Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Sherlock, i'll be away- " before John finished his sentence, Sherlock finished it.

"Scotland, attending the British medical association. A week. It's very obvious when you've read several new medical books for the past 2 weeks and you've been saving half of your clothes in your closet and laundering your suits." Sherlock said without even taking his eyes off from the microscope.

John, who'll never get used to how observant his roommates was just stands there speechless. He then continues to look at the clean fridge (finally, after the constant protest towards every weird thing Sherlock has put in it).

"Well, just don't forget to eat. You seem to be skinnier. You can order take outs, don't bother Mrs.Hundson." John lectured while inspecting the expired date of the milk.

Sherlock tensed at John Words. But he gathered himself before John turn back to face him again, no one can notice his slightly tensening body. And thanks to the microscope, John also can't see his face.

"Yes, John. Now shoo, i have to focus. Stop babbling near me." He uses his left hand to shoo the blond man.

-

Bam

The sound of their flat door shut after John got out with a suitcase. Sherlock just stares at it blankly that feels like 5 minutes straight. With an exasperated sigh, he walked towards his violin then grabbed it to put on his right shoulder. His fingers guide the bow to play some random note while walking towards the window.

Looking down, a lot of people are doing their own activity. It's 9 in the morning, the sun hasn't set yet so it's kind of chilly.

Despite the silence, except from his violin, his mind was racing. Too much to know. Too much to see. He's too observant. He can see the married woman with her affair, the man that just had an argument with his girlfriend, the boy walking sulky because he's scared to get bullied at school.

Sherlock's eyes dilated, his fingers playing the bow as fast as his mind raced. The melody getting sharp-

Ring ring

His phone rang on the table, making it shiver from its buzz. He walked towards it. The name Lesterade shows on the screen.

"Sherlock, there's an unknown corpse at the alley-" he didn't need to finish that, Sherlock already rejected it.

"No more than 1, lame. He definitely just overdosed on the new drugs. The bruises come from when he hit the pavement." He then ended the call, not waiting for the interlocutors to comment.

Throwing the phone on the sofa, he let his feet lead him to the bedroom. Scrunch beside his bed, only to pull a mini case that just looks like a glasses case. Opening the lid while he let his body sit on the floor, taking out a syringe with a green-yellow liquid in it.

He then bit the syringe, let his left hand roll his right sleeves at his elbow. Take the syringe back, stab it at his lower hand vein. Not a hard task to find, as he has pale skin and he's been losing some of his weight. Besides, he has been doing this for many times and he can't count anymore.

As expected, the numb feeling he's been craving finally crept into his mind. The feeling that he knows was very destructing, yet too beautiful to let go. It gave him the peace he needs, it makes the tension in his body flow away. The relaxation no one can bring to him.

Slowly, his limp body slumped down until he was laying on the floor. Looking at the syringe lying on the floor beside him, he put it back in its case with his trembling calloused hands. Throw the wooden case on the floor until it rests below his bed, the usual place Sherlock kept it.

He turn his head upwards, facing the cream colored ceiling that covered by dust and some spider web. He doesn't want to wasting something important as his time doing unimportant things like cleaning his bloody ceiling at least once every year. That's why everyone was so dumb, they used their time doing unnecessary things all the time!

His mind was getting fuzzy, like there's a cloud in it. He can’t form a single coherent thought. Every word mixed, he feels like babbling, talking in gibberish. The sleepy feeling he has been craving for a week of insomnia. He curled into himself, hugging his own knees and turned his body laying on the left side– facing the door. Sometimes, he imagines John opening that door and looking down at his ‘the great detective’ roommates, laying on the floor with red rimmed eyes like a coward, a pathetic drug addict.

John's expression– he was shocked, disappointed…..disgusted. His eyes say everything his mouth doesn't. His heart felt like being sliced open, the open wound smeared with salt. Sting. Its so fucking hurts, he wants to scream at John to stop staring with those eyes. Wants to scrawl, cling at his legs, begging.

And then, the thing Sherlock scared the most

The pity, John pitying him.

NO!

SHERLOCK HOLMES DIDN’T NEED TO BE PITIED.

HE WAS OKAY, HE IS OKAY.

Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop Stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop….stop

Please…please John

Don’t look at me like that

I’m okay….

Chapter Text

Moonlight crept from his window glass, the coldness of the night air tickling his skin. Sherlock woke up with a groan, he feels like a shit. Everything's hurt. Of course, he’s been sleeping on the hardwood floor all afternoon! But at least he didn’t feel overwhelmed, even though he bet that it would wear off by the morning. His stomach growls in protest of not having any food in it since yesterday (he ate a single cookie Mrs.Hundson gave to them in front of John so he didn’t get suspicious towards him) . But he ignored it, humans can still be alive even without any food for 3 months.

Get up from his current position, wincing from the pain of his sore body for getting up too fast. Forcing his feet to walk towards the bathroom, he hasn’t showered since 2 days ago. Even though he hadn’t running around London chasing a murderer, but Sherlock didn’t like the clammy feeling on his skin. It's kind of a sensory thing, everything feels wrong and he feels like screaming from it. Ever since he was a kid, he could make the whole house have a migraine from hearing his crying over the wrongness feeling his clothes were on his sensitive skin. And he would get yelled at–even get locked in the bathroom by his parents as the result of his ‘misbehavior’.

Well, he can’t help it in the past. He was a child back then. But now, he’s a fully high- functional-sociopath. He’s an adult now, he can’t just get upset for having sticky feeling on his skin. Yes, it's still as sensitive as when he was a child. It would still get irritated, a rash, but he can bear the sting feeling better now.

He was better now

Everything will be alright as long as he has that illegal substance in his bloodstream.

Standing in front of the large mirror in the bathroom. He looks at his own reflection, he’s not just mentally feels like a shit, he physically looks like a shit. His usual pale skin looks unnaturally paler now that he can even see his red-purple-blue vein. Thank god John wasn’t here, or he would switch into his doctor mode and constantly whining about checking his health or even get him to the hospital itself.

He was also thankful for the fact that his big brother did not hate him that much to put a hidden cctv in his flat– not like Sherlock won’t miss it, he would have already broken it no more than an hour after the thing got installed. Mycroft always believed that he was smarter than him, but Sherlock did think otherwise. Those boring government paperwork must have dulled his brother intellec, as it always talking about the same thing over and over and without any real puzzle and footwork like he always did. Mycroft also consumes too much food, making him not only fat but also slowing his mind.

Yes, sometimes Sherlock also wants to slow his racing mind, but just for a while. He still needs his racing mind to analyze everything in his line of work. To catch the criminal, to catch Moriarty. In the end, it also needed to keep him entertained. To make his parents also proud of their youngest son. All of his childhood was full of constant comparison with his brother from his parents. One of the sentence from his mother that he always remember until now was–

“You were a disgrace of the whole Holmes household.”

That feels like a blade punctures his heart, no way to pull it out without making him bleed harder and leaving an ugly gash behind. But that also the only thing that motivated him to stay alive, to be better than everyone. His ignorant self, calling everyone dumb was just a mock to himself, to make him forget that he was the loser in the room. Everytime Donovan or Anderson calls him a freak, it’s like they were opening every stitch of his wound. It feels like they stripped him bare to his real self. The weird Sherlock Holmes.

Takes off the plain grey shirt off his torso, his slightly protruding ribs come in his eyesight from his reflection on the mirror instantly. Just as he expected, this is the perfect body he wants. The skinny body with low fat to reduce air resistance his detective job needs to running around fast to catch the suspect. Yet it needs sacrifice, he needs to cut his calories intake as much as John senses allow him. He can’t lose too much weight to it really make noticeable change in his appearance though, there’s no need for other people to know this except himself. They would get in his way if they do, he can’t bear the pitying looks in their eyes while looking at him.

He can take any punch, any yell, any insult, but not their sad eyes while looking at him. Like he were a fucking wounded animal, like he were a loser begging to be saved. No. He is a fucking Sherlock Holmes. The great detective. The reichenbach hero. The highly functional sociopath.

He was not aware that his hands were gripping the sink too hard until he registered the clacking sound from his fingers and pain slowly blooming all over his thumb– the finger that took the biggest force while gripping. He loosened his grip instantly, not wanting to leave a weird crack on the sink. He does not have much time to waste making a reasonable excuse for John when he comes back next week.

Open the faucet, the water pouring onto his open palm. He then splashes it on his face,the feeling of the coldness of the water helps to refresh his mind. He can feel droplets of water fall from his face back to the sink, some even soaking his collar. Close back the pouring water faucet, Sherlock drags his feet back to the bedroom. He changed into black shirt a black shirt with the same colour trousers, as his usual preference in clothes.

Well, it would make him recognizable. But the ‘person’ he’ll come to know what purpose Sherlock was there at the first glance, as they regularly meet up. He ran out of ‘help’, and this is the easiest time he’s had since John moved in to purchase it. Walking out from the flat, he walked quietly with ease without waking up Mrs.Hudson. The street was indeed very quiet as this was actually in the middle of the night. And this is the right time to sleep for most people.

But Sherlock was not most people.

He walked into the abandoned building on the outskirts of London, the lair of many drug addicts of London. The usual place Sherlock comes to purchase his ‘help’. Sherlock was greeted by a man with buzz cut blonde hair, he raised his hand which was holding a small plastic bag containing white powder.

“Need this?” He smirked with an annoying smug face.

“Yes, now don’t waste my time like you always do.” Sherlock answers flatly, handing over a couple of money to the now man with a bored face who then throws those plastic bags to him..

“Like the media always said, you are not fun.” He said while Sherlock turned away and started walking.

“But don’t depend too much on those drugs, ya know. London would not like losing a great detective like you, Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock stilled.

“None of your business.” He continued his walk, leaving the blond man shrugging his shoulder in resignation.

Chapter Text

The old wooden door of the 221 B Baker Street creaked, something he found hard to avoid. But there was no worry about waking up his not-his-housekeeper landlady. It's past midnight, and Mrs. Hudson has been asleep since 8 pm, a typical old lady's bedtime.

 A habit that had not changed since at least 25 years ago, a thing that will be hard to change even if it needed to. So no way Sherlock will find the oldwoman caught him sneaking out at this hour. 

How can he sneak out while John was at the flat? Oh… of course his flatmate won’t ever stay up this late. His limit was at 12 pm, it really put him on the edge and he would be sleeping like a baby till his habit of waking up at 6 from the army  woke him up. Those times when John was sleeping were a prize for him. 

It might sound a little evil, but most of the times he makes John run around London ril midnight are intentional. He can solve those cases before his flatmate's bedtime routine, but he purposely makes it complicated and takes too much time.

 All of it for John to be in uninterrupted sleep by the time they came back and Sherlock will get out of the flat easily- he still has to be as quiet as he can though, John's army instinct was still so sharp even after he retired. 

How would he avoid getting caught with red rimmed eyes when John woke up in the morning? Well that was one of the good sides of all of his weird sleeping time. He would just stay in his room for the whole morning until afternoon or until his post-using face was gone and no one would question it, because at the end of the day, he is Sherlock bloody Holmes.

And right now, he felt wonderful. The cocaine he consumed at one of the dark alleys on the way home has now had its effect now. He consumes a lil bit of it, just for sharpening his mind for the case at his work table now- the one Graham (?) given to him just before John left the flat. The one Sherlock wants to solve as the parameter for his intelligence. 

How much the substance affects his mind, and so far it didn’t like those simple minded human beings told to everyone. 

They didn’t have the same mind, his mind works in different ways. And it has always been like that.

The wooden stairs creaked with his controlled steps. He kept his steps rhythm stable, just in case Mrs. Hudson woke up and panicked because she thought there was an intruder in her flat. 

Not something unexpected- giving his job as consulting detective, of course there will be some abnormal things in his daily life. The first time was when his brother- Mycroft walked into her building in the middle of the night casually when she had made sure the door was locked.

 He still remembers his brother's expression when the landlady pointed the unexpected air gun at his head until Sherlock explained the situation to her. Well, not even his landlady in his life was normal, as expected. Later that week Mrs. Hudson casually shares her story of her youth life, she does gambling sometimes which makes John’s jaw dropped. 

Since the first intrusion, she was never really minded when people come and go from the boys flat, as long as they didn’t damage her property. So it was a point plus for Sherlock, she won’t really question his figure in and out from the flat in the middle of the night. 

He walked straight to his couch, not bothering to go to his room. John was not here and he missed the old time when he lived by himself and was free to do whatever he likes- using, smoking, drinking. But when John came as his flatmate, he tried as much as possible to try not to do it in front of his flatmate, giving his status as an army doctor. 

He didn’t want too much fuss from the doctor side of him. 

He once got caught drinking a full bottle of liquor in front of his flatmate, and ended with him explaining about alcohol abuse which he already knew- like bloody hell, it didn’t take a person to be a genius to know that!

Not tonight and for another night for 5 days at least. He can relax as much as he wants to- with some help of course. He opened a pack of cigarettes and took one in his finger. Light it and put it in his thin lips, inhaling the addictive smoke into his not-so-healthy-but-can-still-used-to-running-around-london lungs.

He didn’t know how many hours he spent rotting on his couch, he realized it’s already morning when he ran out of cigarettes. Checking on the clock in his phone, it’s already half past 6 in the morning. 

“Bloody hell” he cursed and get up to walk into their shared bathroom.

While he brushes his teeth with mint scented toothpaste then got into a short shower- even though he didn’t stank, he just hates the clammy feeling on his skin. Walking out with his usual grey t-shirt and training, he walked towards the recent case report from…Gregory?

His abdomen was crumbling- like usual after missed daily meals since John left. The thought of the digestive process he has to endure after he ate makes him annoyed. Imagine the energy he has to spent for that, and then the tiredness, the feeling of fullness in his stomach. 

What if he has to chase some murderer? The after effect of eating will slow his speed, feeling nauseous had not been counted.

And what if he gains weight? It would cause many health issues. Beside that, mummy will humiliate him more, comparing him with his brother and her friend's son, blah blah blah. He has a lot of things to do, and does not want to trade it with her blabbering. 

He worked his hands to scratch the paper, noting some things he has to specialize. Yes, a case about drug trafficking, very complex- from the Scotland Yard perspective. And unfortunately, his supplier was in that case. 

Of course, he has to erase some of the evidence that led to him. Not much- he can not afford them to suspect him. 

He needs to finish this case before John finishes his medical conference. The blond man's presence will make his mission harder, since the doctor was very aware of addictive substances- giving his background as a broken home child because of alcohol and drug abuse. 

It doesn’t take him a lot of time to finish it, its barely 15 minutes when he finished all of his work . And this is the time for……

“Oh dear, look at this mess! 2 days since John left and this place already looks like it has been hit by a tornado. Oh I don't know where to start…”

Mrs Hudson came from his flat door, walking towards the kitchen with all of her usual chirping about the mess his flat had.

“You can start from the kitchen. Oh! Please be careful with my specimen on the counter.” he said while he hid some of the papers.

“ Well I have to remind you that I am not your housekeeper, young man.” She said while throwed some unused paper on the living room floor.

He didn’t say anything. Lean his back onto his black leather couch and closed his eyes– waiting until his landlady got out. It took her almost half an hour until the flat looked tidier. She said something about keeping the flat clean until John came back but he didn’t heard it.

He has more important thing to do than keeping the flat tidy.

After the sound of the door closed, he pick up his mobile from the table. Dialing Lestrade.

“What–”

He has not finished when the younger man interrupted.

“Found the suspect, it was the man with black jacket, he’s the supplier. The other man is only his old mate from college, he just wants the money. “ and the call ended, no more explanation. If the Scotland yard wanted it, they surely would just come to his flat themself. 

He throw himself back onto the black leather sofa, looking at the white dusty ceiling deeply.

He won’t know if this will be the last time he look at it. 

Chapter Text

Throw himself on the queen sized hotel bed, it had been a long day. He did not expect to meet one of his colleagues from the army at the expo today. They did not really know each other that far, but they share the same experience of helping some injured soldiers back at the Afganistan. It seems like his friend was a private doctor for some wealthy family.

“Yeah poor guy, he threw away his bright future only just to become a drug addict.” That sentence successfully catched John's attention.

“Drug addict?”

“Yeah, his family just found out last year which is his third year of using. They found out when he acted weird at family dinner. Surely his use is from the big pressure from his own family. ya know, part of being the perfect-wealthy-fam.” He said casually while sipping’ a glass of champagne.

Huh, the sentence about being a perfect-wealthy-family reminded him of the Holmes family. Well, both of their sons have their own bright career, they must be very proud of them. But, he never saw Holmes' parents photo– both Mycroft and Sherlock never talked about them. He once asked Sherlock about his parents and his answer was just…. Sherlock.

“Nothing special, basic lovely old couple.” he said while lighting a cigar.

“I have not known you visited them since I moved in.” he tried to encourage.

“Oh do I look like I have time for that?” 

That's it.

Typical Sherlock Holmes answer and he can not expect any difference from Mycroft. But he said lovely old couple right? It sounded like they still have a good relationship with their parents. No way he said that if he had bad things with his parents. 

Except he was being sarcastic…… oh no no

No way, he did not have his usual face while being sarcastic that time. Even if he was being sarcastic that time, he was a bloody Sherlock Holmes! It's not like anyone from Holmes' family likes to really show their affection towards each other, not openly at least. 

Damn Holmes with their high sense of security.

Well maybe both of their parents also held high positions in England, just like their sons. But it’s not his business anyway, even if Sherlock actually did not have the best relationship with them, at least he’s not living with them anymore. He has John, he’s not alone.

And Mycroft….. He’s of course capable of protecting his baby brother from any dangers, right ? Lesterade would also like to help if anything ever happens.

Oh God, he only left for 2 bloody days and he already felt something wrong with his flatmate.

He hopes he can go back to Baker Street early, something just doesn’t sit right in his stomach.

-

His stomach crumbled– a way of protest for its emptiness. His body demands real food, but he just can’t. He lets himself too far, eating everything John gave him, tea with 2 sugars, Angelo’s, Mrs. Hudson biscuits, toast, 3 meals everyday. Last time he checked with his secret scales under his duvet, he was 145 pounds. Way too heavy for his line of work. Too fat to run fast, too big to squeeze himself into a small alley. He must have looked like a pig while chasing the criminal. A very fat pig, ready to slaughter. 

While John looks proud when he gains some fat in his cheekbones, it's not an ideal look for him. He must lose at least 9 pounds this week. He won’t look too much different  in everyone’s point of view while also having the lightest weight he can for his liking. 

And to achieve that, he needs to deficit his calories at 30,800 calories. Not eating wasn’t enough, he needed footwork. And thankfully the substance he takes, not only helps ease his mind, it also helps him to lose some weight. Reducing his appetite so he did not eat like a pig. 

But, what if they actually realize his weight loss? Even though it’s not too much loss, he was surrounded with a bunch of dramatically medical experienced people. They would talk about nutrition, health damage, and so on about it not being ideal for them.

OF COURSE IT WON’T BE IDEAL FOR THEM– for most people who wasn’t a bloody Sherlock Holmes. For people that did not have to run around London at the most random time to chase a criminal with a gun. Bold of them to think he did not calculate everything including his ideal weight.

Those called medical professionals only calculated the ideal weight based on general activities of humans. But he calculated his ideal weight based on his actual activities and every aspect of his life. And he had live with that calculation for years now and everything went well so far and will be like that in the future.

Nothing will change that

Not after all of this, he was sure of it.

He already prepared every logical reason for his weight loss if they noticed it. He was glad God gave him a slender figure so it won’t be very noticeable if he lost some of his fat but sadly it would be very noticeable if he gained even only a pound. 

And gaining weight only leads to Anderson and Donovan finds other words to humiliate him other than freak. Wonderful. 

Another crumble from his stomach annoys him. He and his bloody demanding body. His brains know that human can survive not eating for a month, as long as they drink water. But still, his stomach kept whining for something to digest. 

Besides, people with the said ‘healthy weight’ have its side effects. John, while having strong muscle to combat, he did not have the figure to squeeze himself in a narrow alley. Same with Lestrade. Molly, she has the right weight for all her female organs needed to function healthy  but she did not have the speed and slender figure to withstand air pressure while running. 

Just the thought about his weight gain already made him nauseous and leaning on his couch did not help with that. 

Carefully not to worsen the upset stomach, he lifted his body until he stood upright. He walked towards the corner of the living room where his violin was seated. Open its case carefully, then put the wood colored violin on his left shoulder. The weight felt right, easing some of his burdened mind. His right hand that grips the bows starts grinding its hair on the violins strings. Playing valse sentimentale, he closed his eyes, feeling every note played. 

The sounds filling the once silent flat. He remembers him and Mycroft play it in their childhood, Mycroft with his piano. Before Mummy yelled for their messy notes. 

His once relaxed face began to frown, the speed getting faster with his frown deepens. Suddenly he stop playing, his breath laboured like he just having a marathon. He put back the violin in its case.

Everything didn't feel right, its never feel right. Not for him. He needs some reliever, anything. He started scratching his arm deeply with his fingernails until his arm reddened with the irregular red lines trace from his nails digging his delicate skin. 

The soreness from his skin felt right, he felt…. Relieved. 

No, it's not a form of self harm, right ?

He did not cut his lower arm until it was bleeding and had his whole arm bandaged to make it obvious to everyone to notice what happened to his arm. He was just scratching, not harmful in any way, it doesn’t not even make him bleed. It's even a thing he can easily shrug off everyone, not like those self harm that need very complex explanations.

He’s not that fragile.

Never was.

Chapter Text

The phone laying on the table buzzed- a message.

Sherlock grabbed the phone then checked, already knowing who sent the message- Moriarty. No one else would chat him at this hour randomly. John would sleep in his hotel room, definitely too tired after the long talk with his colleague. Goyle (?) of course at the bar, looking for any woman that would likely fill the blank part left by his ex wife. Mycroft, too preaccupied by tons of paperwork, boring. So the only person left was Moriarty.

He checked the phone and froze from the text displayed on the screen.

I don’t know if the great Sherlock Holmes could feel such human emotion. Feeling insecure are you, Sherly :) ?
- JM

When he didn’t reply, another text appeared.

OMG, you are self harming yourself :( poor lil Sherlock, guess what will John do if he knew about this.
- JM

He stilled, just watching the text. He can feel his heart beating a little bit faster. He can feel….

Dread.

No

no no no no no no no no no no no no no no
no no no no no no no no no no no no no no

No one should ever know about this ! not John, not Mycroft, not Lestrade, not molly, not Mrs. Hudson.

No one.

Not Moriarty.

That walking bomb should never know, let alone bring this in their own war. But, showing that will make him more excited. Knowing how desperate his nemesis about his own state. Yet, Sherlock knows how to deal with it.

Enlighten me
. - SH

He texted back. The best (and neutral) answer, given the situation he was in.

And that’s it, no other reply from the initial JM.
He was probably already bored at this rate, knowing he can’t get the answer he wanted. Yes, he was bored. And

And he will….he will get bored of him.

And

And everyone

Will also get bored of him

-of Sherlock Holmes

AND HE’S GOING TO BE A FUCKING LOSER

THE LOSER HE’S TRYING TO GET RID OF HIMSELF

HE’S BETTER THAN THIS!

And suddenly he craves the curiosity of his arch enemy on the other side of the phone.

He waited long enough where the flat went silent- a rare moment with Sherlock Holmes in it. However, this silence makes him uncomfortable. The type of silence that will swallow you, eat your soul alive till it leaves nothing but the emptiness itself.

His hand then rest on his left chest, feel his heartbeat. The only evidence of him being alive.

-

“John- “

“John Watson!”

John jerked, he almost dropped the glass of wine he held. He looked at his colleague standing in front of him right now with a worried expression.

“You good, mate?” He asked, his greyish eyebrow frowned.

John’s eyes roamed, trying to remember where he was and what's going on right now. And yeah, he’s in a mini after dinner gathering.

“O-oh, i’m good. Just…. You know, the food was so good that it made me think about it until now.” he tried to reassure the man in front of him. John can see his colleagues expression softened and then a smile appeared at his sunburn type of reddened soldier face. They then bursted into laughter.

“Ahaha mate! I know it must not be a rare moment to taste this much calories. Pork, steak, turkey, carrot. Your meal with the great detective must be heaven! He wants everything to be as healthy as possible to keep his figure fit with all those muscles to beat off London’s bollocks.”
The older man patted his shoulder.

Speaking about dinner, John suddenly remembered he hadn’t asked about his flatmate’s day today. And meals…. John rarely saw Sherlock eating anything with calories as high as this dinner unless they were at Mycroft’s or Angelo's. Even when eating in Angelo’s, Sherlock usually ordered the same simple meal. It's always John who ate most of the high calorie meals–

Oh bloody hell.

That’s the reason why it's only John who seemed to gain some weight. But….Sherlock

He looked physically fit.

He wasn’t ?

Well, that git never once really showed his bare body to John since they visited the palace. That day, as far as John observed– Sherlock seemed fit, the muscle mass and fat was just at the right proportion as a consulting detective.

“Well… maybe you’re right haha.” he decided that was the right answer.

“Ah well, you must be so tired that you have started to doze off. Go back to your room and sleep. You still need the energy for tomorrow.” The bearded man took his wine glass off his hand and gave it to the waiter. He then pushed John to the door, a sign to order him back to his room.

John complied with the order. He gave his colleague a slight nod and a simple “good night then.” then walked his once limp leg towards his room. The hallway was decorated with soft yellow lights. He can see the street’s blue lights from the window in the hallway.

Somehow, it reminded him of him and Sherlock. John as the warm yellow lights, and Sherlock as the cold blue lights. It's always sat on the back of John’s mind. The blue represented his flatmate so much without an actual reason, it was just– a feeling, a connection.

Okay, that was a silly thought. Sherlock would called him irrelevant for it. Well, fuck it out. Maybe he should write that on their blog one day. And there he was, in his room already. He can’t even remember how he got here! Sherlock really filled his mind, even without his physical presence here with him.

“Oh right, Sherlock.”

He pulled his phone out of his trouser's right pocket. No need to search Sherlock contact, it’s always the first one to pop out there. His rough fingers dancing on the screen, typed some words.

Hey, how’s today? You didn't burn the flat did ya.
-JW

There was no answer for the next ten minutes. It’s almost worried John, until he remember, the other side of the phone he was talking to is Sherlock.

Be more reasonable John, I kept this flat still intact even before you moved in. I believe I can still do that even after you come back.
-SH

Sounds good then. Well lets see it for the next two days when i come back.
-JW

There’s no other response. You can’t expect too much from a Holmes anyway– He shrugged it off. Maybe a warm bath and a peaceful sleep will ease his mind a little bit…..

It’s NOT.

He didn’t know why and what. But, something just didn’t sit well in his gut. He thought it was just a nerves, given to the fact that this is the first time he come to this kind of gathering since he moved to Baker street. But no, everything literally reminded him of the curly haired man in his flat.

Something just feels…… wrong. Unsettling.

Like there will be a storm out of nowhere. And that will happen at Baker street, on something– no.Someone.

Someone important in his life.

And unexpectedly, his gut told him that he can prevent it. Prevented the worst impact of the storm.

John tossed and turned for the next two hours. And come with a conclusion.

He can’t deny it anymore. He needed to go back to Baker Street.

Chapter Text

He can felt how his worn out grey t-shirt clung onto his collarbone. How every oxygen fills his lungs. How his nostril flared when he let out his breath. How the clock didn’t stop it’s consistent rhythm. How his stomach acid threatens to fill his mouth. How the quiet buzz of the refrigerator in the kitchen. How the bed cover felts rough on his exposed skin. How he can felt every atom on his body met the atoms of his surroundings.

His mouth tastes sour from the past throw up sension in his shared bathroom. He was not sick. It was completely normal to throw up nothing after not eating anything for the past 3 days, that was how science works.

It may not show on his face, but he was satisfied. He can felt getting lighter, less fat. Felt how loose his clothes now, just like how he likes it. Besides, it will make his soul float faster when he die if he was this light. He can’t comprehend people being okay with their body heavier than 132 lbs, except women though. Women need extra weight and fat. But he was not a woman, so of course he needed to maintain that standard.

And John…. Well…

He was a soldier, it was common knowledge that soldiers in general tend to need more weight to maintain muscle mass. They need the punch strength, not the flexibility to squeeze between building and car. And again, Sherlock was not a woman nor soldier.

But besides him being satisfied, he still can not stop the past message from Moriarty. He can felt the bile rise in his mouth again just from the mere thought about it.

He tried, tried to shrug it off from his brain. But the fact that Garry (?) had not sent another case for him was unsettling in more ways they can think of. It felt like a mock, a constant evidence of how clear the truth was. That everyone started to get bored of Sherlock Holmes, even criminals. Not something he was not expected, but it was kind of unsettling for him. Not that he wants to voice it out loud. Guess, God just liked to mock him.

There was a constant will to bangs his head repeatedly until his skull tore open and his brain scattered everywhere and his head and everything near his body covered in blood –leaving a clear evidence for everyone to see him relieved his headache. Why not just go to a psychiatrist or someone who clearly had a medical license to actually help him? That's a stupid question. He was fine, this is normal. A side effect of having the ‘gift’ from God,

Or rather grief.

Stephen Hawking had Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, Albert Einstein in fact had a disease named after him, Ludwing Boltzmann had severe mental health issues and asthma. Hell, even his whole family had their own side effects. Myc always had trouble losing his fat, but Sherlock can easily lose it. Father had issues to voice out his thoughts clearly, but Sherlock can do it for the whole yard to hear. Mummy had difficulty managing her emotion, but Sherlock can manage the same emotion for days-months. He tried to minimize the Holmeses curse, but some of it can be a double-edged sword for him.

Sure he can maintain the same emotion for days, even months. Different from his mother with bipolar. But then again, as he just said, you can’t really make a tiger lost its instinct to kill. He can maintain being overwhelmed for days and months. Not everything can soothe it too. He remembered his childhood when he was locked in his room for screaming and banging his head non stop because he was overwhelmed by the way the fan buzzed, Myc loud jaw chewing his food, Mum’s perfume, Father flipping the newspaper. He did not have any reliever back then.

But now, God sent him his mercy in the form of white powder, light brown liquid, burnin’ ashes, knives, white as a sheet tablet, and murder. The help.

But in the name of hellish nightmare he had, those were the things he can’t let anyone know. Something that was his weakness yet also his strength. He now can still felt nagging feeling in his mind– demanding a release. Some sting would do that for now, so that was exactly what he was going to do.

No need to search any sharp object, they were laying everything now while John was not around. Their sharp edges look so beautiful like diamonds when struck by any light, begging to be used. Who was Sherlock to refuse? He will absolutely grant both their greed. The greed of blood.

Slowly– so slow so he could felt every sweet familiar white agony it sparked. Just like a hunter sliced the dragon neck delicately. How his skin turned to be an open canvas for a personal painting. Something some collectors demand to see, yet would not care whose the artist was. A painting the paint so special, not because of the brand. Very pigmented, vibrant on every canvas. The paint everyone had but not many could use.

Yet he was the artist here, using the color so brave but never let his work be exposed. He dedicated it only for himself, being guarded in every way possible. Protected it to never be seen. And the best part of it

No one knew he liked to paint.

Oh the pure bliss of it, the way his pupils get bigger and bigger. Endorphine rises to block the pain and increase the euphoria in his mind –the body’s natural painkiller. Released in response to pain, stress, and pleasurable activities like exercise, eating, and sex. Key functions include relieving pain, reducing stress and anxiety, alleviating symptoms of depression, and boosting the immune system.

Those information floated in his mind. His way of justificated what he did just right now, yesterday, tomorrow, and so on. God really made every human action have a purpose. He liked science.
And now

How about he used his knowledge in organic chemistry to his body. Just to prove God’s careful purpose of making them. He still had enough grams and milliliters of materials to do an ‘experiment’.

The last project.