Chapter Text
John knows what eating disorders look like. The first time they had dinner together, the very first night, he had been shocked at Sherlock’s proclamation that he didn’t need to eat. His doctor’s hat had popped itself on his head of its on accord and he’d found himself appraising Sherlock for the rest of the evening. When he wasn’t trying to stop the man from getting himself killed, of course.
The thing is, he’d found nothing. There was nothing, nada, zero, absolutely no evidence for any kind of eating disorder. No anorexia, no bulimia, nothing. It lulled him into a false sense of security.
***
Chasing criminals around London is hard work. It’s keeping John fit, at least. Maybe not quite Afghanistan-fit, because that’s hard to top, but fit enough and definitely enough to keep his appetite at Army levels.
‘Dinner, Sherlock?’ John calls through to the living room.
Sherlock is working on a case for a client, involving a break in and an old schoolboy grudge. Apparently it’s not as clear-cut as it might otherwise seem. John hasn’t asked. He just knows that, when the pieces rolling frantically through Sherlock’s brain finally clunk into place, he’ll probably be expected to drop everything at a minute’s notice to go tearing across London, so he wants to be prepared.
‘Busy,’ says Sherlock. ‘Shut up.’
After several months, John is used to this by now, so he barely rolls his eyes as he sets about making his own dinner. Sherlock will be Sherlock, after all.
It doesn’t take long, only a couple of hours, before Sherlock is leaping off the sofa with alarming alacrity, the coat that he neglected to take off upon arriving at the flat approximately 36 hours ago flaring out around him.
‘Come, John,’ is all he says.
‘You’ve got something, then?’ John checks. He’s full and sleepy and right now his chair is very comfortable indeed, thank you very much, and he has little inclination to get up and leave it, let alone the flat.
‘Obviously,’ Sherlock says scornfully. ‘Come on, John. There’s not a moment to waste. If I’m right, which I am, we have approximately 43 minutes.’
‘Until what?’
John is still struggling to catch up but not, to Sherlock’s consternation, making any effort to get up. He supposes that John must be commended for his mental activities, but are physical ones so hard to accomplish at the same time?
‘Get up,’ Sherlock cannot be bothered to explain to idiots right now. Maybe later.
‘Alright, alright, I’m coming,’ John grumbles, levering himself out of his chair. ‘Are you quite sure this cannot wait until tomorrow, Sherlock?’
’41 minutes,’ Sherlock glares at him and John gives in completely.
‘Is this a gun situation or not?’ he enquires politely, as one might about whether or not an umbrella might be appropriate for a day out.
Sherlock considers, his head on one side.
‘Might as well,’ he says. ‘As long as you don’t get all trigger happy.’
‘Trigger happy?’ splutters John. ‘I’m not sixteen, Sherlock, I do understand when it’s appropriate to use a firearm and when it’s not.’
‘Excellent,’ Sherlock says briskly. ‘Then what’s the trouble? Only do hurry up, John, I would hate to have to inform my client that it’s your fault the man who is currently plotting to kidnap her son evaded capture this evening.’
‘Kidnap her son?’ John echoes faintly.
Sherlock just flounces off down the stairs.
***
47 minutes later, John is busy trying to phone Lestrade, chase after the suspect and stop Sherlock from stealing his gun all at the same time. It’s a hard task, especially sprinting at full pelt.
‘Hello Greg? It’s John– Leave it alone, Sherlock! We’re down at… the docks– Don’t even think about it, Sherlock, I’m warning you! Break-in, kidnapper apparently… Heading west…’
At this point, John decides that Lestrade now has enough information and hangs up to concentrate on his remaining two tasks.
‘Leave it out, Sherlock,’ he growls, trying to slap Sherlock’s hand away from the small of his back again.
‘Concentrate… on… running,’ Sherlock suggests.
He sounds surprisingly out of breath. John frowns for a second, all the while not losing sight of the man they’re pursuing. Then again, they haven’t run around like this for a couple of weeks so Sherlock’s probably out of practice. That would explain why John is leaving him behind a little. More than a little, actually.
Knowing that Sherlock will actually consider homicide if John lets the suspect get away because he slows down to wait for his friend, John doesn’t turn back to look at Sherlock again until he hears a crash and a muffled expletive.
‘You alright, Sherlock?’ he calls, unable to stop himself from skidding to a halt and spinning around.
The consulting detective is sprawled on the floor about 30 metres behind John. John gives up the suspect as a bad job and hurries back to his friend.
‘What are… you doing?’ Sherlock snarls at him as he approaches. He’s still lying on the floor. ‘Get after him!’
‘Plenty of time for that,’ John says reassuringly, crouching down next to Sherlock and getting his breath back. ‘You said he wasn’t planning the kidnapping for at least another four days. Are you alright?’
‘Of course I’m… alright,’ Sherlock tries to snap, but the effect is rather ruined by the heaving of his chest and the fact that he is staying rather closely acquainted with the ground.
‘What happened anyway?’ John asks, looking around from something which Sherlock could have fallen over.
‘Tripped,’ Sherlock mutters sullenly.
‘Over?’ prompts John, mildly amused.
‘Nothing in particular,’ the words seemed wrenched from Sherlock against his will. John disguises his grin, even though Sherlock’s position on the ground and the lack of light mean it’s not really necessary.
‘Any injuries?’ John queries, running his eye over Sherlock’s back and legs.
‘I’m fine,’ Sherlock’s teeth are gritted.
‘Just having a little nap there then, are we?’ John’s grinning again. He’ll need to check Sherlock over later but he shouldn’t have done himself much damage. He may have a scraped knee or something, but nothing more serious.
‘Shut up,’ Sherlock retorts. He’s finally getting his breath back. His chest has stopped heaving quite so dramatically.
***
At home, John puts his doctor’s hat on.
‘Jacket and shirt off,’ he says.
Sherlock, sulking on the sofa, glares at him.
‘Not necessary,’ he says stiffly.
‘You’ve got mud all over your face,’ John informs him. ‘And you’ve managed to tear one of your trouser legs. You’re a mess and you need to get changed at any rate, so go and put your pyjamas on and I’ll come and find you in the bathroom. I just want to check you haven’t bruised any ribs or anything.’
Something passes across Sherlock’s face and he pulls his suit jacket tighter around himself.
‘No,’ he says sullenly.
‘Go, now,’ John plants his feet on the floor and points along the corridor to Sherlock’s room and the bathroom. ‘Five minutes. I mean it.’
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet in his pyjamas and dressing gown, sulking hard.
‘Dressing gown off,’ John instructs, perched on the edge of the bath.
‘No,’ says Sherlock. John raises one eyebrow. Sherlock slowly undoes the tie of his dressing gown.
‘T-shirt off,’ John says patiently, when Sherlock’s dressing gown is a pile of material at his feet.
‘No,’ says Sherlock. John folds his arms. Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock grasps the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head.
‘Why are you wearing two t-shirts?’ John asks, confused. ‘It’s not cold in here at all.’
Sherlock’s expression could shatter glass.
‘Come on,’ John says impatiently. ‘Next one off. I’m only trying to help you, Sherlock. You went down hard onto concrete. You might have cracked a rib.’
‘Can’t I make that decision?’ Sherlock’s voice is snappish and acidic, but underneath that there’s something else. A little wobble. John frowns.
‘It’s this, or hospital,’ John says pleasantly.
The next t-shirt comes over Sherlock’s head and joins its friend on the floor. Sherlock glowers at John.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ John glares at Sherlock’s still covered chest. ‘This is ridiculous, Sherlock. How many layers are you wearing? We’re in the bathroom, not going to the North Pole. Off, all of them. Now. Do it.’
It might be two t-shirts that come up and over Sherlock’s head at once, or it might be three. John doesn’t notice.
He’s too busy retching silently into the bath.