The case is closed. They arrested the mistress, no thanks to you." Sherlock brushed past the officer.
"Hey, you can't just-"
"It's fine." Mycroft waved the man off, shutting the door. Whatever his brother had come here to say, he didn't want it to be heard by everyone in the building. Sherlock never came to see him at work, and he could tell something was going on. The younger Holmes seemed anxious.
"What are you doing here, Sherlock? And where's your pet?"
"John? He's a doctor, you know. He's got a day job." He replied icily, not answering the question.
"Can I do something for you? I'm quite busy." Mycroft did his best to appear disinterested, leafing through papers on his desk.
"You don't make mistakes."
Mycroft looked up, confused and a little suspicious. "I'm aware of that, what of it?"
"Especially in a case as simple as this one. One look at the body and it was obvious the mistress killed him. Why'd you send the police after the wife too?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "They have to do some of the work themselves, can't get used to us solving all their problems. Of course I knew it was the mistress."
Sherlock stepped closer. "This needs to stop."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, I think you do." Sherlock seized his wrist as Mycroft weakly tried to pull away. "Your pulse is abnormally slow. Your respiration is uneven. You look like a fucking skeleton, Mycroft!"
Finally wrestling his arm away, Mycroft seethed. "You need to leave."
"And you need to stop this stupid diet!"
"I will call security." Mycroft warned, reaching for his phone.
"Save your breath, I'm leaving." Sherlock glared. "But you know I'm right. You're dying."
"Always had a flair for the dramatic, didn't you, little brother?"
"Says the man who's killing himself in a painfully slow fashion."
Mycroft shook his head. "What do you care?"
"Just trying to save Mummy another heartbreak." Sherlock stated casually on his way out the door. But his voice wavered ever so slightly, and there was an expression behind his eyes, behind the cool indifference on his face. Was he actually worried?