Maintaining a Personal Life

Chapter Sixteen

"You're being ridiculous. Starving yourself over the death of a family pet is childish, don't you think?" For some reason Mycroft was always an adult in Sherlock's memories, even those that harkened back to their childhood. He had certainly always seemed that way, especially when Sherlock was eight years old and Mycroft had towered over him.

"It's only been four days," Sherlock replied petulantly, his arms drawn over his knees as he stared out the picture window that he was currently huddled against. "Humans can go nearly a month without eating. It's been documented."

"You're not Gandhi, Sherlock," Mycroft chided from where he stood a few paces away, looking down at Sherlock with his hands clasped behind his back. "You're an undersized child. I give you ten days at most—seven before Mummy takes you to hospital."

"I won't go to hospital!! I won't!" Sherlock burst out, his small hands clenching into fists as he buried his face in his knees.

"She'd have taken you this morning if I hadn't convinced her that you were sneaking food at night. But you haven't been, have you?"

"Go away!" Sherlock shouted into his legs. "What do you care, anyway? You never loved him. You don't love anything."

Mycroft crouched down beside Sherlock, studiously not touching him even though Sherlock could feel the ghost of his breath ruffling the top of Sherlock's unruly hair. Mycroft's voice was quiet, almost gentle, even as it dripped with distaste, "Love has left you incapacitated over the death of a dog. What can we deduce about love?"

"It's horrible," Sherlock sniffed, fighting back tears.

"It's a weakness. One neither of us can afford. Do you want to be weak, Sherlock? Do you want to be ordinary?"

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock was hunched against a brick wall behind him, doubled over to his knees, when the scenery around him abruptly surged back into focus. His mobile was on the ground where he'd presumably dropped it, and from it a tinny voice was calling his name.

"Sherlock? Are you there? Where are you? Sherlock!"

"John?" Sherlock barely recognized his own voice, which had become very quiet and small. Stooping down, his hands unsteadily scrabbled at his phone before snatching it up, and he cleared his throat before speaking again. Even so, his voice was still dangerously unsteady as he asked urgently, "John, are you alright?"

"Fine, I'm fine," John said, his voice beautifully steady and whole and alive. "I can't say the same for 'Nate', though. He's got a nasty concussion and I might have—yeah, no I definitely broke his arm."

"That's a shame," Sherlock said with a weak huff of a laugh, still leaning against the wall even as he pushed to his feet.

"It's really not. He should have known better than to point a gun at a retired soldier when he didn't even know how to hold it properly. Listen, where are you? Are you out of that bloody flat?"