A/N: Playing with the idea of a 5 + 1 for John and Sherlock. Insert pithy disclaimer here.

"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well."

Virginia Woolf

I. Immediately following "A Study in Pink"

The morning after the incident with the cabbie, John realized with a start that he had yet to see his new flatmate actually eat anything. He'd been trying to clear a spot on the range for breakfast, his growling stomach reminding him that late-night dim sum , while delicious, could not entirely make up for an entire day's worth of skipped meals. Then came the revelation that the mysterious Sherlock must be absolutely famished after this case.

After Sherlock had walked off the crime scene, he had taken John to the Chinese restaurant as promised. Once they were seated, however, Sherlock had declined to order anything.

"Didn't you say you were hungry?" he'd asked.

"What day is today? Wednesday?"

John had nodded.

"Oh, I'm okay for a bit."

"Sherlock! I haven't seen you eat since we met. At least twelve hours, now. For God's sake you need to eat!"

"I don't need to eat, I need to think. The brain is what counts. Everything else is transport."

"You might consider refueling."

"I never eat on a case, John."

"The case is over, you git."

"Seeing Mycroft has put me off my appetite."

John had left things at that. Sherlock was right though – it was a damn fine Chinese restaurant.

Still, at this point it had been at least twenty hours since Sherlock had eaten. Returning his pan to the counter, John padded towards Sherlock's bedroom door.

It took nearly a minute of pounding before his flatmate stumbled to the door. John winced at Sherlock's disheveled state. His curly hair was wilder than usual, sticking up at odd angles, while his eyes were sunken and listless. He'd wrapped his dressing gown around himself haphazardly, clearly unhappy to be out of bed.

"What is it, John?"

"I'm sorry – didn't mean to wake you, Sherlock. I'm just making a fry-up for breakfast, and since you don't eat during cases, I thought you might be a little peckish."

Sherlock nodded, seeming to realize for the first time in days that, perhaps he ought to be hungry.

"Sounds lovely. Thank you, John."

The door closed again before John could respond. Twenty minutes later, Sherlock appeared in the kitchen. Though still in his jimjams and dressing gown, his hair was combed and his eyes seemed brighter. Sitting at the table, he pushed an experiment to the far side and pour himself a cup of tea.

"There's coffee, if you need something stronger."

"Tea is fine."

John turned back to his pan, carefully sliding his scrambled eggs onto a plate.

"How do you like your eggs, Sherlock?"

"Poached," he replied, nibbling on a bit of sausage.

Of course he does.

It wasn't until Sherlock heard John find a pot and fill it with water that he realized that his choice may have been a bit inconvenient for his friend. He felt his appetite drain away.

"It's all right John. I like them fried, as well."

"Nope. Water's boiling; you're getting poached."

He grinned to let Sherlock know that he was only kidding.

Once John had spooned Sherlock's eggs onto a plate and Sherlock had served them each a hearty portion of sausage and toast, John led his flatmate into the sitting room.

They ate in silence, John enjoying the mid-morning sunbeam that fell upon his feet, Sherlock studying him intently.

"You feel guilty," Sherlock said at last.

"How the hell did you deduce that?" John responded, taking a large swig of his coffee.

"Tired, red eyes. You're drinking coffee, not tea. Indicates that you haven't slept well. Granted, it's early to tell, but considering your habit of nodding off around midnight, I'd say that you're an easy, sound sleeper. Military background would suggest that you'll take whatever sleep you can get, whenever you get it. We were home early last night, and you went to bed before one, so work didn't keep you up. It didn't sound as though you had nightmares, indicating that once you fell asleep, you did sleep soundly. Something was keeping you awake last night, and from the way you locked up your pistol – unloaded, safety on, clip in another case, but uncleaned, as though you didn't want to touch it more than you absolutely had to – it was the fact that you shot someone last night."

"I've shot people before."

"That's what's bothering you. You're not as anxious as you think you're supposed to be. You've been wondering if that makes you dangerous. You said you'd sleep easy and those words kept you up half the night."

"Sherlock, I –"

"You're not dangerous, John."

John cleared his throat, opting to change the subject.

"Can you ever just … turn that off?"

"The deduction? No."

John paused, draining his coffee mug.

"Do you really stop eating on a case?"

"Digestion slows me down."

"I'd think the hunger would be more of a distraction."

"John, I don't often feel hungry. I don't notice it."

"Well, that can't be healthy."

"I eat the little cakes that Mrs. Hudson brings with the tea!" Sherlock responded defensively.

"And what about now, Sherlock? You haven't even touched your eggs!"

"I –" he faltered, looking down at his plate. At the little poached eggs that his friend had gone to so much trouble to make just for him.

"I don't have much of an appetite."

"Oh, like hell you don't," John grumbled.

"Really!" Sherlock replied as John leaned toward him. "Really, I hardly ev –"

And suddenly his mouth was too full of egg to finish his sentence. He chewed carefully, yolk running over his lip, as he watched his friend carefully.

Sherlock blinked slowly, wondering what on earth had possessed his new friend to smash poached eggs in his face.

John rolled his eyes and wiped his fingers on a tea towel before helping himself to Sherlock's toast.