Sherlock had suddenly been hungry. For anyone else, this may have been normal, but for Sherlock?... Well, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been hungry.

Sherlock's mother had been gently encouraged him to eat his peas. It wasn't as gentle anymore. Sherlock didn't like what his mother was saying. Not the words, he wasn't listening to those, but the way she said them, they sounded like broken glass and tears and sighing and shattered vases during arguments. Sherlock didn't like it. But he didn't like peas even more. They were much too unpredictable. He could never figure out how to get them on the fork (use the spoon, no, no spoons) and he'd chase them around his plate. If they ever made it to his mouth they could be counted on to burst unpredictably. So no. He would not eat them. Even though his mother was pleading and Mycroft was... doing that Mycroft thing with his face and his father wasn't there.

John seemed to notice. Sherlock supposed, since John was normally so concerned with his lack of eating that this turn of events would please him. Not so much. He eyed him, trying to not let Sherlock see that, but it was Sherlock so why was John even bothering?

So while Sherlock tried to rationalize with his body (you are just transport I do the decision making and your desperate growlings and needing to be fed are interfering with my work and slowing me down!) it didn't seem to work.

Mycroft was the only one who knew how to comfort him. Mummy did that thing that really only scared Sherlock more than comforted him. He never told her this though. But Mycroft knew how to make it better. He would hold Sherlock and squeeze him until he could breathe without feeling like he might explode or implode (and become a black hole sucking everything up, sucking, sucking everything) or crawl out of his skin. Mycroft squeezed him until he felt like he fit again. Sherlock had to admit, it was one of the only things Mycroft was good for.

Sleep was boring. Pointless.

Lounging on the couch was one thing (even though John pointed out it really wasn't that different, as he seemed to be practically comatose when he was on the couch) but sleeping, especially in his bed, was another thing entirely.

First of all, he had to clean out his bed so he could sleep in it. When he did sleep, it was usually on the couch, or in completely random places, like the bathtub or John's bed. (John was not amused.) So he used his bed as storage. So when he decided that sleep would be good (four days on a case, finally was over, hadn't slept since... he couldn't remember, which was a bad sign) he had to move all the stuff off his bed before he could collapse on it. He couldn't remember his spare microscope weighing that much, but it was a rather old piece of equipment, so it would be heavier than his newer model.

And he collapsed into unconsciousness (blessed unconsciousness) and slept.

"Not good?"

"A bit not good, yeah."

John was good for explaining. Even though sometimes he did it condescendingly (or at least it appeared that way to Sherlock, he could never really tell) Sherlock could tell that he did care. John never called him a freak or a psychopath (Anderson that idiot) and understood that Sherlock couldn't get it. So he helped. And Sherlock could see why it was not good. But his brain worked too fast sometimes that he couldn't keep up so words came out without being sorted into good or not good. It just happened. And John helped before Sherlock's brain could catch up.

John seemed concerned. Again, Sherlock wondered why he was concerned with Sherlock fulfilling his bodily needs when he had always seemed so concerned that he wasn't. Sherlock suspected that John wasn't happy unless he was worrying about Sherlock. John was a doctor after all. It's (as Sherlock heard on crap telly and from the people at the Yard and couldn't manage to delete) 'how he rolls'.

Mycroft had warned Sherlock not to climb trees. But Sherlock was pretty sure the only reason Mycroft didn't want him to was because he couldn't, because as Sherlock liked to remind him, he was too heavy and would break the branches.

So Sherlock climbed anyway, which was how he managed to fall and break his leg.

It was rather fascinating. He would have made more detailed notes and observations about the experience had he not been blinking back tears. He was only 9 at the time, so it was understandable that the pain of having his leg bent where there was no joint could make him cry, but he was embarrassed anyway.

He was enthralled during the ambulance ride (after he had been given some lovely drugs, much better than the ones he was given after the surgery which made him get sick everywhere) and was thrilled he got to keep a copy of the x-rays. He still has them somewhere, as a memory of the one and only time Mycroft was ever right, and ever would be.



He rolled over. Slightly. Barely. It was too much effort. Tired.

"Are you okay?"

He snorted softly. A million answers raced through his mind (are you not a doctor? Do I look fine?Am I ever not okay? Deduce it.) but he did not indulge John's laziness with an answer. He was a doctor after all. He could figure it out if he so desired. Sherlock had a suspicion. Not that he was going to tell John that.

He looked at John. He was worried. (Obvious)

Hadn't slept. Cancelled last night's date (with who?), hasn't been to the surgery for three... no four days. Sarah wouldn't be pleased.

His brain was foggy. He blinked. Nothing new appeared. There had to be more... there was always more. Especially to John. John was so deliciously full of more, so unboring, so new.

But there wasn't. And that worried Sherlock more than the exhaustion or sudden need of his body for refueling.

"Tired," he offered, because he knew John would find this admission of weakness more revealing than anything else.

When Sherlock was three, he could have sworn he remembered being born. He told mummy this, and she told him that he was being utterly ridiculous, that no one could remember their birth, besides they never talked about that sort of thing and what had Mycroft been telling him.

When Sherlock told Mycroft, who was older and therefore much cleverer, Mycroft told him that was something they couldn't talk to the grownups about because it made them feel funny.

Sherlock didn't understand, so Mycroft told him it made mummy feel the way Sherlock felt when the caterpillar he was watching make a chrysalis and change into a butterfly disappeared because Sherlock was bad and his father took it away.

Sherlock understood this.

Once again, John had not listened.

Sherlock had said he was fine, and John had worried.

Sherlock had said he was tired and just needed to sleep, and John kept waking him up.

Sherlock has said he just needed to 'refuel', and John had carefully noted everything he ate.

Sherlock had always insisted no hospital, and yet here he was waking up in one again.

Sherlock would have though that John never listened to anything he said if it weren't for his 'amazing!' and 'fantastic!' comments after Sherlock spouted some brilliant (and obvious) deductions at a crime scene.

But it was times like these that Sherlock wondered if those were imagined.

No matter how brilliant he was, he couldn't fix things.

He could figure out why they were broken, what they looked like before, how they broke, and how they fit back together, like a giant puzzle, but he couldn't fix them.

He couldn't fix the cup he broke, no matter how well he stuck the pieces back together, even with glue. John noticed. It leaked.

He couldn't fix his leg when it broken (stupid Mycroft, he looked so smug).

He couldn't fix his butterfly's broken chrysalis after father broke it. (He was bad it was taken away.)

He couldn't fix mummy's sad face when Sherlock couldn't ('didn't' she said, he always could) listen or behave or be normal like Mycroft.

He couldn't fix the words that came from his father, harsh and mean and grating.

He couldn't fix himself. (Broken, broken, broken.)

And so John's inability to listen was what led Sherlock to his third (or perhaps fourth?) hospital visit in as many months. Approximately. Considering that Sherlock rarely knew what day it was, it was difficult to keep track of weeks and months.

John was looking at him.

Concerned. Worried. (Obvious) Hadn't slept well. Been here for about a day. (Hard to tell with the light in the hospital, artificially lit and sustained.)

Sherlock realized that there was more. More to John. Layers upon layers to be peeled away and examined with the same attention to detail that he used for tobacco ash and perfumes.

This was better. Much better.

John was speaking. Sherlock wasn't listening. Or it seemed that way. John knew it was likely. Sherlock rarely listened.

So John stopped. And waited. And waited.

Until finally Sherlock stopped flitting his eyes over John, likely deducing everything that had happened, from Sherlock passing out, and probably where, to what John's disappointing breakfast had been, eaten here but gotten from the hospital cafeteria.

Until finally Sherlock looked up at John, and instead of looking at John, he looked to John.

Then John knew he could speak and Sherlock would hear.

Completely unfair. Sherlock was fuming.

Mycroft was the one who ate cakes and pastries. Mycroft was the one who should have gotten diabetes.

But John, the ever patient doctor, (Sherlock had no idea how he did it day in and day out, explaining tedious things like why he would not prescribe antibiotics for the common cold) explained to Sherlock that was the wrong type of diabetes. Sherlock heard some of that, a bit about types one and two, but mostly tuned it out, muttering about genetics and karma and how he was going to abuse Mycroft.

He knew John would take care of him. John was his doctor after all. But most of all, John was his friend.