31 weeks.

Roughly seven months ago.

That's how long ago John had become aware of the thing about Sherlock that was just... Off. Something wasn't right, something that John sensed but couldn't quite put his finger on. And of course, Sherlock wasn't going to let on that he knew that John knew, or let him know what was wrong.

Maybe it was just the stress of work getting to his head, John thought. That's probably what it was.

...

24 weeks.

Five and a quarter months since the realization, and no, it was not just the stress of things. Something was wrong. Maybe Sherlock was sick. Maybe he'd taken up drugs again...? God, John hoped he hadn't.

...

12 weeks.

Not sick. Not drugs. But not well. Then what?

...

7 weeks.

One month and 3 weeks ago. Had it only been that long...? Had it really taken that long for John to see what was going on…? Sherlock wasn't the same man he'd met back when John had returned to civilian life. He wasn't the same old consulting detective he knew so well… But why had it taken so long for him to see it? Why?

Maybe if he'd seen it earlier he could have stepped in and stopped it from going this far. From getting this bad. But then again, Sherlock never listened to him anyway. John didn't know how on earth he was going to do it, but he had to get him to talk about it sooner or later. Somehow.

...

Sunday, December 8th.

The present.

Sherlock was starving.

John no longer doubted this fact, seated across from him in the living room as the detective languished on the sofa in his dressing gown and pyjamas.

The heat was on in the flat, but Sherlock was still curled in on himself for warmth, and John noticed. He noticed a lot of things recently.

He noticed, for instance, the way the silk shirt hung on Sherlock's meagre frame, emphasizing just how thin he'd become. The way his spine rose in little ridges at the nape of his neck, and the gauntness in his face. It made John sick to his stomach.

But it made him even sicker to think that what he saw now could have been prevented, if only he'd noticed earlier. 31 weeks earlier.

Seven weeks ago he'd begun keeping track of Sherlock's habits and behaviour patterns concerning food, or the lack thereof. What he'd found was confusing and worrying to him as a doctor, and as Sherlock's friend.

He'd found that, as usual, Sherlock avoided eating during cases. Then he'd also found that at times he avoided it even if there was no case. Then it was all the time. He would become tetchy and snappish if John even mentioned pushing him to eat, citing all sorts of reasons why not to—too tired, too busy, not feeling well—none of which John found remotely believable. Tea was the one thing there didn't seem to be any limit on, and Sherlock took full advantage of that.

But of course, a body can't subsist on just tea and oxygen for very long without beginning to show the effects.

It was after John had found him sprawled on the hall floor where he'd fallen, having blacked out, that the doctor decided he wasn't going to take no for an answer anymore. That didn't mean Sherlock was going to stop refusing, either, but something had to be done.

That hadn't ended pleasantly. Sherlock hadn't spoken to him for several days, and John felt horrible for what he'd had to do—the look in Sherlock's eyes had showed pure betrayal and fury—but John had just been scared.

He'd been scared because it looked like Sherlock was dying. And he was doing it on purpose.

Whether or not that was the actual intent, John wasn't sure. What he was sure of was that he could not let that happen. Not to his consulting detective.

Over the last few weeks John had been forming an idea in his head, a picture of what exactly this thing was that had such a tight grip on Sherlock, and the conclusion he kept coming up with made his chest ache and his head spin.

Sherlock was starving. On purpose.

Sherlock Holmes had an…

"Eating disorder." John's voice felt much too loud and much too harsh in the sweltering silence of the living room, and he regretted them the moment the words left his lips. It was the first time he'd spoken to him for two days, and the phrase had been tumbling around inside his skull for much longer than that. He'd just had to say it.

And it was probably the worst thing he could have said.

Sherlock didn't respond, but John imagined he could see the jaw tighten, the fists clench. Maybe he hadn't expected a response anyway. Maybe he just needed Sherlock to know beyond a doubt that his flatmate was absolutely aware of what was going on, that he wasn't fooling anyone for even a second.

Not anymore, at least. He'd had everyone in the dark for a very, very long time, before.

Even John, his so-called best friend.

Why didn't you come to me…? John rubbed his burning eyes with the heels of his hands, but it didn't help. Nothing helped anymore. Nothing short of a miracle.

And John's little outburst had been nothing if not the exact opposite of a miracle.

"That's just… I think…" He continued to readjust his hand against his lips and cheek in a vain attempt to find the correct position to rest it in, but it became little more than a nervous tic as he searched for more words. Finally he put his face in his palm and shut his eyes, brows furrowing. "I'm sorry."

What was he apologizing for…? For forcing Sherlock to eat? For forcing him to keep living? No, he had to stop thinking like that. He understood the causes of most eating disorders enough to know that it wasn't a suicide attempt. Not strictly.

Then again, most documented cases seemed to be in young girls who didn't eat because they thought they were fat and ugly.

And that wasn't Sherlock at all, not by a long shot, not even close. He had much too high of an opinion of himself for that.

But if that wasn't it, then… what was it? What had driven him to refuse his body all nutrients, spare the occasional milk in his tea or saltine once in a while? What was it that had reduced him to a mere nine stone (John was estimating) in just 31 weeks?

That thing was a mystery. Perhaps if John had possessed Sherlock's uncanny deduction skills he might have been able to figure it out, but as things stood he was at a complete loss. And it was absolutely devastating.

This wasn't how things were supposed to be.

Sherlock was supposed to be an arrogant, conceited show-off who didn't give a damn what people thought and didn't quite grasp the idea of manners—but this was not him. This was a Sherlock who had given in to something, something that might or might not have already been there when John met him years ago.

It really did feel as though something of Sherlock had been taken from him, but at the same time this was Sherlock, consciously making decisions that would wreak havoc on his own body, and on John's mind and heart.

Didn't Sherlock realize that? Didn't he care that he was doing this? What he was putting him through?

In the back of his mind he was aware that he was blaming Sherlock. That was something he didn't want to do, because he knew his friend couldn't help it—but he also knew that there was something Sherlock could have done. He could have come to John and told him, asked for help, vented, anything—but no.

No.

Instead, he'd decided to keep it a complete secret and put himself and John through this hell.

This 31 weeks of hell.