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There was that kind of a smell in the air. Acidic. Recent. He identified it as soon as he walked through the door.
Somebody was sick.
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In hindsight, the signs have been there for weeks. The flinch when he commented on her recent weight gain. The rustle of pockets when he passed her in the lab. The sudden use of gum and freshmints. Exaggerated mood swings.
Sherlock has put it down to insecurity, low self-esteem due to her apparent inability to find a suitable male partner. It’s only when he sees her peeling off her forensic gloves that he realises, and can’t believe he’s been so blind. The marks are bitten deep into her knuckles, red and raw, and it shocks in into silence in the middle of a particularly snide remark about the state of her teeth.
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It wasn’t Mrs Hudson. She had always been partial to Radio 2 when she was feeling off, and the flat downstairs was silent. John? Not probable, Sherlock mused; he’d only been gone for two hours and John’s spirited yelling as Sherlock made a quick exit from the flat belied the assumption that John was in any way suffering from poor health. Client, then? Wonderful. He had been gone just two hours and his incompetent flatmate had managed to let a client vomit in his flat.
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She looks up at his sudden quiet, and catches him staring. Sherlock has difficulty finding the words to describe the look that flashes across her face before she’s on her feet and scrambling for the door. Something a little bit like shame and a little bit like anger and a little bit like sadness.
He leans forwards on the table top and rests his head on his hands. He should have known. After all, he’s seen it before.
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It was when he found the door closed and the flat dark and silent that Sherlock began to panic. There was no client. John had made tea, but left it on the desk. Still slightly warm – only one cup. He had been alone, and something had interrupted him. The door was unlocked, so he was still home, unless he had to leave in a hurry. Or by force. But there were no signs of a struggle.
Sherlock knew it would be sensible to call John’s name, but his worries were blocking his throat and all he could manage was a half-hearted whisper.
He repeated his most important deduction under his breath as he ghosted into the kitchen area. No signs of a struggle. No signs of a struggle. No signs of a struggle. It’s when he noticed the cabinet and fridge doors flung wide open and the contents in disarray that he panicked and John’s name escaped, louder by far the second time. He could not think why the kitchen is in such a state, could not think of anything other than that there, right there, were signs of a struggle.
He flung himself through the kitchen door and into the bathroom. John was already on his feet; hair is wild, face pale and smeared, empty wrappers strewn about his feet. For the second time in two minutes, Sherlock was speechless, this time transfixed by the look on John’s face. Something a little bit like shame, a little bit like anger, and a little bit like sadness.
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He carries the image of Molly’s face home with him, laying it carefully on the table in front of John when he finally stumbles through the door at Baker Street. He’s afraid, for a moment, that hearing what Sherlock has seen will break John somehow, but seeing John’s face soften at the edges in sympathy goes a fair way in assuaging John’s worries. Just in case, he lays a hand on John’s arm. John’s warm fingers cover his in return. Sherlock can’t help placing his other hand on top as John speaks, rubbing John’s knuckles, comforting with his touch.
They stay up a long time, discussing the situation. Sherlock has learnt a lot of things in recent years and he no longer considers himself someone who will stand by while those around him fall apart. Besides, Molly is good. And has been good to him, since the hiatus, even before. He believed he would never get to repay her for her help and consideration, and he hopes tonight will go some way in making it up to her.
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John had an almost defiant look on his face as he turned his back on Sherlock and began to clear up the litter in silence. Sherlock might have been fooled, if he were anyone else, but he knew John – knows John – and he could see the tense set of John’s shoulders, the tremor in his hand, the way he favoured his good leg.
He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t want to know how, or why. All that really mattered was that it never happened again. So he moved into place beside John, cleaning up the litter without saying a word, and if their hands should have happened to brush, and if Sherlock should have happened to grasp one of John’s in his own briefly, then that was all fine. And if, as they worked together in silence, John’s shoulders should have gradually begun to relax, and his face begun to gather colour, then that was even better.
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When Molly enters the lab the next day, John is waiting over by the microscopes. One look at John’s face tells her everything she needs to know and she’s tensed to make for the door before John approaches cautiously, takes her hand, and runs her fingers over the scars on his knuckle. She bursts into tears, and John gently gathers her up in a hug.
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They never really said the word. They danced around the issue, tentatively, but since that night it had never really come up again, and certainly not in the sobering light of day. So when Sherlock burst through the front door, carrying the weight of the incident in the lab, it was almost a relief for both of them when he said,
‘Molly’s bulimic, John.’
There was a pause, just a slight one, before Sherlock said the next words.
‘Like you.’
John softened.
‘Maybe – then – Sherlock, I’m getting better. Maybe I could help her.’
Sherlock smiled, and sank into the chair opposite.
‘So. What do we do?’
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From outside the door, Sherlock can just make out the sounds of John’s comforting, and just see the thumbs up John gives him over Molly’s shaking back. He waves, smiles, and turns on his heel. He’s got his best man on it.