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After Lily is born, Sherlock doesn't see much of John and Mary for several months. When he does, it's just quick afternoon visits during her nap or an early dinner when he brings them all a takeaway. It isn't until Lily is sleeping through most of her nights and Mary and John are no longer perpetually exhausted that Mary invites Sherlock over for a proper dinner with wine and sitting. She's made a roast chicken and some of the cheese and onion bread Sherlock likes, as well as mashed potatoes, several vegetables, and gravy. Like John, Sherlock loads his plate to full capacity and tucks into it enthusiastically.
John watches him for a moment, a bemused expression on his face.
"What?" Sherlock asks in an irritated tone between bites of honey-glazed carrots.
"You're eating more."
Sherlock eats some potatoes before replying, "What do you mean?"
"You were always one of those people who doesn't care much about food, doesn't waste time thinking about it. Food is fuel. You eat when you need to, not for pleasure. But since you got back, you've been eating regularly. You've even had cravings. The closest I'd ever seen you come to having a food-related craving was telling me where we were going for dinner."
"Hmpf," is all Sherlock has to say as he cuts into his chicken.
"You've put on at least a stone since you got back. Not that you didn't need it, mind you."
"If you say so." Sherlock swipes his bite of chicken through the gravy and pops in his mouth. He butters a slice of bread as he chews, ignoring John's piercing gaze.
"You're eating the way you used to after a case, like you haven't had a proper meal in... Oh, Christ."
***
Podgorica was one of the ugliest cities Sherlock had ever seen and a strange capital for one the most beautiful countries he had ever visited. So it was rather fitting that it was there that everything went to hell and that he not only fell out of contact, but was also mugged in Stara Varoš. He lost his last few Euros and was left with no means of obtaining more.
He'd had to sleep rough more than once since his Fall, but this was the first time it wouldn't be a choice and that he couldn't see a way out or to do something so basic as feed himself.
In his old life, he'd often gone a week to ten days without a 'proper' meal, but while still silencing his growling stomach with biscuits, overly sweetened tea, and the odd slice of toast with beans or piece of fruit when needed. He didn't starve himself. He just didn't want to expend the energy to think about food when he was overcome with the Work. Sherlock had never had to worry about food before. It usually appeared magically in the flat, but if it didn't, it was everywhere he looked outside. So this situation wasn't one he had thought to plan for.
Now that he had no money, food was elusive and he was going on five days of absolutely nothing. He was past feeling properly hungry, but he was weak and shaky and the gnawing in his gut hurt. Because of his situation, he couldn't try to infiltrate the local homeless network to find out how they managed and if there were any soup kitchens. He had to avoid people and drawing attention to himself. Stealing was out of the question as it was too risky; an arrest could blow his cover.
When the answer came, it was too obvious. He'd spent yet another long evening wandering the streets trying to keep warm and looking for a safe spot to sleep for a few hours in an abandoned building when he came to an alley full of skips. There, he noticed a homeless woman poking through them, pulling out food and sorting out still edible scraps.
There were skips like these all over the city. He headed to the next alley over and near a restaurant, he found a skip that was nearly overflowing. He ripped at a bag with his dirty nails and found food, some of it still warm, all disgustingly mixed together. His stomach roiled for a moment, but he swallowed down the bile and continued digging. He sorted through it all carefully until he found some rolls that didn't seem too badly off. He used the light of a streetlamp to help him pull off soggy and dirtied bits, leaving him with several mouthfuls of still soft bread.
They went down well, settling comfortably in his belly.
The next morning, he went to the skips beside the supermarkets at Delta City. The one by the Super VOLI yielded treasures beyond imagining. There was day old baking, barely stale and still in the wrapper; fruit with bad spots he could eat easily eat around; even cheese and dented tinned goods. He put as much as he could carry into his pack and then took off briskly, not stopping to partake of his feast until he was in another neighbourhood.
Then, it was time to head to Belgrade. Now that he knew where to get food, he could get his strength back, but that would take time. He hoped to make the journey in ten days, but planned for fifteen as he doubted he could keep up the punishing pace of forty kilometres a day over mountainous terrain in his current condition. The timing should be just about perfect, actually. He should still be able to complete his last mission, but he would have been out of touch long enough that another operative might have been sent out to look for him. Perhaps he would have even formulated an extraction plan, something that had been vague at best during discussions of the Serbian portion of the mission.
And then, maybe, just maybe, he could go home to London. As he walked, he made a list of everything he wanted to eat again, and in what order. Rather than an exercise in torture, it served as motivation. Firmly planting one foot in front of the other, ignoring the aches in his joints, he thought of chips and puttanesca, Sunday roast and scones. And then he ate stale bread and bruised apples. Just one more thread to break and it would be over and he could have those chips. With vinegar and salt.
***
"It's easy to take food for granted when it's all around you, John. And even easier to realise how much you took it for granted when it's not."
John pushes his plate away. "How long?"
"How long what?"
"How long did you go without food?"
"When?"
"Sherlock, stop evading the question!"
Sherlock finally puts down his fork and looks squarely at John. "It depended. It was especially bad near the end."
John lets out a sigh and looks at Mary, her expression mirroring the deep sadness he feels. "It wasn't a lark, was it?"
"No, it was not."
"I think it's time I heard the whole story, if you still want to share it."
Sherlock lets out a long breath before nodding. "It's going to take a while."
"I think I owe you that time."
"Can I finish my dinner first?"
"Yes." John laughs and brings his plate closer.