Chapter Text
John stirred. The bedroom had gone dark with night. Streetlamps glowed softly through the curtains.
His sweet boy was curled up against his chest, still sleeping. John stroked his hair and placed Bee back in his arms. He was glad Sherlock had liked his present so much. He thought about planning a trip to an apiary. He loved Sherlock so much.
Sighing, John quietly slid out of bed, tucking the covers around Sherlock. He headed to the kitchen, taking note of the experiment Sherlock had left on the table, a notebook laying open to a page of notes scribbled in a spiky, hurried hand. John considered the notes, stroking the page. Sherlock was so smart, so exacting, so precise and clear-cut.
Time for a bit of dinner. What would Sherlock be able to eat? Something very gentle. Perhaps some potatoes, perhaps some salmon. Pistachios, maybe. John wanted to get something with calories in his boy.
He stared at the chart on the fridge. It read, “Sherlock must eat at least 2 meals per day!” in purple crayon. He touched the Winnie the Pooh stickers noting which days Sherlock had succeeded. He hadn’t succeeded very often.
It wasn’t just the meal skipping John was worried about. It was the number of calories Sherlock managed in general. Lately, it had been too few, and Sherlock, already slim, had lost a bit too much weight.
He fixed tea and sat at the table, flipping through a medical journal. He smiled at an article on the effects of arsenic on nail health, bookmarking it for Sherlock.
221B felt small fragile, the blue kitchen light pressing back against the dark engulfing night. The heat radiating from his mug warmed his fingers and he clutched it, huddling into the soft scent of milk and chai.
Alright, then. He took two salmon fillets out from the freezer and began steaming them. A bowl of pistachios. He began to boil the potatoes for the mash.
“John.”
John jumped at the low voice. Sherlock had crept down and was standing at the kitchen entrance, clutching a tartan blanket around his shoulders like a shroud.
“You’re up?” he asked.
“Obviously,” Sherlock replied.
John grinned. “Shut it, you know what I meant.”
“I’ve slept enough,” Sherlock said. “…And.” He hesitated. “I can’t eat that.”
John considered the thin man before him. “All right. But I want you to try to eat something for dinner. You’ve only had two pancakes today.”
“Yes,” Sherlock huffed. “Plus the butter and the honey you slathered all over them! Those pancakes must have been a thousand calories!”
“Still not enough for a six-foot man.”
Sherlock’s mouth tightened. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll cook if you insist on making us eat.”
John sighed. “Are you doing all right? I’ve noticed, you know.”
“I’m fine,” Sherlock said. To his credit, he didn’t deny that there was anything to notice.
Sherlock removed the tartan blanket from his shoulders and draped it on the back of a chair. John tried not to stare at the way Sherlock’s hip bones were visible through his low-slung pajama bottoms. He knew bringing it up wouldn’t do any good. Especially not now that Sherlock seemed to be very adult. The sharpness had returned.
Instead of potatoes, Sherlock had gotten them each a slice of toast. That was fine with John, if that was what Sherlock could manage. Sherlock started to pick at the salmon, watching it flake apart at the tines of his fork. He pushed it away.
“I can’t eat this,” he declared.
John wasn’t surprised. “Why not?”
Sherlock struggled with cracking open a pistachio. “It’s going to make my stomach extend,” he whispered frantically, “I can’t chew it. I can’t digest it. My stomach already feels large. It’s huge.”
“Okay,” John said soothingly, placing a hand on Sherlock’s. “Can you try some toast?”
Sherlock stared at the toast with contempt, then reached down. The toast felt spongey in his hands. His fingertips pressed into it. Before he knew it, he had ripped it to shreds.
He got up, pacing the kitchen. He picked at the bandage John had placed over his self-harm injury. Then he suddenly deflated.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “This was easier when I lived alone.”
“Don’t be sorry,” John said. “I’m glad someone is looking after you now.”
“I’m not,” Sherlock said. “Not if you have to witness this. It’s distressing for you.”
“Maybe, but only because I love you,” John said.
Sherlock grimaced. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
John watched the thin man cross to the fridge and take out a jar of peanut butter.
“Two spoons,” Sherlock said. “Then I’m done.”
“Maybe some fruit with it?” John suggested solicitously.
“We’ll see,” Sherlock said.
John watched his sweetheart lean against the sink and carefully spoon out and flatten two tablespoons of peanut butter. Sherlock licked the peanut butter slowly, as if taking small bites would make more sense to make up for how calorific the food was.
Then he was done. He threw the spoon into the sink, jammed the peanut butter back in the fridge, and moaned. He pulled at his hair, sinking onto the sofa.
John sighed, packing the salmon and toast into the fridge. “Come here,” he whispered. And he swooped down and gathered his sweet man into his arms.
Sherlock sighed into John’s shoulder.
“It’s been a hard month, hasn’t it,” John whispered. He stroked his sweet Sherlock’s back.
“I feel like passing out just walking through the Yard,” Sherlock admitted.
John wasn’t surprised at this admission. Frankly he was astounded that Sherlock could physically sustain any of his work. “What’s stopping you from eating, sweetheart?”
Sherlock relaxed even further into the words, sagging against John’s shoulder. “Mm. Don’t know.”
“It doesn’t feel good?” John prodded.
“I can feel the food like congealed blood in my veins. Sloshing about. Just coagulating.”
“Hmmm.”
Then Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft wants me to attend Mummy’s birthday in a few weeks.”
John looked up at Sherlock in surprise. “I didn’t know she was still alive.”
“I generally pretend she isn’t,” Sherlock said.
John smiled. “What’s she like? I know a bit about your dad—” Sherlock shuddered—“but you never mentioned your mum, so I assumed…”
“She’s. Overbearing,” Sherlock began. “Um. You know, very… she wasn’t always like this. Early on, she was just as bad as he was.”
John frowned. If Sherlock still couldn’t put his experiences into words… He rubbed Sherlock’s back encouragingly. “So, are you going?”
Sherlock snorted. “Not if I can help it. But Mycroft will probably send some of his minions to take me away again.”
“Do you usually go to her birthday?”
“Mm. No. But it’s her seventieth. And Mycroft says she’s expecting me.”
“What will her party be like?”
“Oh, probably… I don’t know. Tea and cake. A game of cricket on the lawn. Whatever out of touch old ladies do.”
“If Mycroft’s involved, it’s probably going to be posh,” John agreed.
“If I have to go, will you come with me?”
John looked down at his love, who was looking very shy. “Of course, I’ll come!” he said. “I’ll hold your hand through the whole thing.”
Sherlock smiled a bit at that, squeezing John’s hand. “It’s at the old house. I can’t believe she’s still living there.”
John wanted to ask if Sherlock’s father had beaten Sherlock’s mother, too. What Mycroft’s involvement was. The questions wanted to tumble off his tongue. But he bit his lip. Instead, he said, “It must have been weighing on you.”
“Yes,” his sweet love admitted. “Mycroft has been pestering me.”
“I can imagine he has,” John said wryly. “He has a way of doing that.”
Sherlock laughed. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For, you know.”
“Anytime,” John smiled. “I love you.”
“You too,” Sherlock smiled shyly and kissed his cheek. “Daddy.”
John squeezed his love’s hand. They would take it one day at a time.