Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock. T for language.

It's Thursday, and he's walking––yes walking––back to the flat with John, and it's not raining. John mentions food or groceries or how the rotting foot in the freezer really has got to go, it's been there for a month already, but Sherlock ignores him, deeply involved in a particularly complex tangent about the case. He's talking fast, waving his arms in all sorts of ridiculous manner, deducing again, always deducing, so John just sighs and stays quiet.

Sherlock is focusing on the ground in front of him and then everything just––goes away. He's perplexed for a moment by the onset of darkness, for the sun has barely even set but he's deleted light-headness and what comes after and he thinks he hears his named being spoken, but he can't be sure. There's a moment where he's in absolute limbo, and it's terrifying, to be frank. And then ow ow ow fuck how did he end up on the concrete, John, John, where are you, John?

His leg is twisted under him and he opens his eyes and sees his doctor, fretting and checking his pulse and swearing, "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, when was the last time you ate?" but ow ow ow ow.

Sunday, he thinks, but he's still got a few more days because it's only Tuesday, right?

At the mention of 'hospital' Sherlock snaps to attention. "No, no, I'm fine."

John looks at him, incredulous. "Fine? Passed out on the street is fine to you?" but Sherlock looks at him with serious eyes, no hospital, they say, but John knows why and he still doesn't like it.

He heaves a sigh. "Fine. Although I should call Lestrade and tell him to take you off the case, for this."

Sherlock half smirks and John pulls him to sitting stature, and moves his leg, bending it at the knee. Sherlock winces noticeably and John shoots him another look this one saying you are such an insufferable idiot, good god what is wrong with you.

The apple juice is warm and feels positively viscous as it slides down his throat. Sherlock is perched on the sofa, leg still sore, John thinks he's pulled a muscle or something, but Sherlock thinks he's making a fuss. He's always making a fuss. And doesn't take well to the backhanded comment that "this happens all the time".

"What do you mean, 'all the time'?"

Sherlock gives him a steady look. "Side affect of not eating, if you can believe it."

"What––you mean the fainting?"

Sherlock cringes inwardly. He hates that word, faint. It makes him think of smelling salts and tight dresses. He sighs. "Do we really need to talk about this." He sips the juice. It's positively revolting.

"Wh––yes, we need to talk about this! You have to eat Sherlock, it's not optional, it's mandatory."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Dull. "Please don't patronize me."

"Then stop acting like a stubborn child."

"What are you going to do, mummy? No dessert until I finish my dinner? Hold the case files hostage? Call Lestrade?"

"I'll do what I have to."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Oh, for God's sake–– "I didn't think it would bother you so much."

"––? Of course it bothers me, Sherlock! I can't have you fainting all over the place! What if I wasn't there? What if you fell down the stairs and cracked your head open? Your brilliant bloody brain would be all over the damned floor."

Sherlock looks at him, disturbed. "Okay, okay, fine, I'll eat." Good god.

John fluffs his newspaper. "Good. You can start by finishing that." He gestures to the half-finished glass of amber liquid.

They speak later. Sherlock is still curled up on the sofa, the telly buzzing softly. John taps lightly on his keyboard, peering at Sherlock over the screen.

"I'm glad you agreed to eat. I'd've hate to call Mycroft."

Sherlock's look is one of horror. "He'd have me committed!"

"It would be for the best."

The consulting detective rolled angrily onto his side. "Best for you lot, maybe.

A/N: remember when I used to be quality


me neither

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