I Am Sher-Locked Up

Where It All Began

John

Sherlock is sitting at the table, staring at the blank computer screen in front of him. His breakfast lays untouched, two slices of blackberry jam toast and a hard boiled egg.
John notices. 

"Sherlock, are you working a case today?" John asks casually.

Sherlock starts a bit, snapping his eyes up to meet John's. "No, why?"

"Just wondering." John says. He hesitates a little while before asking what was really on his mind. "It's just that, well, you aren't eating, haven't done for the past few days, and--yes I know you don't eat on a case," he adds as Sherlock opens his mouth to interrupt. "But that's just the thing though, we aren't on a case, so why aren't you eating?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes slightly before asking, "Why do you care? Not affecting you one way or another how much or how little I eat."

John groans inwardly at his best friend's seeming inability to understand that others, unlike him, actually care about the ones they love. 

"Well, yes, I know it's not affecting me physically, but--"

"But what?" Sherlock interjects, narrowing his eyes more. 

"Well, I kinda have to notice Sherlock, I am your flat mate AND a doctor, I know when someone is underweight, I know when--"

"I am not underweight." Sherlock states in a deadly calm voice. "I am perfectly fine. Now if you would excuse me..." 

He gets up and strides purposefully to his violin and picks it up in one fluid motion, and before John can make a sound of protest, Sherlock is in his bedroom with the door shut and his music playing.

****

Sherlock

Sherlock plays a vigorous and aggressive tune on his violin, trying to stamp out the unaccustomed feeling of worry. 

Sherlock, you really screwed up this time, he almost found out, he almost figured it out, he could have found out...

Sherlock continues playing angrily, ignoring the broken bow hairs snapping and catching in the strings. He is interrupted; however, by a hesitant tap-tap-tap on his bedroom door. He plays on. 

"Sherlock?" John's voice pipes worriedly from outside his room. "Coming in now, Sherlock, okay?"

Sherlock ignores him, continuing to play more and more violently on his instrument.
John appears in front of the taller man, trying to catch the eye which studiously avoids his.

"Sherlock." John grabs the scroll of the violin, pulling it down so Sherlock is forced to look at him. 

Sherlock glares at him, yanking his violin back. 

"Sherlock!" John shouts, forcibly taking the violin out of his thin hands. 

"WHAT, John?" Sherlock growls irritably. 

"I want to know why you're not eating."

Shitshitshitshitshitshiitttttttttttt

"I don't have time for eating, John, I'm much too busy--"

"Busy with what, Sherlock, exactly?" John was not buying it. "We aren't on a case, we aren't doing anything--"

"There's the problem right there," Sherlock mutters under his breath.

"--and there is absolutely no excuse not to eat!" John finishes angrily. "Come now, let's make you some yoghurt, I'll put some brown sugar in it so it's not so plain...." 

Sherlock lets John lead him into the kitchen, only half listening to his ramblings about food. 

Food. Such a wretched word. Full of calories and trans fat and every bite adds pounds to his already less than desirable figure.

"...and when we're all done we'll put on a bit of tea--"

"More like a bit of weight" Sherlock says to himself, a little too loudly.

"What's that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock puts on his calm demeanor, even though alarm bells and sirens are going off in his head. "Nothing. Just muttering to myself is all."

"Oh. Right then. Okay, so here's some yoghurt," he thrusts some creamy white substance in a bowl topped with brown sugar into his arms, "and some tea," he pushes a hot cup into Sherlock's less than eager hands. 

John looks at Sherlock apprehensively, worry slightly clouding his features.
Sherlock slowly sits, slowly lifts the spoon to his lips, s l o w l y puts it in his mouth, and s l o w e r still closes his mouth, and...swallows. He tries not to cringe as he feels the hated food slide down his throat, cool and creamy and full of regret.
John seems extremely relieved at Sherlock's apparent accepting of the food, and, wholly satisfied with his behavior, leaves Sherlock alone with his empty plate and full stomach. 

"Going to go get some milk, 'kay Sherlock?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, he instead waits until he hears the door latch catch, counts to ten and...

He bolts from his seat into his bathroom, locking the door behind him and jamming his finger down his throat frantically, trying desperately to rid his stomach of every molecule of food, every fat-producing calorie disguised as sustenance, and once he is satisfied that no trace of food is left in his body, he closes his eyes and falls asleep with a smile on his cracked and vomit-stained lips.

***
A/N

Hey guys, so this is my second book I'm working on, also a fanfiction as you can obviously deduce, and I just want feedback, positive or negative. Even if it's just to say you've read it and perhaps enjoyed it, I could use a vote or comment just so I know whether or not to continue writing. Thanks y'all!

-Hannah