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It's not that John Watson didn't want to, nor that he purposefully refrained from it. He just stopped putting the effort into doing it.
Since he was a child, eating was a chore.
He remembered endless obligatory dinners, four people who didn't want to be there forcing the illusion of a perfect family unit. He was always the last to finish. It didn't matter if he was full, it didn't matter if there were arguments, he had to finish what was given to him. It didn't matter that their food was tasteless, bland, unappetizing. It was what they could afford, and food was energy. Food was hard earned money.
He once snuck slices of overcooked carrots onto his sister’s plate while she wasn't looking. They were soft, soggy, and left a bitter taste in his mouth. With his elbow, he swiped Harry's napkin off the end of the table. When she bent over to pick it up, he grabbed a spoonful of the offending vegetable slices and tossed them haphazardly onto her plate. That earned him a strike from his father so hard he was sporting a bruise for the next two weeks.
From that day on, he choked down anything put in front of him without complaint. Heaps of congealing mashed potatoes weighed on his tongue like glue as he forced it down. Soggy beans with the texture of string caught in the back of his throat and made him gag.
It will make you stronger, they told him. We work to feed you, so you better damn well eat.
He ate because wasting food was wasting money.
Back then, he didn't eat for pleasure. He ate because he was ordered to.
"You might as well eat. We may be waiting here a long time."
Sherlock Holmes slaps his menu to the side, dismissing it.
"And you? You need to eat," John remarks, scanning his own. He doesn't want this person, who he met just yesterday, to see that he is nervous about doing something as simple as ordering off a menu. He has forgotten how long it has been since his last full meal.
"No, I'm good for a bit," is the flippant response.
"You haven't eaten today. For God sake, you need to eat!"
John sighs to himself. It is like arguing with his past self all over again. He echoes the voices that he trained himself to repeat. It was a mantra that kept him going.
"You need to eat, I need to think. The brain is the only thing that matters. Everything else is transport."
John doesn't know how to respond to that. He can't force someone to eat.
His eyes finally settle on something. Safer ingredients. Vegetables, bread, no meat. If he can't finish, so be it - he isn't at home, he is with someone who can see. The waiter, Angelo, doesn't see it odd that Sherlock isn't ordering anything, despite the fact that their meals are both free.
Sherlock Holmes is an enigma. The only person after these months of numbness and deafening silence, who could break through the haziness. Someone with endless energy and mind power, functioning on next to nothing, he seemed almost superhuman.
His attempts to search for something somewhat more human leave both parties in a slightly flustered and uncomfortable silence.
When his meal arrives, the aroma hits him with the force of a racing train. It almost sings to him, and the salad is suddenly a banquet and he can feel his stomach for once loosening, nearly growling in anticipation. Instantly, his mouth is watering, his hands are on autopilot, grasping his utensils and he lifts the first forkful to his lips. It's a synthesis of flavor, the seasoning attacking his taste buds that are so adapted to bland, staple foods.
He continues to devour his meal, and he has to slow down after the first few when his stomach begins to protest. It's an unfamiliar pleasant weight so suddenly after being so used to emptiness. Nevertheless, it makes him feel giddy with energy.
When Sherlock spots the cab, without hesitation he leaps to his feet. He once again can run.
John was always book smart and had been content to sit for hours, absorbing knowledge of phenomena, reaching places light years further than himself and his own imagination.
His mother had praised him. His father turned his head. His son locked himself away and did nothing but read all day? What kind of man was he?
That's why he signed up for rugby. The day before tryouts, he monitored everything he ate. He shoveled his parents cooking down, reminding himself that it was fuel for tomorrow. His father repeated those words, patting him hard on the back, signaling his approval. Finally, he was going to be a son his father would be proud of.
John was small in stature compared to the others. There was almost half a foot difference between him and the tallest boy trying out. John was the shortest. He was the slowest. It didn't matter that he had decent aim. He was out of breath after just five minutes.
"Come on, dumbass, keep up" one of his team members had yelled, shoving him out of the way. His clothes were drenched in sweat and his heart was pounding painfully against his chest. He staggered back, keeping his distance from the rest of the players.
One day of healthy eating didn’t make a difference.
In the end, he made the team. Just like everyone who tried out.
The first practice sessions that followed him, however, were the most grueling he had ever experienced. He had little energy, as he was not used to anything that demanded such high expenditure. He knew after the first session that he could not continue skipping meals. When his mother packed his lunch for him, it was never appetizing enough for him to bother eating. He was never hungry. He often offered his lunch to any student whose parents had forgotten to pack theirs, or those who forgot their lunch money. Or had it stolen from them.
But he was going to change.
He buckled down and forced himself to eat. He selected bulks of meats and dairy, anything protein rich to build up his muscles. His mother complied with his requests, and his father's smile made everything worthwhile.
He never told his father he was considered the weak link. That his teammates had come up with several cruel nicknames for him. None of them wanted him on their team. He was too short, too chubby, too slow. He couldn't keep up. They took the game seriously and only wanted serious players.
He never told his father how his teammates didn't bother to try hushing their conversation with their coach, asking him to remove John from the team. The fact their coach refused did not comfort him as much as it should have.
Instead, he was going to be the player he should be.
He did sit-ups until his head swam and his stomach twisted. He ran until his chest burned and black spots appeared in his periphery. He would stop, shake his head for a few moments, catch his breath, and continue.
Nobody saw this though. He began shedding the extra weight, as it meant less to carry as he ran. His movements felt smoother, faster, more precise. His coach nodded in approval at the newfound speed in his passes. His teammates eased up and developed from grudgingly including him to praising him. He was improving. He was going to push on, even though he knew this wasn't right.
On good days, the exhaustion lulled him to sleep. He was finding it increasingly difficult to get comfortable, to get any kind of restful sleep. He was too hot, too cold, pressure building with him. He found that running helped. He slept, imagining the muscle tissue re-growing, mending the tears, coming back stronger. He would be in control. On bad days, he would find himself kneeling over a toilet bowl, his limbs twitching, and his whole body aching from being pushed past its limit. He felt himself crumbling as disgust and shame churned inside him as he lay in bed with a throat that burned and vision that swam. On those nights he would promise himself it would be the last time he would allow it to get this bad.
He wanted to be good enough.
Sherlock eats. John knows because he watches. Because everything is a goddamn competition. John is relieved when he finds that Sherlock actually does have to eat. He doesn't indulge, he doesn’t allow himself to do that, but he eats enough. John knows because he counts. Because he has counted before, and he has to stop himself from giving in to the old ghost of a reflex. It's nonsensical and is not even an accurate number.
When he is with Sherlock, he finds his bad habits slipping. There are more important things on both their minds. It's a much-needed distraction for both of them.
With Sherlock, he found hunger pangs returning to him. And they could be satiated with food. He didn't feel ill or too heavy or too full after a meal. He felt satisfied with eating for the first time in a long time. He didn't mind munching on a meal as Sherlock enthusiastically lay out his deductions for him. He noticed Sherlock wouldn't eat on cases, but ensured he was fed when they rested. And surprisingly, Sherlock accepted John's offerings of food or tea at whatever hour.
Sherlock is always gracious enough to stop for John. John at first never even thinks of it that way. Sherlock is in tune with him. The moment they would step into a restaurant on a case, John would realize he is ravishing. He digs into his meals, and the taste is always there, bright, vibrant, enjoyable. It was an unspoken deduction Sherlock made: John's eating habits and times were rigid, set in place, and if meal times were skipped, John wouldn't eat later. So Sherlock tries his best to stick to John's patterns.
Nevertheless, there are slip-ups. Once on a case, the portion size of a meal is too large. John is visibly struggling to finish it. Sherlock's hands are on his temples, and he exhales slowly, his foot tapping impatiently on the tile of the restaurant floor. They are wasting precious time. "Hurry up, John, I can't wait for you all day," he complains, gesturing to the half-finished veggie burger being picked at.
John freezes, dropping his silverware beside the plate. His heart catches in his throat, and he feels blood rushing to his face. He averts his eyes. "I'm sorry, you should have told me," he says in a low voice. He bunches up the napkin in his lap and pushes himself away from the table, keeping his eyes off Sherlock the entire time. The food is suddenly unappetizing, heavy, greasy, too large, and he is eating more than his fair share. "Let's go," he insists.
Sherlock realizes he has upset John.
"You can take it with you," he tries. "Pack it, or eat it on the way." But John is already pushing past him, heading towards the door.
"I don't want it," John remarks, and steps outside.
He is furious with himself. He isn't putting anyone else at a disadvantage, just because he has to gorge. The feeling of disgust has returned, and he feels wrong with an entire meal sitting inside him. Because of who he is, what he is, they have to wait for someone who is slower, needier. Someone who is not as good enough.
He may be better, but he can't let himself slip too far.
He couldn't name what it was. Whether it was a condition or always part of him that flared up unpredictably.
Even with irregularities eating, nothing ever appeared wrong outside. He would lose some pounds during a bad spell, then regain them when he pushed himself. He didn't want to be stick thin. It wasn't about weight. He didn't know what he wanted. He just knew he needed to eat enough to function.
He was a yo-yo that rose and fell endlessly.
Eating enough regularly again was the hardest part. He never thought it would have come to this, but he began counting calories. He insisted it because he needed to know he was eating enough. But once he committed those numbers to memory, it was hard to stop himself from counting all the time.
He wouldn't admit it to anyone because the thoughts themselves shamed him. Men didn't concern themselves with such trivial issues such as their calorie intake, weight and appearance. Men were stronger than this. He was pathetic.
Men were angles and sharper, body edges. He was always rounder, curvier, a convex instead of a flat outline.
Men were hard, stable, sturdy. No matter how much he trained, he remained soft, malleable, weak. He was big boned. His genetics wouldn't allow a lean, muscular figure. He knew this, but it wouldn't stop him from trying.
When he forced himself to begin eating regular meals again, he would lose himself once more under that familiar layer of softness.
He cycles through highs and lows. He guesses it's just how it has always been.
Returning to mundane ordinary life is still a struggle. When he is not with Sherlock, he holds down his own job, he shops at Tesco. On most days, he sleeps and rises at a similar hour.
When things are good, predictability is fine. When they are not, it makes him feel like he is stuck in a rut. He thinks about this while watching Sherlock pace back and forth, agitated from being cooped up in one place for too long.
He and Sherlock are similar in many ways. They both cannot stand being stationary for too long. They both are attracted to dangerous situations. They both are resilient.
And yet, there is the glaring difference that always stands palpable as a wall between them.
Sherlock is extraordinary. He is ordinary.
People question his humanity because of his ability to compartmentalize his emotions. But John knows that is what it is - he doesn't lack them, he just stores them, prolongs something that is messy to deal with later, as to not affect his work. It's efficiency, not coldness.
He envies Sherlock because of this ability. His stable composure only highlights John's lack of it. He is always too impulsive, too short tempered, to rash. Emotions cloud his vision and lead him to hesitate, or go against what he knows is logically the best choice.
Is that what makes one more human?
Sometimes he stops himself from eating because he sees giving in as loss of control. Because sometimes it can't just be one meal. Because as soon as he gives in a bit more, it is all the food in the house. Then it is subsequent episodes of retching, cramps and nausea, humiliation as his flat mate returns home and deduces from a glance at the open, bare cabinets that they will have to do a grocery run in the middle of the week. The guilt that wells inside of him as Sherlock still insists on splitting the cost of groceries equally. John always insists on doing it on his own.
Every time this happens, he vows never to repeat the incident. He insists on buying only what they need, so there is nothing extra. But he has been here countless times before.
Food accumulates over time.
There are bad days.
There are days when he simply won’t eat, and when he finally does, his body and mind take over and try to make up for what he has lost.
He tries to regulate himself, keep himself balanced. But he is on a tightrope, easily plummeting to either extreme.
Sherlock never questions him on these episodes, and John prays he never will. For him, it's the concern of others that is the worst blow of guilt to bear.
His sister had been the first one to broach the topic. True to her character, she did so bluntly.
It was Harry's turn to make dinner that night. Their parents were out, as usual, and they had fallen into a routine where they alternated turns cooking for one another. They are together and their parents had their leftovers.
John was sitting at the kitchen counter completing an English assignment when she burst into the kitchen and heavily tossed a plastic container full of lasagna on the dining table. "Clara's mom made way too much, so she gave us a free dinner," she announced proudly.
John glanced up from his notebook. "I think I'll make my own dinner," he muttered, setting his pen down and pushing himself from the table.
"Why would you bother cooking if you have a perfectly meal handed to you on a perfectly decent plastic tub?" Harry scoffed.
John yanked open the fridge and pulled out a colorful assortment of vegetables. "Lasagna by itself isn't a balanced meal."
He won't tell Harry the second the container was opened, the stench of cheese assaulted his senses and his stomach was churning uncomfortably at the thought of eating it. There was cheese and meat in lasagna, but how much? He didn't make this meal, nor did he see how it was prepared. He couldn't eat something he didn't cook himself. There was too much uncertainty.
"What's with this sudden 'giving a shit about what I eat' bullcrap?" She asked, incredulously.
"It's just good to be healthy," John responded defensively. He pulled out the chopping block and knives.
"Yesterday you were literally weighing out your food. What kind of normal person does that?"
John flushed. That wasn't a fair accusation. He sometimes weighed his food to ensure he wasn't eating too much or too little - that he was eating around the same serving of that particular food each time. He had to put a bit of effort into regulating his diet. He didn't even do it all the time. It was working for him, and he was eating fine. Lots of healthy people did the same thing.
"I made too much bean soup yesterday. I wanted to make sure I had an equal amount to eat today."
Harry rolled her eyes. "One bit of lasagna won't kill you."
John shook his head, swiping slices of vegetables into a bowl. "I prefer mine."
Harry's hands flew to her face, her eyes wide in an exaggerated expression of dismay. "Oh heaven forbid I put on a pound or two, what ever will I do?" Her tone high and mocking.
"Shut up, it's not that," he protested.
"Of course it is. Look at me, I'm John, I have to be the best at everything, even eating-"
"Fuck off," came the muttered response.
"Is that the best you got? Give me one good reason why you won't just eat the goddamn lasagna."
"Why do you even care what I eat?"
"Because it's not normal. You used to always eat whatever shit I made and you loved it because mom and dad can't cook to save their lives."
"You didn't make it."
"Why does it matter?" She asked, exasperation obvious in her tone. "I made the same kind of food, and you devoured it. Now you look at whatever I put in front of you like I'm forcing you to drink bleach."
"You don't cook it the way I like."
"Un. Fucking. Believable." She stared at him, the silence a heavy weight, almost suffocating. John felt the regret already churning in his stomach.
"Fine, then." Her tone was flat, resigned. "Do what you want. I have too much to deal with to waste time worrying about your ungrateful ass." Crossing the room, she slammed the kitchen door behind her.
Once she left, his meal was suddenly unappetizing. Taking his bowl, he dumped the freshly sliced assortment of vegetables into the trash, tied it and hauled it outside, so his parents wouldn't see that he had wasted good food. The lasagna still sat on the table, the cheese cooling and congealing at the top. His stomach clenched. He wanted it. But it wasn't for him, not anymore. He sealed the lid and placed it on the top shelf of the refrigerator.
He welcomed hunger pangs that night. Because he knew he deserved them.
Nothing more was said the next day. Harry would shoot him disapproving glances, but other than that, didn't offer further comments.
His parents were less direct, but nevertheless made their concern clear. Sometimes it was a gentle remark about the looseness of his clothing, or how tired he looked. Asking if they were working him too hard in rugby. They never were exactly the type to sit and discuss issues directly. Everything was more comfortable in hints and subtle gestures. His mother started bringing home takeout of their favorite foods. They started eating dinner as a family, together again.
But routine was difficult to return to, especially after years of change. The table suddenly felt too small with four of them sitting together. John felt as if there was a spotlight on him, and that everyone was scrutinizing every bite.
They sat, waited and watched, the unspoken, ever-present rule that every plate came away clean. It made the guilt so much worse knowing they were sacrificing extra time, money and energy into something he couldn't finish. He didn't deserve it. He couldn't eat it. He would do nothing but waste it. With every mouthful, he felt guilty for even enjoying the taste, knowing he was eating something he wasn't supposed to. In the back of his mind, he knew he was trying to count, he knew it was futile because He couldn't even be sure, and the numbers were all wrong. He hated the uncertainty. The thoughts turned the contents of his stomach, and in turn, he would fight the feeling of sickness and unease after only a few bites.
They urged him to finish, but he would decline once he knew he couldn't eat any more. It didn't work like when he was six and could be threatened with a relatively inconsequential punishment. He pushed his plate away, trying each night not to face the disappointment and concern he knew was etched on their faces.
Sometimes would bring it back up. As if he could atone for what he undeservingly took.
John wondered if they ever heard him. He would walk past Harry's room, which was between his and the bathroom. Her door was always shut, and could always hear music booming from behind it, drowning out any noise from the outside.
Despite good intentions, plans that nobody ever really wanted to follow usually didn't last. It was an effort with not enough payoff, so they eventually stopped bringing home expensive food. Then they reverted to eating the way they used to. Nobody said anything about this change, but without having to face it every night, everyone was better off pretending all was well. If it went unseen, it might as well not be there.
Sarah questions him on his choice of meal. It's unusual to her that her date is ordering a salad while she orders the grilled chicken. He shrugs slightly. He is a vegetarian. Salads are a staple part of his diet. He likes to eat them.
He doesn't tell her he chose the salad because it was the option on the menu with the most nutritional value which he needs because he forgot to eat breakfast and lunch that day.
Sarah sees the comments about his eating habits make him uncomfortable, in the way he averts his eyes and lowers his voice as he responds. It's curious, as she expected him to laugh it off. She does not know him well enough to probe further. Even if they were familiar, there are lines not to be crossed.
Ella tells him he looks different. Healthier, fuller. It's a compliment.
He can't take it as one.
He hates people even mentioning his weight or appearance, because he doesn't want attention brought to it. He doesn't want to think about it. He knows it isn't good for him, because it sends him down the same downward spirals that he has to claw his way back out of. It's not fair how this is difficult. It shouldn't be, especially for someone like him.
He doesn't confess any of this to Ella. He thanks her stiffly, and changes the subject. He has more significant things to talk about.
He mentions the newfound interest in his blog, and how now that Sherlock is in his life, he has so much more to share. His voice and expressions are animated, and his eyes sparkle with life. When he is with Sherlock, just for brief moments, he forgets the tired, worn out body he is trapped in, and he is free. Who he is, his past, his shortcomings, his failures are not a part of him. It's just him and Sherlock against the world.
It's where has a place, he has a purpose, where he is good enough.
He doesn't want it to ever end.
He collapsed on the field.
He could have blamed a number of things.
It could have been the inclement weather, which made the ground soft and slippery.
It could have been that his borrowed boots were worn down from years of use and had long since lost their grasp around his ankles.
They were in the lead. He was running right behind someone on the opposing team. One moment he was reaching out for them, then the familiar blackness returned, and instead of stopping, he pushed past it until it halted him. He lost his footing as vertigo overpowered him. His world swayed suddenly, and the ground rushed forward to meet him.
When he came to, there was dirt in his mouth and he could taste something metallic. His heart and lungs battled against each other instead of together. Heavy breaths wracked his whole body, coming out in irregular, laden bursts.
From somewhere above him, he heard a chorus of murmurs. The sound of footsteps was dull, as if his head was enveloped in cotton. He felt the vibrations more than he could hear them. He felt cold hands on his neck, and his coach’s face swam into view. “John? Can you hear me?”
John closed his eyes tightly again. Everything felt too bright. Behind him, someone was barking orders to stand back.
“John,”
His name was still being called. He groaned in response. The fuzziness began to ebb slowly, and he clenched and unclenched his fists. His coach’s voice, still repeating his name, grew sharper and clearer. After a few more uneven breaths and blinking, his face swam into focus.
He had clearly fainted. In the middle of the final match. Upon realization, he hitched forward, leaning heavily on his arms to push himself upright. He barely managed before he felt his coach’s weight on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t get up just yet, wait a few more minutes, alright?”
“Wait, but-” John began to protest.
“Don’t worry about that, John. You took a bit of a fall, and we want to make sure you’re alright. Better take it slow.”
Defeated, John rolled onto his back. The crowd was already dissipating, but he caught the glances of a few of his teammates, hovering. Some faces were concerned. Others appeared more irritated. As soon as his eyes met one of his teammates, his brows furrowed, and he mimicked fainting while mouthing, what the hell?
He turned his head away, the humiliation already welling up inside of him. He failed again.
“Cost us the fucking game.”
The hushed murmur behind him was the clearest thing he heard.
His head is cracked on the pavement. He has been here before.
John is not fast enough. He is not aware. He is too late.
No he is not.
He won't be too slow this time. He won’t fail this time.
He does not stay down, not this time. He can hear his own breathing echoing in his ears, a faint ringing in the back of his head. He will push himself forward, once step at a time. His vision swims and sways, blurring, sparking, too bright one instant, then flashes of darkness the next.
And all he can see is red. It trickles down onto the pavement and swirls like ink. The crowd is a blur of color, faces and hands, shouting, ordering, whispering. The movement is in such stark contrast to his body, amidst the commotion, as he lies deathly still.
Let me through, please, he’s my friend.
He’s my friend.
His hand is outstretched. He is waiting for him. He has to cling to the sliver of hope, despite fingers that are tinged blue and curl inwards. He has to believe is a chance, in the form of a beat, a tiny vibration that defined the difference between an existence or an absence.
His grip slips and his wrist falls away.
There is nothing.