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When John first gets home from Afghanistan, he barely eats an apple a day,
( An apple a day keeps the doctor away )
not because he’s intending on starving himself, but because he can’t be bothered. He’s bored and irritable and confused, because he loved the war as much as it’s possible for a man to love death and destruction, and now it haunts every aspect of his life.
Then Sherlock comes into his life, and suddenly John is starving.
( “Don’t you want anything?” John questions, and Sherlock shakes his head, but his eyes smile as though he’s got a secret.
“What?” John asks, his fork halfway to his mouth. He realizes he’s already eaten half the plate.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
“Eat, John.” )
He’s voracious as he was when he was a young man, devouring biscuits and tea and sushi and curry as if it were his last meal. He doesn’t even realize until Sherlock points it out, but he supposes he’s making up for lost time. He’s happy now, he realizes one morning as he reaches up to pull down the box of tea leaves, and the sudden revelation leaves him winded.
Then Sherlock falls, and John lets the milk sour in the refrigerator.