Hey, y'all! Rainy here. Sorry about the long absence. If you didn't know, I took the Johnlock 30 Day OTP Challenge. Which is why I've been absent so long- writing a story every day for 30 days does tend to take up one's time. However, the challenge is now over, and I am now much more confident in my writing abilities and am ready to return to this story! If you're interested, you can see the whole challenge on my profile. But now- onto the story! *cue dramatic music*

Sherlock stared at the bowl of porridge in front of him.

"Eat." John tapped his foot impatiently.

Sherlock remained silent, staring at the obnoxious substance in the bowl in front of him.

John sighed. "We had a deal, Sherlock. Remember the mirror?"

Sherlock nodded his head. How could he forget?

John sighed. "Then eat." He pointed to his watch. "I really don't want to be late for work, but I'm not leaving until I see you eat."

Sherlock pushed his spoon through the unappetizing food.

"What? Do you not like porridge?'

Sherlock looked at John with his signature "don't-be-an-idiot-you-don't-exactly-need-to-be-me-to-figure-this-out" looks.

John sighed. "And you're telling me this now? Why?"

Sherlock shrugged. He wasn't in a talkative mood.

John sighed. "I can make you some eggs." He looked at Sherlock. "Unless that isn't acceptable either."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "That's fine." He looked around the flat, anywhere except John. He couldn't look at him right then.

John smiled despite himself and ruffled Sherlock's curls fondly. "I'll start on those," he said, heading for the kitchen. He called out behind him, "But you have to eat them!"

As John made him eggs, Sherlock laid his head back and thought about the past few weeks.

Sherlock became so lost in his own thoughts and memories that he started when John placed the eggs on front of him.

"Wh- oh!"

John laughed. "Eat, you git. I spilled some egg whites on my jumper, so I'm going to go change. Be right back."

Sherlock looked around. He could easily go and sump the eggs somewhere- out the window, somewhere John wouldn't find them, and say he'd eaten them. He'd done so on a few occasions.

But something kept him in that chair. Tentatively, he took a fork full of eggs and raised them to his mouth.

John emerged from his room a few minutes later, in a fresh jumper. Sherlock was on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes closed, wandering the halls of his mind palace. John looked over at the plate. Half of its contents were gone. He smiled. It was a start.

Once he was sure John was gone, Sherlock rise from his spot on the couch. He began to pace around the flat, running his hands through his hair, flinging his hands about as he tried to sort through what he was feeling.

Sherlock Holmes was a man who did not do sentiment, no. Nor was he a man who did self-loathing. But he had succumbed to self-loathing in the wake of his capture and subsequent torture, and it appeared as if he had succumbed to sentiment in his recent revival.

Which still had its bumps. He was eating now- but only if John made him. He had stopped self-harming, but only after he had relapsed twice. He had stopped doing drugs, but had a stash hidden around the flat somewhere.

Speaking of which...

No, he had to think of John. John, who had cared for him since the beginning. John, who only wanted the best for him. John, who was his friend but did far more than most friends would do.

John, who made his heart beat a little faster when he was near. John, who made his stomach feel a little strange when he was nearby. John, his decidedly not-gay best friend and flatmate.

Sherlock shook his head again. He couldn't just delete the emotions- they were to primal a part of his being to be completely forced down.

God, why did sentiment have to be so difficult?

Groaning, he sat back on the couch, resolving to spend a few hours wandering his mind palace. Maybe that would clear thing up a it.

At least he wouldn't be bored, he thought with a wry smile.

When John returned from the clinic, he saw Sherlock laying on the couch, wandering once again in his mind palace.

John looked around for signs that he had eaten in his absence. Finding none, he sighed. "You didn't eat, did you?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

Sherlock sat up, giving John another one of his signature looks. He knew John knew the answer too.

John sighed. "Of course not." He went into the kitchen, shrugging his coat off as he went. "What do you want?"

Sherlock fixed John with another look.

"Sherlock, you're eating whether you like it or not, and I'm going to just make you something if you don't tell me what you want."

Sherlock slumped into the couch, defeated. "Can we just get Chinese food?"

John smiled. "That'll work great." He reached for the phone, prepared to order take-out.

Sherlock watched him as he did this. He still was having trouble eating, but he was on the mend. John was there to look after him.

John.

Even his name sent a million flutters through his stomach.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He shook his head, trying to clear it of the distracting thoughts.

The food arrived a half an hour later.

As John spread the veritable feast out on the table, Sherlock eyed it with distaste. John, seeing Sherlock's disapproving glare, sighed. "I got you your favorite."

Silence for a moment. "I know."

Another pause. "Thank you."

John smiled. Sherlock never said thank you.

"You're welcome," he whispered.

As Sherlock ate, he felt tired. In retrospect, this should have been a sign something was wrong. But he succumbed instead to the wonderful bliss of sleep, and John did the same.

When he awoke, he could tell something was wrong. He was tied up to some sort of chair. He looked around. Factory, built in the seventies, abandoned for around fifteen years. John was tied up in a corner, which-

Wait. John was tied up. In a corner.

Just as he realized what this meant, he heard a sinister voice come from behind him. Hands reached up and covered his eyes.

"Hello again, Sherly. I'm so glad you and your pet could join me."

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