Skinny Love: A Johnlock Fanfiction

Chapter Two

"Tears come streaming down your face when you lose something you can't replace." ~ 'Fix You' by Coldplay

John

The week following the incident was painfully normal.

Sherlock solved cases, and John blogged about it. Normal.

Life was still unpredictable. Sherlock's acid experiment splattered the kitchen walls, and the handle of John's favorite kettle broke. A ninja broke into the flat, and a bombed letter almost destroyed the entire building. Normal.

Yet there was an uncomfortable tension between the flatmates. Ever since the cheesecake incident, Sherlock distanced himself. He refused to speak when they were not on a case. Of course, it was normal for Sherlock to mope around the flat in a fit of boredom. But usually he would loudly complain or do anything to get John's attention. This silence was unnatural, and seemed to suck all the air from the room.

John spent most of his free time with old mates or at the office. Sherlock would never acknowledge his coming and goings.

Normality was excruciating.

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John woke up with the sound of screaming ringing in his ears. He waited for it to stop, but the shrieks were not the ghosts of a war nightmare. The screams were echoing around the flat, flooding John's empty room with suffering.

Sherlock was in danger.

John's heart thumped against his rib cage as he raced out of his room and down the stairs.

"Sherlock! SHERLOCK!" He called out, scanning the flat for his friend. When John finally saw him, his blood ran cold.

Sherlock was skinny. No, that was an understatement. Sherlock was deadly skinny.

He was sitting cross legged on the sitting room rug, wearing nothing but pajama bottoms. His bare back was facing John, a pale sliver in the surrounding darkness. His curved spine was showing, each vertebrae poking out of his skin. His ribs were like bony wings extending from his spinal cord. His shoulder blades were sharp and harsh, seeming too large for his thin frame. His elbows stuck out like awkward knots between bones.

He looks like a prisoner of war, John immediately thought. Not like a well-off man living in London. Not like a genius. Not like the consulting detective. Not like Sherlock Holmes.

John took a step into the room, and Sherlock whipped around to face him. His ashen face could have belonged to a dead man. His cheekbones, usually thick and picturesque, now looked like blades protruding from his sunken face. His dark curls fell limply on his forehead, seeming brittle and dull. His eyes were the color of a rainstorm in the middle of winter: Dreary and unwelcoming.

"John," Sherlock's voice was fragile and unfamiliar. "Go back to sleep."

"I heard you scream," John managed to say. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, turning back around. John winced as he saw his spine ripple under the pale flesh.

"Why were you screaming?" John asked.

"Leave me alone," Sherlock seethed, his shoulders tensing.

"No," John said firmly, walking farther into the room. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing!" Sherlock cried, his deep voice cracking.

"Stop it, Sherlock," John gritted his teeth, trying to stay strong. "You're sick. We need to find help."

"I'M FINE!" Sherlock hollered, clenched fists covering his face.

"No, you aren't," John said, approaching his friend and placing a hand on his shoulder. It was like touching a porcelain statue.

"John," Sherlock choked. He suddenly turned and threw his arms around John's waist. He collapsed into crushing sobs. "Please... please don't leave!"

Without thinking, John sank down and took the shaking man in his arms. "Shhhh, I'm here," John whispered, stroking Sherlock's ebony curls. "I'm staying right here with you."

Sherlock just cried, his burning tears soaking through John's shirt.

"I'm so... so sorry."

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Hello, there! Sorry for the feels. On the bright side, there's more to come! (*evil grin*)

Thank you so much for reading! Please vote and comment! I'd love to know what you think! ~Meg