Chapter Text
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Category: BBC Sherlock 2010 angsty fic
Rating: PG/R overall just for painful things that will crop up
Characters: Sherlock, John, and later Mycroft and a whole cast of OFC’s/OMC’s
Series: No
Spoilers: The unaired pilot – almost all of this isn’t canon but lines/themes from the ep will
probably crop up
Summary: The origin (in my Sherlock universe) of Sherlock’s hate relationship with food. John learns (the hard way) not to tease Sherlock about his lack of appetite. Another side to the apparently self-confident consulting detective is revealed.
Archive: Just tell me where it's going
Additional 'stuff': I’m happy to be corrected on medical detail in this fic. Set immediately after the end of the pilot episode. Mostly from John’s point of view with flashbacks – they’re in *italics*.
WARNING WARNING WARNING: Terrified teen Sherlock and unpleasant medical procedures in this fic
Title: Feeding the mind – Pt 1
Sherlock had seemed keen enough to eat at the Chinese he had apparently discovered near the flat when we were trying to escape from Lestrade.
Unfortunately, by the time we were seated in the restaurant - surprisingly busy given the late hour – his appetite seemed, once more, to have deserted him.
I wasn’t planning to order much – I’d eaten at Angelo’s and after everything that had happened in the last few hours, I didn’t have much of an appetite – but I wanted to encourage Sherlock so I kept badgering him until he ordered a single dish from the extensive menu while I ordered a light beansprout and prawn stir-fry.
After ten minutes, the sticky chicken and rice dish in front of Sherlock was both cold and thoroughly mixed. I’d watched him stir the sweetly-scented food round and round the plate. If he’d been a toddler, I’d have been tempted to tell him to stop playing with his food.
We kept up a more-or-less continuous flow of conversation as I ate and Sherlock pretended to. Finally, I just *had* to ask. I tried not to sound like a nervous parent or, as I’d told Lestrade earlier, Sherlock’s doctor.
“Sherlock…you must be hungry. Why don’t you eat?”
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Boring.”
“It’s not *boring* Sherlock, it’s essential.” Something in his expression told me I was treading on extremely thin ice and I wouldn’t have been surprised if Sherlock had simply got up and walked out. But I was, thankfully, wrong. Sherlock scowled and began, once more, to toy with his food. Still, even though he now knew I was watching him, not one morsel made it from his plate to his stomach.
**Sherlock…what a funny name…your parents must have been in a funny mood. Come along now…hop up on the scales and let me see just how much you weigh…**
Intending to tease Sherlock out of his stroppy mood, and concerned he was suffering some after-effects of the drug or the taxi-driver’s death, I picked up a forkful of my food and moved it towards Sherlock’s mouth. “Just one prawn…some beansprouts. Come on Sherlock…for me.”
**If you don’t eat, sweetie, they’ll put this tube in your nose…into your tummy and there’s only a choice of vanilla or strawberry flavors…come on…just a little mouthful, be a good boy now…**
Sherlock grabbed my wrist, pushing it away firmly, the food spilling onto the table and my lap. “Don’t ever do that again John!” His eyes blazed angrily and he got to his feet, pulling on his coat.
Sherlock’s reaction, or, rather, over-reaction, attracted stares and whispered comments from the other diners.
I was embarrassed, and my voice was louder and sharper than I intended. “Sherlock! Sit down…don’t be sill…”
But I was talking to myself. I was alone at the table and had to call the waiter over for the bill with everyone’s eyes on me.
Just as I’m getting into a cab and wondering if I should head to Baker Street or call Mike Stamford and ask him if I can kip on his sofa for a night, my phone rings. It’s Lestrade. Apparently Sherlock’s not answering and he confirms we can go home. The house has been cleared of dead bodies and forensic evidence. I think I’m supposed to be amused by his comment. I’m not. We don’t talk for long.
****************************************
Unsurprisingly, the flat was dark by the time I got home. There was no light coming from under Sherlock’s bedroom door and I was just about to head up to my room when something stopped me. The sounds coming from Sherlock’s room. Muffled but unmistakable. Sherlock was crying.
I wasn’t sure what to do and I stood outside the closed door for a couple of minutes but Sherlock didn’t quieten down and I had to do something.
“Sherlock…it’s John.” I felt a bit stupid identifying myself but I wanted to give him a minute or two to decide if he wanted me to leave him alone.
“What do you want?!” Sherlock’s voice was tired but angry.
“Just to talk…can I come in?”
“Why?”
Trying not to smile, I opened the door a fraction. “Because I wanted to say sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Sherlock was lying, fully dressed, on top of his bed, his back to me, curled into a tight ball.
“Sherlock…you have to eat…you’ll make yourself ill. And I’ll have to explain to Mrs Hudson why there’s another dead body in this flat.” My attempt at humor appeared to have fallen on fallow ground. Sherlock didn’t laugh. Or move. Or speak.
I moved over to the bed more for something to do than because I thought it would help. Sherlock seemed to sense the movement and he pulled himself upright, his eyes boring into me. “Why do you care?!”
I shrugged to give myself some time to compose a sensible answer. “Well…because I’m a doctor…Hippocratic oath and all that…and I’m your flatmate. I can’t afford the rent here on my own if you stop paying your half.”
That elicited at least a small ghost of a smile. It was momentary, but I’d seen it and Sherlock seemed a little calmer than he had minutes earlier, laying back on the heap of pillows behind his head.
Sherlock’s gaze fixed on the framed print of the periodic table on the wall opposite his bed. He was silent for a few seconds then: “When I was twelve we got a new school Matron. She made us parade around the school hall and as I walked past her, she asked the Headmaster if I’d been ill recently. He said no, I was just skinny. She sent for me before lunch and a couple of hours later I was on my way to the local hospital. She said I was ‘malnourished’.”
I tried to ignore the worsening twinge in my leg as I listened.
“The doctor examined me and agreed with her that I was too skinny. He sent me out of the room and I found out later that he’d phoned Mycroft. My brother gave him permission to do whatever he wanted.”
Sherlock’s voice tailed off and he pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, rocking slowly, his eyes fixed on a spot on the opposite wall, pupils dilated.
**Stupid boy! As if you could get away from here. The hospital’s miles from your school. Well, we’ll soon put a stop to your little escape attempts. Nurse!**
I didn’t have any choice. I’d read cases of people slipping into catatonic states as a result of traumatic memories. Ignoring the angry reaction of my leg to the movement, I climbed onto the bed and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders, shaking him. “Sherlock! It’s all right. Come on…look at me!”
**Mycroft! Please…take me back…I’ll stay at school…I’ll eat everything…please!!**
Suddenly Sherlock blinked several times, chest heaving with the effort of breathing, torso shaking. “John? What happened…I don’t remember…”
If I was concerned before, I was really panicking now. Sherlock was clearly in trouble but I knew he wouldn’t take kindly to me calling an ambulance. I reached for his wrist, intending to take his pulse but he howled as if my touch had burned his skin and rolled away, falling hard to the polished wooden floor.
End of Part One…