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"Mycroft, that sounds lovely" Sherlock sat on his mothers lap as the party guests watched his brother play the piano. The guests smiled as they enjoyed the youths piano playing. He watched his mother light up when he played. He wanted to play his instrument to make him happy with him.
"Dance monkey dance!" he exclaimed as the song was just about to end. He stared right at his big brother when getting popped in the mouth for his remark. His words were sparse, he didn't like to talk much. But when he did it was usually far from nice.
"Sherlock!" his mother scolded "don't be so rude to your brother" she looked at him with those eyes that made him want to cry. The party guests started to silent themselves to watch what was happening before them. Sherlock's face heated up, on the verge of a screaming fit again.
Her face heated up with embarrassment "boys, you know how they are" she chided. "You want to play with your Bubba don't you?" She asked the little boy. She only used this voice with him when others were around, why change your composure for others? He didn't understand.
Sherlock shook his head no, seeing the look of pride on his older brother's face. He nestled himself in her lap again, gripping her blouse. She nudged him again "Go on, click the piano keys Sherbet" she pointed. The other guests started encouraging him to. He didn't know how to play! Why were they making him play it? He'd just started playing his violin, why can't he play that?
Sherlock whimpered but got off her lap and shuffled over to the grand piano. He tugged at Mycroft's pant leg and made a grunting noise, rolling his head back.
His mother looked embarrassed again "Words, no grunts" she scolded. Mycroft made a motion to pick him up to drag him on to the bench. The sound of their mummy's snap stopped him mid lift.
"Mummy- he doesn't know how to play, can't you let him go play with his Legos upstairs?" Mycroft looked sympathetic at his little brother.
"Make him use his words Myc, he wants to disrupt you then he better be better then you" she leaned back in her chair and snagged a cigarette with her yellow stained finger tips.
Mycroft's look of pride was wiped off, he looked nervous. Sherlock noticed the way his brows were frowned. "Come on Sher, say you'd like to come up and play, I'll play Legos with you if you do" he simply wanted to get this over and done with.
Sherlock struggled for a moment before saying "up….please, we can play". He was brought up on the bench and hands placed on the keys.
The party guests watched in amusement, having another glass of hennessy while they watched the little boy struggle with pounding piano keys.
Sherlock's heart pounded in his chest, so many eyes watching him. He was clicking the wrong keys. Why did it not sound as good as Mycrofts playing? This was playing at all! This was clicking buttons and he was losing
"Enough" his mother demanded "see? You aren't good at it, you will not be good at it". She took another drag of her cigarette. "So next time you want to be a smart Alec, think if you're good at it".
The little boy started to kick his legs. His heart pounded louder. Everything was loud and his clothes were itchy. He scooted close to his brother for comfort, hugging him despite being so angry and frustrated at him.
He screamed. Mycroft picked him up over his shoulder and marched off with him. He was talking to him, Sherlock didn't know what he was saying. He just screamed louder and clenched for dear life.
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Boredom. Utter boredom
Sherlock picked up his phone for the umpteenth time to check any new messages from Lestrade. Any new messages from John. New emails from clients. Trending news in London, Lancaster, hell even Dublin. Absolutely nothing.
Improbable, someone out there is being murdered or tortured in some sort of city. He needed to find the case. He kept scrolling his phone.
Step step step.
Clink
Step
Clink
Step
Sherlock felt a pound in his chest. He looked at the clock, 2pm was Improbable that Mrs Hudson was bringing him tea. The clinking noise put him on high alert. It was definitely the sound of a fork or spoon in a bowl. She was going to make him eat something again.
He threw his phone across the flat and lunged for his seat.
Step
Clink
He whipped open John's laptop and put in the easy pass code, Rosie's birthdate. He got into Google and started typing away.
On cue the door opened, the sweet old lady walked in "Sherlock, I made you some-" he didn't even let her finish the sentence.
"No thank you I'm very busy you can set it over there" he vaguely gestured to a spot where he'd left the last plate she gave him. "Very busy" he repeated.
She frowned when seeing the untouched meal "you didn't eat it" she commented and swapped out the plates.
"Good observation Mrs Hudson now please leave" he heard her footsteps get closer to him till she was right behind him.
She put her hand on the lid of the laptop and shut it "You're sifting through cold cases for another case to solve". Sherlock looked at her, she didn't hold malice like his own mother would have. Instead her features were caring but concerned. "Come get some chips with me?"
He leaned back in the chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I said I'm not hungry" he told her quietly. "I don't have anything to solve, I'm not running around town, I don't want anything".
"You need to have something, you didn't touch last nights dinner" she scolded lightly. "Come with me to get chips, it's better than whatever soup I spent my time making with my arthritic hands, down in the basement with that stove".
Sherlock looked over at what she'd brought him. He smiled lightly "Mrs Hudson that's a can of Campbell soup you put in a mug with saltines".
They sat in silence before giggling amongst themselves. She playfully swatted his shoulder and beckoned him to get up and go get chips with her.
She grabbed a coat and handed it to him so they could head off. He decided there was no use fighting it. Better head off with her. Sherlock slipped the coat on and tried to ignore the gnawing pain in his stomach. He could ignore it well, he was used to it. He liked it. The constant unyielding pain was a reminder that he was here. It reminded him he was doing a good job and winning.
"I'll pay, you order and i'll find us a nice booth" Mrs Hudson, bless her heart handed him some money and turned on her heel to find then a table.
Sherlock didn't like this place very much. He looked at the menu overhead as he waited in line. His stomach churned when he saw the numbers in small print after every meal listed. Disgusting.
"I'll take one order of fish and chips, vinegar on the side. And um…" sausage rolls had about 230… But what if this was battered in buttermilk? It could have way more than that. "A sausage roll, just one".
"Taking your Nana for lunch?" The employee asked from behind the counter, uncrumpling the bill Sherlock haphazardly tossed his way. "Mothers day next week". Sherlock was very well aware when mothers day was.
"Seemed like a pleasant day to take her out of the house" he grabbed his change. Sherlock stepped away from the counter and grabbed several napkins, stuffed in his pockets while waiting for their food.
He sat across from Mrs Hudson, handing her the basket. "Vinegar on the side, just like you like it". Sherlock smiled a little bit, it wasn't often he and Mrs Hudson went out. He quite enjoyed her company, maybe he should take her out next week. Just not anywhere that involves food.
Taking the mumsie out to lunch or dinner or brunch was cliche. So was going for a cup of coffee- She'd insist he got a croissant if they did that. What if he took her to the zoo? Mrs Hudson did love animals-
"Sherlock" She interrupted his train of thought. He looked back at her, waiting for her to finish talking. "Aren't you going to eat your roll?".
He looked down at the monstrosity of oils and bread in front of him. Worst case scenario it was 300. He was doing so well with his fast. He cut it into three pieces and took a bite.
He didn't deserve to have this. He hadn't earned it. Couldn't even do a 3 day fast. The first thought in his head after getting swallowed was how to slip off and purge this without her noticing? He looked up at his land lady who seemed relieved that he'd eaten some of it. He took more and more bites of the roll till it was gone. He wanted more, his body screamed at him that the roll wasn't enough. He stayed planted in his seat lest this turn into a binge.
Sherlock anxiously tapped his hand on the table, letting her talk and talk. Occasionally he'd chime in with some new case information. He glanced at the clock, ten minutes it had been sitting inside him. He felt so full and hated it.
Another older woman came walking up and leaned over their table "Well if it isn't Martha Hudson!" She exclaimed.
Mrs Hudson looked at her with excitement and got up to give her a hug. Perfect timing, he could slip away and let them talk-
"Betsy! It's been so long" His landlord said, hugging her friend and scooting over to let her in to the booth.
"It has, and who is this fine young man?" Betsy gestured to Sherlock just as he was about to get up. "You never had kids did you? Im sorry it's been so long since I've been in London". She shook her head trying to remember.
Mrs Hudson looked at Sherlock and was about to answer with a no. Sherlock didn't want to wait for the explanation, he had to get rid of this now.
"Well Betsy, I don't believe my Nan ever mentioned you" He said. "My name is Sherlock, I'm the son of one of her foster children" he found it easy to lie on the spot.
"You fostered kids?"
Sherlock hastily excused himself to the restroom before Martha could get another word in. His mind was swirling as he entered the little room.
He grimaced when looking at the toilet. This place hadn't been cleaned in a long. Long time. Judging by the pile high of toilet paper rolls on the back of the tank and the overflowing trash can. Nonetheless he got on his knees and opened his mouth- a position he found himself in occasionally.
He stuck his fingers down his throat, heaving when he hit the back of his throat. Sherlock gripped the seat and heaved again, this time bile and the food his body was desperate to hold on to rushed out of his mouth. He hacked and coughed into the bowl, his stomach cramping.
Sherlock rinsed his mouth with the sink water and washed his hands. He knew his breath smelled like vomit but he couldn't do much about that.
Mrs Hudson was on her own when he came back out, her purse over one arm while waiting for him. "Are you ready to leave Sherlock?" She asked. He could tell her mind was swarming with questions, eyeing his face.
She was indeed swarming with questions. When they exited the small shop she grabbed his cold hand with her warm and wrinkly fingers. "If you told me you weren't feeling well I would have left you home" she said with sympathy. His face was puffy and he smelled like vomit, the only explanation.
"I'm sorry" he apologized "I should have said something, but I needed to get out of the flat" He needed her to buy into that he wasn't feeling well. The last person he needed to let know about his friendship with Ana and Mia was Mrs Hudson.
"Why did you say you were my grandson?" The rain started to drizzle, she took out her umbrella though Sherlock plucked it from her hand to hold above. "You could have just said you were my tenant".
Sherlock kept looking forward while they walked home "It's fun to daydream sometimes". He gave her hand a squeeze "are you free next sunday?".
"I'm always free on mothers day, you know that" She said back to him while she unlocked the front door. "Why do you ask?".
"We're going to the zoo then, you John, Rosie and I" he put the umbrella away. "We can make a day trip of it". He watched the elderly woman's face light up.
"I would love to"
Good to keep her distracted. He bid her farewell and left for his apartment.
Sherlock looked in the full length mirror propped up against his wall. His collarbones were prefect, jutting out like that. His jaw needed some work… but that roll wasn't kind to his frame, his stomach jutted out more than usual. Salt bloated him and made him feel like a beached whale. No amount of puking could stop the terrible side effects that came with the territory.
He dare not brush his hair. Or look at his teeth. Or God forbid he try to take a shit. He always felt like shit but he'd made it this far doing it. What would he even feel like if he were to have a normal diet? It was either starve or binge terribly. There was no in-between.
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Mycroft's manor was as large and compensating as Sherlock remembered it. He held in his hands a simple card, knocking on the door.
"Good evening Anthea" he greeted with a smile, waving to her. She vaguely looked at him and clicked a button.
"Mycroft, Sherlock came"
The use of the words wasn't lost on him. He came as opposed to he arrived. Looks like his brother dearest didn't think he'd show up.
"Yes I came, of course I'd come on a day like this" he stepped inside, hanging his coat up on the rack. "New blouse, you have a girlfriend you're going to see tonight?" Sherlock questioned.
She rolled her eyes "You two always do that, quit it" her stare lingered on him. Mainly his frame, how under the coat he looked thinner. Much thinner. "Just a date is all, let me guess".
Sherlock felt pride when she said the word ten. "Seven actually, does it look like ten?" He did a little twirl.
"You're going to kill yourself Sherlock, I'll have to deal with that" She guestured ti the direction of the dining room. He rolled his eyes and tightened his tie.
"Kill myself? Now why would I do a silly thing like that?" He chuckled. They shared a sick laugh. He walked towards the dining room. It was a different kind of high. When his head felt light and the pain in his stomach rotted to a numbness. It felt amazing.
Sherlock walked down the ornate hallway, admiring the new artwork. Walking into the dining room. He looked at the small table his brother sat at with a basket of rolls.
"One eighty five" He said, sitting down while Mycroft put down the dinner roll. His brother glared at him and put some jam on it. "Two thirty six" he sat down across from him.
"Will you quit that?" Mycroft asked and added some butter.
"Two-"
"I know Sherlock" Mycroft stopped him from listing off the caloric content of the food he was about to eat. "...How have you been?" He asked.
"You know how I've been, I found a bug in my apartment the other day" Sherlock took his hand from his pocket and placed a crumpled little microphone on the table. He watched his brothers face twist into guilt. "I will tell you if I've relapsed, I haven't, so stop spying on me".
Mycroft strummed his fingers on the table "I saw Bill Wiggins stop by your flat, arms Sherlock". Sherlock rolled up his sleeves to show no new track marks. Mycroft couldn't help but stare at his wrists "you lost weight again…i fogured".
"You haven't" Sherlock spat back at him, pulling his sleeves down. He felt humiliated. Like a teenager rolling their sleeves up in front of their parents to prove they hadn't gotten into the knife drawer again.
"Well, let's have some lunch then shall we?" Mycroft beckoned what looked to be a butler over, a trolley with two plates on it. He gave each brother their own and scurried off. Sherlock looked at his plate with disdain.
"Cobbler is three hundred"
"Is not" Mycrifts nostrils flared at the disrespect.
"Two eighty nine is the same thing". Sherlock looked at him with judgment. "You really going to eat that?"
"You sound like mummy" Mycroft dug his fork into the ham.
"Where do you think I learned all this from?" Sherlock asked. "Trade me your garlic spinach and tomato soup for my ham and cobbler".
Mycroft picked up his own plate and they started swapping. If they were in a restaraunt this would be humiliating. But they were inside his home, in the walls where nothing got out. They could fuel each others nasty habits as much as needed. Swapping food like this was common between the two.
"How have you been?" Sherlock asked and started separating his food. Mycroft didn’t stop him. Sherlock could be as disordered as he wanted right now. His brother dearest was simply happy that he came.
"I've been fine"
They carried on with idle chit chat here and there for two hours. Recalling shows or books they'd watched recently. Mycroft was surprised to hear Sherlock took Mrs Hudson to the zoo for mothers day. How sweet.
He started polishing off his plate. "While you were busy with your land lady, I paid Mummy a visit" Mycroft bragged "she misses you, took her to the zoo too. She insisted". He eyed Sherlocks plate, barely touched.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, he hadn't seen his mother in ages. Disregarding the time she stopped by the flat to catch up with him. “That sounds lovely Mycroft” He said and dug around in his pocket. “I should be heading off then”. The younger sibling dug around in his pocket for a little while. “Here”
Mycroft picked up a little pink envelope that was flung at him, looking at it with disdain. “Really? A card?” he asked. Sherlock gestured for him to open the thing up already, clearly growing impatient. Myroft took a small knife from his pocket and ripped it open.
Glitter fluttered all over him. Mycroft rolled his eyes in nooyance, trying to dust the pink stuff off of himself. “Really mature” he snapped and pulled the card out, which brought out even more glitter on to his lap.
Sherlock smiled a little bit, his nose crinkled. "Do you like it?"
At the top in childish handwriting was written: HappIe Borth Mykey!!!.
On the inside was a handwritten, neat note and some folded sheet music. Mycroft folded it and put it down, not about to read the letter in front of Sherlock.
"It's lovely, thank you" he said quietly, resting his hand on the card.
"Happy birthday Mycroft" Sherlock said quietly. "Is there anything you'd like me to get you for your birthday? A hug perhaps?" He half joked.
"Will you take care of your body for me?" Mycroft asked. He looked at the plate his brother left on the table. "I can pay for you to go to rehab again".
Sherlock felt sick when his brother looked at him like that. He liked being sick. He liked his life this way. "I am taking care of my body" he defended. "I don't need rehab, I am healthy".
Mycroft pursed his lips "You look sick" He leaned back in his chair, strumming his fingers on top of the card lying flat on the table. "But you like that look, because you have an eating disorder," he said.
Sherlock wrapped his too large coat around himself more, shivering slightly. "My body is none of your business" he snapped. "It's not an eating disorder, im beating you in this"
"Then stop comparing my body to yours Sherlock, you can't win if you kill yourself like this" Mycroft said with calmness. "Like I said if you want inpatient recovery my offer stands, we all know where this began don't act like you don't know".
Sherlock left.
Mycroft took a deep breath and read his card.
________
He smelled something absolutely delightful. What was that? Mrs Hudson didn't cook in his flat. He didnt need it, no matter what was cooking he absolutely didn't need it.
10 minutes later
He was doing such a good job today. Maybe just one bite wouldn't hurt. He was at 150 for today, one measly little bite wasn't going to kill him.
John perked up when he heard his flat mate coming out of his room. Emerging like a bear from hibernation. He pulled the bed good from the oven and set it on the stove "evening Sherlock" he greeted.
"Hey" Sherlock greeted. "Your day, how was it?" He asked and grabbed a water cup, gulping it down swiftly.
"It was fine, in cheerful mood" John said and took off his oven mitts. "Therapy appointment today" he stretched and opened the freezer. "Do we have ice cream?"
"I wouldn't know" Sherlock gasped as he put the cup down, finished with it as air entered his lungs. "What did you make?" He asked, water not enough to satisfy is starving stomach. "Guessing your therapist gave you that recipe book as another coping skill?" He pointed to the new book on the counter open to a page.
John didn't reply, fishing two plates out along with his icecream. He scooped a small portion of what looked to be peach cobbler on a plate. A larger portion and ice cream for himself. "Tell me if it's good".
He expected Sherlock to do what he usually did, throw a fit that John was trying to give him food and insist he was fine without it. Instead his friend picked up the fork and dug right in.
Sherlock didn't say a word, not bothering to blow on his food as it burned his tongue and esophagus. He finished the plate in two minutes and stood up to go get more. Along with ice cream.
"You like it?" John asked when Sherlock grabbed a huge glob of ice cream and planted it on the top of his plate. Sherlock didn't look up from his work, adding another scoop.
"Yeah it's fine" he told and sat back down.
If he was already fucking up why not go all the way?
John left for the living room fifteen minutes later to go write in his blog. When he was leaving, Sherlock was still eating. Weird. Sherlock never ate this much. Especially not bread.
"Sherlock?" He called from his spot on the living room couch. "Do you want to sit in here with me?" He asked. Sherlock didn't reply to him. "Sherlock?"
He rolled his eyes and continued typing, falling into the rhythmic clicking of keys as he wrote his story about their latest case. A woman had come to them claiming a mothman was living in her attic. Turns out it was simply a family of squirrels that would come down to steal her fruit. Much less exciting as mothman but still something interesting nonetheless.
John lost himself in his work. Writing for an hour and a half. Maybe longer. Mrs Hudson stopped by to bring him the mail.
"Thank you" looking up from his laptop he took from her a handful of envelopes. "Mrs Hudson you can leave the mail at the bottom of the stairs" he looked up at her from his seat.
"I like to come up here sometimes" she said and flinched when she heard a cabinet door slam. "Goodness what on earth is he doing in there?" She questioned and glanced towards the kitchen.
"Don't know" John grunted and began to sort the mail. "Having some nibbles I guess". He sorted it by name, Sherlock and himself. Looks like he had another credit card bill. John put that on his laptop so he wouldn't forget.
"Sherlock!" He called and bid Mrs Hudson good afternoon. "You got mail from Mycroft" he headed to the kitchen.
He stopped when he saw what his room mate was doing. Sitting hunched over the island with his phone in one hand and a spoon in the other. Digging into half a pie that John forgot they had.
"I don't think that's okay to eat" John warned "it's been in there for three weeks" He didn't mention the contomaniation that could be happening because of the plate of pig eyeballs left exposed in there.
"Don't care" Sherlock hiccuped "leave me alone"
John put the mail on the table next to him "You're going to make yourself sick, you already don't eat, can your body put away all that sugar?" He pulled a chair next to him.
Sherlock put the spoon into the fruit pie and pushed it away. "John" he said quietly and gazed down at the empty table in front of him. "I don't feel well"
"No shit Sherlock, you just ate half the sweets in the flat" John rolled his eyes. "You should lie down or something". His eyes grazed over the empty wrappers which littered the countertops
"Two thousand twenty four" Sherlock grunted.
"What?" John asked "Two thousand twenty four what?" He pressed for answers.
"Calories, it's an estimate but I think I consumed well above that amount" Sherlock put his face in his hands. "I hate myself John"
John pursed his lips, not used to hearing Sherlock say such things sober. If he was drunk this would be way more easy to deal with, pat him on the back and send him to bed. John couldn't do that with him now.
"Why does that matter? You haven't eaten a thing all week" he gently nudged him to sit in a chore, John not feeling comfortable standing up. "You'll feel better tomorrow-".
"It matters because I'm winning john!" Sherlock barked at him, wiping his reddened face and sitting in the chair John provided. "And I binged- I hate it I hate being full" he groaned. "I hate this I was doing so well".
"Winning what exactly? It's okay to eat you don't have to punish yourself for…" he chanced at the carnage "whatever this is"
"Mycroft" he stiffened "I'm beating mycroft at this one thing, and if I can't do this one thing right then I'm not better than him" Sherlock explained it to John. The doctor went silent. Sherlock looked him in the face "I don't want your pity, I don't want you to tell me how good I look or how I should love my body" he rolled his eyes. "Leave me alone John, Hammish, Watson".
"Anorexia nervosa?" John spoke, Sherlock gripped the chair beneath him "Bulimia?" His jaw clenched. "Back to the Ana, are you restrictive or trapped in a bi ge and purge cycle?" John faked surprise. "Maybe both! Endos? Maybe Orthorexia?" John deadpanned. "You still want me to stop talking or do you want me to listen to your reasoning? I'm not here to yell at you I'm here to help".
John reached his hand to tug at Sherlocks, getting him to release the chair and hold his. "I'm a doctor, remember? Doctor patient confidentiality. No one has to know a thing".
"How long have you known I've been playing this game?" Sherlock asked. He was always observant of other people. Patterns, how they worked and when they were suspicious of him. How he could fix it, what he could do to make himself more appealing and trustworthy in their eyes. He figured John lacked the same…skills has him.
"You haven't been playing a game, you're struggling with an eating disorder and you're deep into it, I'd way you've been doing g this off and on since your teens" John squeezed his hand a little tighter. "Noticed three weeks into living with you, how you wrote down every single thing you ate, rarely had food in here that hasn't rotted away" he continued talking. Listing off every single thing Sherlock had written off as "John won't notice".
He finished with "the first week I heard you vomiting in the bathroom, then the next night and the next". Sherlock didn't looking him in the eye. "You teeth rot in your mouth yet you compulsively brush them, you're so underweight you stumble when you stand and you like it" he said that last word like it stung the tip of his tongue. John crossed his arms.
"You don't say anything about it because…" Sherlock struggled to deduce for a minute or two "because what's the point? Im too stubborn to stop after coming this far".
Job silently agreed with him "are you going to tell me where exactly you got it in your head that you had to be better at Mycroft at weight loss to be worth a damn?".
Sherlock leaned back in the chair and looked at the ceiling. "I guess there's no point in not telling you" he turned to look at John. "Doctor patient confidentiality and whatever secret microphone my brother left in that card for me is". He watched John get a half smile out of that.
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Mycroft was big and I was little. There's nothing more to it, that's how it's always been.
Sitting at the dinner table was a typical day in the Homes household. There my father would ask about school and tell about work. My mother would talk about the neighbors, the girls in her book club, anyone but herself.
I didn't talk and Mummy would be angry with me for it. Mycroft talked just the right amount, she always told me that. Always told me whatever I was doing he did it better than me.
Eating dinner, we had pizza because it was a "special day" my birthday I believe. Tedious holiday, I didn't even ask for pizza but father insisted.
I had a slice and a cup of milk, Mummy had a salad and a glass of wine- father had two slices. And when Mycroft sat down with three slices on his plate and a can of coke my mother threw a fit.
I didn't understand the problem, he was hungry why shouldn't he have three slices? I wat he'd her pick up his plate in a huff and put two of the slices of a napkin away from him.
"Look at you Myke!" She scolded, poking him in the tummy under the table. He looked embarrassed and frazzled for once. Even hurt, I wasn't used to seeing that look on his face around Mummy. It was nice.
"You don't need any more than one slice, look at how Sherlock does it, doesn't even go back for seconds". She had pointed to me as the good example for once, that was the best birthday gift u could ask for.
"Mum he's nine im sixteen" he tried to argue but Mummy wasn't having any of it. Nonetheless when he finished his slice, he reached across the table to get his other two pieces, stuck to the napkin by grease. It was disgusting.
Our father didn't contribute to the conversation, rarely did when Mummy was looking for something to be angry about. He got roped in towards the end of dinner when Mycroft asked for some money for a new pair of school pants. His old ones didn't fit anymore.
Father couldn't help but laugh at him
I didn't finish my pizza that night, gave my crust to Mycroft. I went to sleep hungrier but I liked it. It showed me I could do one thing better than him. If I ate less than Mycroft then I was better than him.
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"That leaves us to today" Sherlock looked back to the ceiling. "It's been like this so long I wouldn't know where to start with a recovery".
"Nine years old" John winced at the thought of a nine year old with an eating disorder. Made his heart ache. "I have a friend…a nutritionist who might help you".
Sherlock rolled his eyes "I don't need a nutritionist" he stood from the chair, hand to his stomach when he remembered just how much he ate.
"Do you want to get better?" John got up with him to put the chairs back up.
"I'll think about it I guess" Sherlock shrugged.
If John wasn't quite asleep later that night when Sherlock was on his knees clenching the porcelain bowl, he didn't say anything about it. He simply left a phone number and address taped to the door in Sherlock's bedroom
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"What do you eat when you feel happy?"
Sherlock watched her write down something in that little notebook.
"Cucumber" he said "hard boiled egg"
She wrote that down too.
"How about when you need something warm? What do you have?"
"Bone broth"
Again she wrote it down. Ah it was a safe food list.
"Before we continue" Sherlock interrupted. "Is… eating disorder rehabilitation like psych ward or drug rehab?" He questioned suspiciously. "John took the drawstrings out of my hoodie so I'm sure that's where he's sending me".
She smiled a little bit "rehab? No one can force you to go but I encourage it" she had a gentle tone to her. Sherlock saw no malice in her. "I liked it, not scary, less strict than drug rehab".
Sherlock leaned back in his seat "I'll think about it I guess".