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This experiment was proving to raise more questions than it answered. There was just so much... variety out there.
What if Sherlock wasted all of his appetite on sweets when he was missing out on savory dishes?
(He wasn't really.)
What if he never discovered what his full capacity really felt like?
(He did. Once he went too far, results were less than pleasant.)
No, those questions and all the others that sprang up (Is speed eating more satisfactory? Or should a stuffing last all day?) could not go unanswered. And so Sherlock expanded his experiment, began tabulating his responses and observations on secret spreadsheets hidden in invisible folders on his computer. As might be expected that wasn't the only thing that had expanded as the first month rolled around. He noted with some interest that his stomach had grown quite... soft. the dark-haired teen could now grab a hearty pinch of tender skin from around his navel. It seemed to pooch a bit too, when he did up his tighter jeans or trousers. He admired the way it rounded out over the hem of his pajama bottoms when he tugged them down a bit and tightened the drawstring. He'd turn sideways, slipping a long fingered hand down it and then up again, trying to gauge with just his eyes if it were actual weight gain or just bloating remaining from the night before. His shirts looked snugger too. Even the loose t-shirts. He loved stretching and watching them ride up around his middle so that his navel peeked out. He'd give it a pat in welcome, and then find heat creeping into his face.
One night he realised that all the evidence certainly seemed to suggest that the enjoyment of eating and stuffing had a directly proportional relationship to his weight. By increasing one, the other should increase as well. The teen thought a moment, imagining his clothes tighter, his belly softer and rounder, poking out, maybe jiggling a little... Sherlock wet his lips, feel a shiver run through him, then he tugged down his shirt and padded to the kitchen for a little midnight snack. (It turned into nearly half a loaf of bread and quite a lot of Nutella.)
But there was another change that came with that epiphany. Sherlock began to notice that his mother's eye seemed to linger on him, on his middle in particular. Her cooking was as good as ever, though Sherlock detected a significant dip in the amount of meat and potato meals which was compensated for with rice and leaner proteins. He didn't mind. Quite often he was still able to reach his calorie target simply by eating a bit more. His capacity had grown after all, and a trouser button stealthily undone under the table went unnoticed by his fellow diners. Though Mycroft seemed rather smug lately. Sherlock was ignoring him however. The elder Holmes brother had returned from uni this time with 20 pounds extra and a distinctly irksome interest in Sherlock's day to day activities.
Quite often it seemed, Mycroft would take a stroll through the living room where Sherlock sat reading and munching on biscuits and milk (Skim now, his mother seemed to have stopped buying the whole variety for some reason.)
"Hello, Sherlock."
"Go away, Mycroft."
"Enjoying yourself?" came another unwelcome drawl from a distinctly annoying older brother.
Sherlock only rolled his eyes and took another large bite of crumbly biscuit. He was planning to make it through the entire box this time.
A most unwelcomed hand joined his own as he reached for another. Sherlock scowled up at his brother.
"And how's the diet then?" Sherlock asked pointedly, shifting the box from Mycroft's reach. He felt a gleeful bubble rise in his chest as his brother paused midbite.
"Fine," said Mycroft firmly, chewing his biscuit neatly and then swallowing it down, "I might even be able to pass on a few tips. Did you happen to hear Mummy and Father talking earlier?"
Sherlock ignored him again.
"They were discussing your appetite. They seem to think you're growing rather chubby."
"Hmmph," was all Sherlock deigned reply. Then he shoved the remaining box under his arm and marched off to his room, slamming the door behind him.
Mycroft's silky voice was at the door not a moment later, muffled through the wood.
"I'm only trying to help, Sherlock. After chubby, well, fat is just around the bend." Footsteps announced his exit.
The younger Holmes brother shoved another three biscuits into his mouth, then flopped back, his hands rubbing his belly slowly. For Godssake he lived with such dull people...
Chubby? Fat? The words stirred a small flutter of worry in his chest. But if this... it felt good. Not wrong. Very very right. He rubbed his stomach again with a soft groan as the words echoed in his mind. He wondered if there would be an exponential growth in enjoyment once he reached 'Fat'. He huffed a breath again and his hand slid lower.
His progress however was hindered. As much as he hated to admit it, Mycroft had been honest with him. Their father began suggesting Sherlock take up sport or join Mycroft on his evening walks. (He only accepted because he happened to know that his brother's route tended to encircle a bakery or two.) His mother offered him only salads. His favorite biscuits and desserts disappeared. Sherlock miserably tried to calculate how he might continue to gain with the newly limited resources but every problem left him growling in frustration as his stomach whined and shrank.
He tried going out to buy his own greasy takeaway but he simply didn't have the funds.
Then it dawned on him. There was that one boy in his Maths class last year. What had his name been?
They'd had the same lunch hour and after Sherlock had spent several of them reading, the boy had begun bringing him sandwiches, which he nibbled at occasionally. Sherlock straightened and logged on to his computer, trying to find this boy. He had been a year or two above him at most. The dark haired teen grinned as he found him. Good. Still the same school. He might be able to help. He even looked a bit like a feeder.