Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed! It means a lot to me that you take the time to let me know how I'm doing, what you liked, what you didn't like...feedback is always much appreciated.

Also, I'm really sorry I haven't updated for a long time. I've been struggling with my own eating disorder.

Sherlock was in a mood.

He had been sulking about the flat all day, and he was currently lying on the floor, counting the cracks in the ceiling as if they held the key to some great mystery of the universe.

"Do you want to look for a case?" John casually asked for the third time that day. Generally that was the way to cure Sherlock's moodiness.

"No."

"Do you want to go get something to eat?

"No."

John sighed with exasperation. "What's wrong? I mean there's obviously something bothering you."

"I'm fine." Sherlock said flatly, still staring up at the ceiling.

John shook his head and picked up the paper, getting comfortable in his chair. "Can't say I didn't try." He muttered.

"Why do people starve themselves?" Sherlock wondered aloud, still lying on the floor.

John raised his eyebrows, lowering the newspaper. "Erm, lots of different reasons I suppose. Why?"

"Doesn't matter. Just list the most popular ones."

"To lose weight, I think would be the biggest reason."

"What if they're already thin?"

John thought for a moment. "Control issues, maybe?"

"That's it, that has to be it!" Sherlock sat straight up.

"This is about Mycroft, isn't it?" John finally put the pieces together. "Mrs. Hudson said you went to see him yesterday. Is he still on that 'extreme diet'?"

"Yes, but it makes sense now. He's always been a massive control freak."

"Well, now that you know the reason, what are you going to do about it?

Sherlock scoffed. "Nothing."

"What do you mean, 'nothing'?"

"Exactly what I said. If Mycroft wants to destroy himself, that's his poor decision. Besides, I'm sure he's got it under control. That's what this is all about, isn't it?"

John didn't respond immediately, studying Sherlock's face. He was doing his best to appear apathetic and uncaring, but Watson knew better. He knew the consulting detective arguably better than anyone, and could tell when he was truly concerned. Sherlock's lips were tight, jaw clenched. His eyes were anxious, and he couldn't stop tapping his fingers on his thigh. He was genuinely worried.

"Do you really think he has it under control?"

"He has to. He's Mycroft. He's always been the smart one."

"What if he needs help?"

"Mycroft never needs help."

"That didn't even sound a little convincing." John chuckled.

"Oh, piss off." Sherlock said, but there was no real anger behind his words.

"Alright, I'll stop asking you about it if you're 100% sure Mycroft is okay, and doesn't need some sort of intervention."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, and John was afraid he would change the subject and start moping around again. But then he stood up and folded his arms across his chest. "Right then, how does one go about staging an intervention?"

John smiled. "There you go."

Sorry about the short chapter, I'm still figuring out how to write the actual intervention part.