Digestion Slows You Down,
but Hunger Knocks You Down

John sighed and stared out the window of their flat, awaiting the arrival of the take-away that he had ordered twenty minutes ago. They've just finished a case-kidnapping turned to hostage situation. Quite dull in the beginning, Sherlock had said. That had, of course, changed, thus leading up to the stand-off and the clearing of the situation.

But, now, everything was resolved. John wanted to curl up with his Italian take-away and catch the next episode of that war drama that he had started watching last week. He was tired, he was cold, and he was hungry, in no mood to stand by and wait for slow take-away delivery.

Good case, yes, but John was tired. He tended to get a little grouchy when Sherlock dragged him out of bed at the crack of dawn and they didn't stop for food (John didn't really think the breakfast bar he'd grabbed on the way out of the flat had much importance in the matter).

"They take bloody forever from this place," John mumbled, looking around at Sherlock for some sort of response.

Sherlock didn't respond. His gaze was trained into the distance, his long fingers wrapped lovingly around his violin and bow and, while he wasn't playing, he didn't seem to notice that John was looking at him at all.

"Sherlock," John said, a bit annoyed. "Get back to earth. The case is over."

Sherlock jumped and looked at John as though he had just remembered that he was there. (Something that was possible.) "Yes..."

John noticed a nearly imperceptible shiver take Sherlock's frame and he was about to comment on it when Sherlock seemed to uproot himself from his stance and took a step... his legs promptly collapsing out from underneath him.

"Sherlock!"

John jumped forward to catch his friend as he fell, a feat by no means easy when the friend in question was six foot half inch. The added weight made John's legs buckle and they both went down, although Sherlock's fall was a little more graceful and involved less of cracking his head on the floor.

Sherlock's long legs got tangled in his own and the detective's head conveniently dropped itself against John's shoulder, his hair tickling his neck as he struggled to sit up straight.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, talk to me," John said, rearranging himself so that he could lower Sherlock's deadweight to the floor. Instinct prevailed and he put the detective into the recovery position, fingers falling to the pulse point in his neck. "Sherlock."

He should have noticed before, perhaps- but he had been distracted. Now he was seeing that Sherlock's face was more pale than usual and there were beads of sweat along his hairline. John swept those away as he pushed Sherlock's bangs away to feel for a fever.

"Sherlock," he repeated again, undoing the second button on Sherlock's shirt for good measure. He had just pulled away when Sherlock's eyelids started fluttering.

He seemed to struggle for a moment, teetering on the edge of light and darkness, conscious and sleep, before his mind prevailed in its usual manner.

John smiled worriedly down into the confusion-glazed eyes staring up at him. "You passed out," he said.

Sherlock seemed to process this for a moment before he let out a breath, and with it, an "oh..." of a sudden realisation. He shifted a bit and proceeded to try and sit up, but not before John caught his face whiten further and his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

"Go easy," John said, helping him sit up slowly. "When's the last time you ate something substantial?"

Sherlock leaned back against the coffee table, sighing thinly through his teeth. "What's today...?"

John resisted the very strong urge to sigh. These questions should be foreign to a man who never left the house without cashmere scarf and leather gloves. Of course, John had come to expect that Sherlock couldn't be bothered to keep track of what day it is. "Monday."

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Friday."

John did sigh this time. "No surprise. Your blood sugar's probably down. Stay here."

"It seems unlikely to think that I would manage to go anywhere else," Sherlock mumbled, closing his eyes.

John hurried into the kitchen and poured a cup of apple juice, making sure not to top the glass off. He returned to Sherlock and pressed the cup into the detective's shaking hands. He'd left just enough space in the cup so that Sherlock wouldn't spill it accidentally.

While Sherlock risked a few sips at that, John ran upstairs to his nightstand and grabbed a handful of the wine gums he kept there. Sherlock normally despised sweets, although he wouldn't say no to black liquorice or blueberry tartlets or apple crisp, and tended to use any sweets as bait for a new experiment. John kept what he wanted in his room... even though he was sure that Sherlock knew it was there.

"Here," he said, crouching down next to Sherlock again. He dumped the wine gums into Sherlock's free hand. "Eat those, too."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, the little crease on the bridge of his nose that appeared showing his displeasure at the idea.

"You need to get your sugar up," John said patiently. "Eat those and you can eat a proper dinner shortly."

Sherlock sighed, but placed a couple of the wine gums on his tongue.

When John was satisfied by Sherlock's uncomfortable shifting and the colour regained to his cheeks, he allowed Sherlock to flop himself onto the couch. John suspected that he might stay there all night.

"Better?"

"I suppose." Sherlock placed another wine gum in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "You only ordered enough Italian for one."

John remembered his take-away order and thought, with a bit of guilt, that he should have insisted on Sherlock eating. He usually got him to eat when a case was finished; actually, Sherlock was usually famished after a case was solved. "Yes... Well, we'll share. Or I'll make you something."

Sherlock reached for his glass, only to find it empty. He gave it a look, as though it had personally wronged him, before looking at John. "Do we still have the leftover pasta?"

John snapped his fingers. "Yes. I thought you had used it on an experiment." He took Sherlock's glass from him and went to the kitchen to refill it. "I'll heat it up for you."

Ten minutes later, John had a piping hot plate of pasta with four cheese sauce, broccoli, carrots, and peas in hand. "I spruced it up a bit," he said in response to Sherlock's raised eyebrow as he set the plate onto the sitting room table.

Sherlock simply shrugged and pushed himself lethargically off the sofa, flopping into the table's chair. He picked up his fork and started eating without a word.

John poured himself and the detective a cup of tea, setting them both on the table when the doorbell downstairs rang. He sprinted downstairs for his take-away- in the bustle, he'd momentarily forgotten that he was hungry- and sat himself down with Sherlock. "You're alright, then?"

Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of pasta, chasing it down with a gulp of tea. "Yes. It isn't the first time that I've passed out over something so inane."

"Inane... yeah, right," John muttered

"Isn't that show on?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

John glanced up at him. "Hm?"

"That... that war drama programme. The thing you were watching... The main guy who's having an affaire with the other woman?"

"Oh! Right, I'd forgotten," John muttered, picking up his take-away box and grabbing the remote. He flopped onto the sofa and turned the telly on.

Shortly, Sherlock joined him on the sofa, drawing his legs onto the cushions. His gaze was directed towards the TV, although John wondered if he was watching it. They sat in silence (although every so often, Sherlock's brow furrowed and he muttered something under his breath) and John didn't complain when Sherlock snuck pieces of food from his dinner.


Sherlock passing out because his sugar's low is just so possible with the BBC!verse, canon, y'know? And it's so cute if John has to take care of him afterwards. :)

I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!