I don't even know what I'm doing with this.
Warnings: ED, SI and probable slash. And swearing.
I do not own the rights to the characters. Or the rights to anything, lets be honest.
Life at an eating disorder clinic was never intended for thrill seekers or anyone looking for the slightest bit of enjoyment. This was a fact, not an opinion.
The brightly painted walls, soft sofas and piles of books, DVD's and magazines (all carefully chosen as not to encourage negative body image) were a painful contrast to the miserable looking occupants that shuffled aimlessly around the halls, desperate to burn just a few more calories. Rows of girls wrapped in ratty gowns and too loose jeans, all looking tired and washed out versions of themselves.
Kind faced nurses ushered them like sheep to seemingly never ending meals and snacks, all laden with secretive, hidden calories, encouraged them to eat and ignored the tantrums thrown in the dining room every meal, without fail, by the one patient that had had enough, had gained half a kilo more than expected and was never, ever, ever going to eat again as a result.
Life was not much more enjoyable when you were the only male.
Sherlock Holmes was aged sixteen years and four months when Mycroft and his mother had made the mutual agreement that they could no longer stand Sherlock's tantrums, his moods and, most of all, his aversion to food. Mother had packed his bags whilst Mycroft has been able to arrange the paperwork.
It had taken less than ten hours for him to be admitted, with a BMI of just 12, kicking and screaming, to The Creek Clinic, accompanied by his weary mother.
Sherlock had been less than pleased.
The Creek, itself, wasn't the problem. It was set in the outskirts of Windsor, near a small, sleepy village that contained all of the basics, a small pub, an even smaller shop and a post office.
The Creek itself consisted of several buildings, neatly divided into those that didn't eat and those that ate too much, with both parties having very little contact with the other. The dorms were made up of simple, yet comfortable, rooms were shared by two people with an en suite bathroom. There were plenty of facilities, ranging from a fully equipped gym and pool to a small library and chapel. And a kitchen that was accessible 24/7, just in case you were cured in the early hours of the morning and simply couldn't wait until breakfast.
No, the Creek was a perfectly suitable place for those that would benefit from the type of care it offered and had the type of problems it catered for.
Sherlock however, did not.
Sherlock did not, no matter how the so-called professionals (i.e quacks) argued otherwise, have a 'problem'.
He skipped meals on occasion. So what? Everyone did. Not everyone had time to stuff their faces silly constantly. Even Mycroft stopped for breath, once, at 4pm on December 18th. Mainly because he was being promoted at that exact moment and the cream cakes had run short, but that's hardly the point. Food wasn't always necessary.
He had been there four months now, despite him denying there was anything wrong with him.
The food was unappetizing and wholly unappealing, he would, of course, eat it otherwise. And sometimes it just didn't sit right, too much grease or fat or something, so that's why he purged.
Nothing sinister or, God forbid, mental about it.
Sherlock Holmes did not have an eating disorder.
It had started of a normal day, as days are wont to do.
The curly haired teenager was sprawled languidly across the bed, a battered chemistry text, graffitied mercilessly in red pen and highlighter, held between slender fingers. The rain pelted relentlessly against the window, casting a grey light into the room and provided a calming white noise for the teen.
It had not been a good week. He had been unable to gain the weekly one kilo that they wanted, and hadn't really put in a huge amount of effort, if truth be told. As a result his weekend pass had been revoked, not that he had ever used it anyway. As was his time spent in the gym, which was more of an annoyance, as he had began to enjoy his boxing sessions there.
Úna, his key worker, had spent the morning sitting with him in his room, trying to get him to talk, open up about why he still refused to eat. A task that every other nurse, doctor and psychologist still seemingly failed at.
She was one of the more intelligent nurses, a middle aged woman who took careful pride in her appearance, hair always neat, uniform always ironed and impeccable. She had tried to discuss with him textures of food, tastes, body image and even the chemistry of food; having learned that was one of the few things that interested Sherlock. Yet they got nowhere.
Every patient entering the Creek was put on one of two programs. The first was an intensive six-week course, the other was a less intimidating twelve-week course.
Sherlock has been there 17 weeks now, and there was no intention of him leaving anytime soon.
His room was beginning to resemble more of a bedroom than any other patients, despite his careless attitude to the so-called 'personal touches' that the staff so ferociously encouraged.
His desk was filled with notes and newspaper clippings, books on chemistry and true crime causing the small shelf to creak and buckle under the strain. A poster of a intricately drawn, and more importantly anatomically correct skull hung over the headboard of the bed. A pack of cigarettes and lighter hidden carefully in the stuffing of the mattress, a fact that Úna chose to ignore. There was a notable absence of photographs, a feature that was almost uniform to every other bedroom at the clinic.
Úna sighed, getting nowhere with him.
'Have you even attended group sessions in the past fortnight?'
'No,' he answered, flicking the page of his book, trying to convey his disinterest in the conversation.
'The girls don't want me there.'
'Did they tell you that?'
'Why do you think they dislike your presence?'
'Because I'm male and I've taken their precious disease from them.'
'Do you ever pass unnecessary remarks?'
His eyes flicked up, amused.
'Why do you try to upset them?'
'I don't,' he replies, with genuine confusion, 'I just tell them what I see. Only I'm usually correct.'
'Right. Well, I'll try and sort you out with a different group. Try to play nice, eh, Sherlock?'
He doesn't respond, back to reading.
She leaves him alone in the peace he seems to crave, having reached no conclusion yet again.
There's a bit of a fuss down in reception and Sherlock's name is being thrown around, so she ambles down there instead of to the staff room for her ritual mid-morning cup of coffee.
Life is dull in the clinic and they take every opportunity to see something happen, be it Katy finally reaching her goal BMI or the grey heron that plucks gold koi fish from the pond with endless delight.
From what she can gather from this distance is that there is someone wanting to visit Sherlock.
She can't help but hope that it might be that weird brother of his, Myroft or Mycroft or something equally ridiculous. The staff all knew of him, yet he never showed his face, only pestered them for more details on his brother's recovery. His mother seemed to stay out of it completely, having showed up a week after the boy was admitted but never again, leaving without the tearful expression that Úna had been expecting from her.
Úna tried not to get angry on Sherlock's behalf. She didn't, try as she might, understand the situation for the family, maybe things were difficult, maybe his mother was unable to make the journey to see him.
Yet when she thought of her own six-year-old daughter waiting at home, she couldn't imagine sending her away and not visiting. The very thought made her stomach turn and knot.
But upon nearing the desk she could see that it was not his brother or his mother, but instead a gangly teenage boy still dressed in his ridiculous, distinctive Eton uniform. He was slouched on the counter, over-stuffed satchel hanging precariously from his shoulder.
'I dunno, we were like….in school together. Few years back?' he was telling the young girl on reception, looking out of place in the room.
The bemused receptionist beckoned Úna over, explaining the situation to her.
'This young man, urm, Victor Trevor, is it?' the young man in question nodded, 'right, well, he's looking for Sherlock. They went to Eton together. Apparently'
Úna eyed up the boy dubiously, his long hair flopping into his eyes with casual grace.
He looks like a twat, she thought, somewhat unfairly. It wasn't really his fault that he looked a little like an ex of hers. C'est la vie.
'He hasn't mentioned you, I'm afraid, Victor.'
'Yeah, well, it don't matter much. Just got some of his old things. Course work, if he wanted it or whatever,' he shrugged, not looking too put out.
Úna thought of the young boy, ridiculously alone, despite his refusal to admit it, even to himself. He would spend the rest of the day wrapped up in his studies, attending only what was enforced upon him and even then with a sour attitude coupled with obvious reluctance.
Perhaps a friend would do him good. Someone to talk to, someone ultimately normal, separate from eating disorders and medical staff.
Victor straightened up, grinning crookedly at her, flattening his brown hair against his head and straightening his jacket.
'I don't bite. Promise.'
'All right, go on,' and with that she led Victor Trevor to Sherlock's bedroom.
This is awful. But I have written it and have no self-control, so I will post it regardless.
Reviews would be fantastic! Even if to say 'please don't update, it's awful, like, so bad it's cruel'.
Victor Trevor isn't an OC. He appeared in The Adventure of Gloria Scott.
Thank you for reading! If anyone is slightly interested in an update, then so day, or else this will probably just be abandoned. I am not a driven person.