A/N I suppose his ability to function on next-to-nothing in terms of food has just always been rather intriguing to me.

Thanks to johnsarmylady, 666BloodyHell666, sparrowismyhummingbird, Song of Grey Lemons, Du Shu Zi, linguisticRenegade, MikiYi, and Motaku1235

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

LXXIX. Starvation

Sherlock is thin. Not thin in the way of a normal, slender-bodied person, as John had initially believed, but skinny, frighteningly skinny, like a skeleton out of a ghost story.

It's clear every time that his clothes are gone, which is uncommon even for John, but still jarring in each incident. His ribs are like knives, pressing against his chest from the inside out, their edges seemingly sharp enough to cut John's hands as he runs over them, fascinated by their uneven pattern and the humanly warm heart hammering against them from the inside, as if trying to break through the brittle, fragile cage that wraps around it. It shows in his legs, too, strong but so very slim, his ankles and calves seeming to consist of nothing but skin over bone.

Even when they're not in bed, on a normal day, John can't help but catch glimpses of his arms, every time that his sleeves are pulled back to expose the expanse of smooth skin: wrists thin to the point of being childlike, pale, nicotine-spotted forearms showing the clear outline of bones underneath.

"He can't eat," Mycroft explains one day, one day when John can't stand it anymore, forces himself to call the elder Holmes brother and find out what the hell is going on, whether his partner is genuinely in danger from his extreme emaciation. "It's not a disorder—nothing hereditary, in any case, but it's not a choice, either. Our parents used to try and feed him a proper amount, in his younger days, but he would always end up sick. None of us quite understand it, but I'd suggest you live him to his own devices, John. Sherlock knows how much he needs to eat—a good deal better than you do, in any case. Leave him be."

And John knows that Mycroft is smart, knows that Mycroft is perfectly aware of what's good for Sherlock—probably even more than the doctor himself—but it still hurts to see Sherlock's skinniness, alarms him almost daily. He never mentions it to the detective, though. Doesn't want to sound as though he's trying to interfere, since he does enough of that already.

Naturally, though, his concern doesn't go unnoticed. Sherlock's too quick for that. And he hates to see John so silently worried, despises himself for the quiet, tight look in the blonde man's blue eyes every time that he rolls back his sleeves. What John thinks matters to him. He doesn't want John to hurt.

So he eats, or at least tries to—even pushes himself up to two average-sized meals a day, and it slows him down, disrupts his brain and leaves his stomach constantly rocking with nausea. It's too much, and one day he suffers for his efforts, hunched over the flat's toilet, heaving and retching endlessly, bitterness consuming his senses.

John's hand is on his shoulder after only a few minutes of this, and his words are in Sherlock's ears, gentle and apologetic, nowhere near accusing, simply murmuring—Get it out, it's alright, you'll feel better afterwards. Could have been something you ate, I thought that takeaway last night was a bit odd-tasting…

They both know the truth, though. They both know that takeaway had nothing to do with it, and perhaps that's why John's voice is so soft, so understanding, so forgiving.