A/N: Again, no Brit-picker/beta. Apologies for errors, point them out if you find any. Criticism welcome. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I wish.

UPDATE (3/12/12): Now on AO3! Link's in my profile. :)

31/03/13: So I've been told that this isn't how hunger works in real life (as you can see in the reviews), and according to this person they can't take it seriously because of this. I'm sorry you feel that way, Dean, but I wish you had not reviewed as a guest so we could discuss how you think I've been inaccurate. As is, you haven't given me proper constructive criticism - you've just said why you don't like it, not how I may be able to improve it - so I can't exactly make any changes. I hope someone else may be able to point out my mistake? But do keep in mind that this is just a story, and being accurate about how hunger works was not the point of this one. Liberty xo

~o~

"No."

Sherlock crossed his arms and pointedly did not look at John or what he was holding.

"Sherlock, at this rate you'll end up dying of malnourishment. Probably sometime in the next hour."

If John's been keeping track accurately, it's been about two weeks since Sherlock's properly eaten anything. He's had tea and the occasional glass of water but aside from that, nothing. And John could already see it beginning to show as the man's already scrawny limbs started to look more like bones with a thin layer of skin stretched over them.

John was standing over Sherlock, who was seated in his chair with his violin and bow in hand looking for all the world like a starved avenging angel. John, on the other hand, resembled the angriest hedgehog in the history of angry hedgehogs, hell-bent on carrying out his mission of getting food into the living skeleton before him.

"I'm not going to just stand by and watch you become a full-blown anorexic. Now eat the damn pasta."

John shoved said pasta into Sherlock's face.

Sherlock seemed to catch a whiff of the generously-sauced dish and jerked away, looking vaguely ill. He shook his head resolutely.

"John, I'm not currently occupied. My body does not require food, and certainly not this calorie-saturated attempt at -"

"Don't give me that crap, Sherlock. You've fainted three times in the past couple of days. Your stomach acids are probably eating themselves at this point so so help me I will force feed you if you don't eat something soon. And to be perfectly clear, I mean right this minute soon."

Sherlock sniffed, flicking at the strings of his violin irritably. "I did not faint," he scoffed with disdain at the very notion.

"Oh so that was just you practising falling asleep spontaneously in a convincing manner. You weren't actually unconscious then? Alright. Yeah, I'm sure our next suspect or witness will be so taken by your performance they'll practically be throwing their money at you. God knows you had me going," John's eyes were staring double-edged razor-sharp daggers at his still seemingly unruffled flatmate.

Sherlock finally turned to meet his eyes, "I'm fine."

"No, you're really not."

They glared at each other, both of them intransigent.

"Sherlock," John's voice was a warning, low and quiet and bordering on hostile.

"John," Sherlock countered petulantly, eyes flashing with defiance.

John looked to the heavens and heaved a heavy sigh of the long-suffering.

"Fine. I didn't want to have to resort to this, but you seem to be giving me no choice. I'm calling Mycroft on you," he smirked triumphantly at the brief flash of anger the threat sparked in Sherlock.

"You wouldn't," Sherlock's glare was positively murderous.

"I would. In fact, I will," John turned with the bowl of pasta still in hand and went to go find his phone.

"Then I suppose it's too bad you can't," Sherlock called airily, fiddling with said phone that he just so happened to have had on his person.

John whirled around in confusion, and upon spotting Sherlock holding his phone, groaned in frustration. Insufferable git.

"Don't tell me. You predicted I would take this course of action, yada yada …" John muttered.

Sherlock only smirked, still playing around on John's phone.

"There's always the landline, you know," and with that John turned to leave again.

"Disconnected."

John halted in his tracks, "What?"

When he turned back to Sherlock this time he was livid.

"Is there no limit to your determination to starve yourself to death?" John tried to restrain himself from strangling the unparalleled sod.

Sherlock tucked John's phone into his jacket pocket and went back to fiddling with his violin, making quick plucking noises as the air thickened with John's anger.

John knew he could still use Mrs Hudson's downstairs, or if worse came to worst and that was disconnected too, a public phone box down on the street. But calling Mycroft wouldn't fix this problem indefinitely.

Setting the bowl of pasta down on the coffee table, John went to go sit in the chair opposite the man he had recently come to call his friend once again. He sat, leaning towards Sherlock with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in a - hopefully - amicable and calming manner.

He felt strangely as if he was about to try convincing the rain why it should cease being cold and wet.

He changed tactics.

"Will you at least tell me why?" John asked quietly.

There was a lingering silence, but John kept looking on as Sherlock gazed at his violin. His fingers had stilled over the instrument, so John knew he was debating with himself whether or not to answer John's question seriously.

Finally, seeming to come to a decision, Sherlock brought his curly-lock-adorned head upwards so he could look at John.

And look at John he did - in a strangely haunted manner that caused John's heart to clench wretchedly. Liquid nitrogen eyes fixed John in place as he said, ever so eloquently, "It's for an experiment."

John shook his head slowly, "No, it isn't. Not quite. And I know you know I know so just -" John's throat clenched shut at the abrupt appearance of hatred on his friend's face.

But it wasn't the strength of the hatred that caused John to stop; it was the fact of who it was directed at.

Because it was so obviously directed at himself.

"Fine," he snapped, eyes burning right into John, "You're right. Congratulations. Would you like a standing ovation for your newfound phenomenal powers of deduction and your soldierly determination? An engraved award? A knighthood? It can all be arranged - just give Mycroft the word. What do you want, John?"

John felt something unpleasant clawing in his chest in trepidation as he felt the tension emanating from his partner-in-crime. "Right now, I want you to explain."

Sherlock finally looked away, eyes losing their misdirected fury.

"Why do you care?" Sherlock addressed the empty fireplace blandly.

John was thrown by the question. Of all the things he'd been expecting, that certainly hadn't been on the list.

Nevertheless, this was something Sherlock seemed thoroughly distressed about, if his glaring show of emotion was anything to go by. John decided to tread carefully.

"The exact same reason you jumped off that building three years ago; because we're friends and friends look out for each other."

But both of them winced at the memories John's words exhumed. John berated himself harshly. So much for bloody treading carefully.

Sherlock shook his head in a definitive manner, as if he'd already decided what the answer was before John had even answered him. "Wrong. I … hurt you," Sherlock said the words with clear difficulty, "I still … fail to comprehend why you forgave me and let me back into your life. It was what I … hoped for, but not what I expected."

John stared at him in disbelief.

"You should hate me. Yet you feel the need to … take care of me," he said the words with bitter derision.

At a loss of how to respond all this, John shifted in his seat. After an indeterminable pause, he said, "What does this have to do with your refusing to eat?"

Sherlock didn't respond. He seemed to be lost in his thoughts again.

John genuinely cared for him, regardless of how much of an idiot or a child or an inconsiderate, arrogant wanker Sherlock could be at times. But Sherlock didn't seem to understand this. John shook he head bemusedly. If he didn't know how John felt by now, after all they'd been through …

He cleared his throat, deciding to leave Sherlock to draw conclusions on his own. After all, he had to learn eventually.

Reluctant to leave Sherlock in such a precarious state alone however, John pushed himself into a stand and looked about for his laptop, deciding he might as well update his blog while he watched over his friend. He resolved to try to get him to eat again in around an hour.

"Sherlock, have you seen my laptop?" John asked, not really expecting an answer while Sherlock was in classifying-mode.

"Bedroom, bedside table," Sherlock murmured, his eyes and fingers on his violin again - tuning it this time.

After retrieving it, John fell into the chair at their desk, facing Sherlock, and placed his laptop on the table. After flipping it open and booting it up, he glanced up to find Sherlock still plucking pointlessly at the strings. John logged in and set about writing up their last case.

He was so wrapped up in his notes on the case and writing it out that it took him longer than it should for a doctor to notice that their patient was missing. When he did, though, and found it had been a whole two and a half hours since he had last seen Sherlock sitting in his chair, plucking at the strings of his beloved instrument (which now lay discarded in its case), he - well.

To say he panicked may not be too much of an exaggeration.

"Sherlock? Where are you?" John called, his heart starting to hammer painfully in his chest as he checked the living room, impromptu study/lab, bathroom - all to no avail.

John's brain was streaming the obscenities he saved for the most direst of circumstances by then. Where was the stupid idiot and God if he was lying somewhere -

He cut off that train of thought before his entire sense of rationality and soldier stoicism ditched him to holiday someplace less tormenting.

"Sherlock!" John called again.

No snide response, no resounding snort of condescension …

He felt truly sick. A horrifying kind of dread had made itself at home somewhere in his stomach, and his imagination was supplying the worst possible scenarios it could conjure up in some kind of sick slideshow.

There were just two rooms left in their flat for him to search: the bedrooms. He approached Sherlock's and knocked twice, straining his ears. No answer. Heart thudding like a bloody African drum, he edged the door open and -

Found Sherlock sound asleep, splayed across his bed. John almost laughed hysterically in relief at the steady rise and fall of his pyjama-shirt-clad chest and the whisper-quiet snores sounding from the man. He was such a bloody idiot.

Sherlock's right arm was hanging off the edge of the bed, and his hand loosely held a - fork? Upon seeing it, John resisted the urge to pinch himself. Multiple times, just to make sure. The bowl of pasta was on the floor, just next to the bed. A little less than half of the rich dish had been eaten, and an empty teacup was keeping the rest of it company - probably held some of the tea from the batch John had made earlier.

John couldn't help the smile that found it's way onto his face, looking on as he watched his friend dream.

About time the genius figured it out.

He quietly shut the door, and went back to his blog.