Lines and Numbers (Johnlock)

Chapter 4

Hey guys. Uh, definitely a trigger warning? Be careful with this chapter a whole ton of stuff goes on. Long chapter.

He woke up once we were home. Of course, I'd contacted Mycroft as soon as we were home, and he'd arrived in a few minutes.

Mycroft was pacing in front of Sherlock's bed as we waited for him to wake up. His eyes fluttered open slowly and he looked around. Mycroft noticed and, silently, sat down, burying his face in his hands. Everything was silent for a few minutes as Mycroft and I looked at Sherlock, and he looked at the both of us.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said. Just that. It was all he could say. I was sitting there, thinking. What in the hell could have made him pass out. Blood loss- no. Vitamin deficiency? How? Undereat-

The coffee. The long periods in his room. Skipping meals. The-

"John, why didn't you tell me Sherlock wasn't eating enough?" Mycroft said. He must've figured it out. Of course he did, he's as smart as Sherlock!

I shook my head, running a hand through my hair. "I... I didn't notice. I mean, I didn't think..."

Mycroft sighed again and looked up to Sherlock, who looked down. I noticed all the symptoms I hadn't seen before, the signs I wrote off as "just Sherlock". His hair was thinner and dry, he was even skinnier than he had been before, and he wore his coat constantly, yet still shivered. Then there was the skipping meals, going to his room (probably to exercise, or something), and so much more...

"Sherlock," I whispered, and he looked at me timidly. "I'm so sorry I didn't notice."

He looked to Mycroft, confusion in his eyes. "What? Why isn't he angry?"  was probably what he was thinking at that moment.  People with anorex... with whatever he probably had didn't understand why people weren't angry at them, usually. They didn't tell people about their struggles because they thought others would be angry about it.

Mycroft had gotten up and was pacing again. "You're not trying to lose weight again?" Sherlock joked. Mycroft didn't respond at all, except to glance at Sherlock to be sure he was joking. Sherlock smiled slightly, his same old self, but sick. So sick.

This is a top killer from mental disorders.

I got up and walked to Sherlock's bedside. He weakly looked up at me, and I could feel the tears threatening to spill over. The concern in his eyes told me he could see it, too. "God, Sherlock. No. I can't have you go again," I whispered, leaning down and hugging him. His gangly arms wrapped around me, and he hugged me back silently as my tears fell. A door closing outside broke us apart, and I was aware of Mycroft sitting on one of the chairs awkwardly. Two pairs of footsteps made their way around, and I heard a woman's voice say, "Hmph. They don't really keep their place that neat, do they?"

Mycroft looked up, a smattering off emotions running across his face, then wiping off as quickly as they had come. "I had to, Sherlock. I couldn't not tell them. They have the right to know."

Sherlock was staring at Mycroft with a look of anger and resent lingering on his face. I had no idea what was happening, but stayed by his bedside.

"Hello, Mum. Dad," Mycroft said as an old couple walked into the room. "Mikey! Thank you for calling us. Oh, Sherlock," Sherlock's mother rushed forward and hugged him, then gently let go. Sherlock looked awkward, his arms pinned to his side. "Hello."