A/N Like promised, here's another chapter right on time.

Thanks to starrysummernights, Starlight05, Florence the Impaler, 666BloodyHell666, sparrowismyhummingbird, Hummingbird1759, johnsarmylady, and Motaku1235

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

LXXXVII. Food

"It's been three days," John announces, his arms folded as he stands in front of the couch that Sherlock's sprawled across. "Three days, and you haven't spoken a word or eaten a single damn morsel."

The detective rolls his pale eyes, but makes no other move to acknowledge John's presence. His arms are folded, hands cupping his elbows, and his body still enough that he could be frozen.

"Hell, you probably haven't even gotten off that sofa, unless you happened to while I've been out. But I know that you haven't had any food, and there's only that one bit of water." He gestures to the slightly dusty glass perched on the coffee table, half-full of three-day water, close enough for Sherlock to reach, though John figures that he probably hasn't even touched it. Swallowing his frustration, he plows on with his monologue, trying not to feel self-conscious as his overly loud words drop into the silence that the flat is otherwise full of.

"And I don't care how superhuman you are, I'm a doctor, and I can guarantee that this is the perfect way to destroy your body, brain included. A person's mind can't function on no nutrients, no exercise—you need to eat something, at the very least." He ends on a more despairing note than he originally meant to, but still feels that he got his point across well enough, a hope that's reinforced by the light, breezy sigh gusting between Sherlock's lips.

"I've spoken plenty," he mutters, his voice as rich and dark as always. "Just not when you were around. You would have gotten irritated."

"I am irritated," John snaps back, trying not to reveal how relieved he is just to hear the detective talk. "Irritated because you refuse to care for yourself. I don't want you to die young, Sherlock, no matter how appropriately dramatic of an ending you may see that as. So long as I'm your friend, you're going to live to have grandchildren—"

"Why ever would I marry?" he points out idly, his gaze running along the ceiling, tracing a faint line of mildew that's threatening to take root there. "It seems that children are a reasonable start towards achieving such a thing, and I can guarantee that I have no intention whatsoever to—"

"Alright, calm down, I get it." John waves a hand. "We're not talking about kids, though, we're talking about food, and the fact that if you don't eat something soon, I'm going to lose my own appetite from worrying about you. Just shove something down your throat. Please," he adds after a brief hesitation, his eyes gleaming briefly with faint traces of the stress he's been trying to disguise.

Sherlock still doesn't look at him, but his chin slowly dips in a grudging nod, and he heaves himself into a sitting position. "I will," he murmurs, and it's like a massive weight has slipped from John's shoulders.

"Good," he says gratefully, "but I'm still not letting you go until I see it happen myself."