The Case of the Deadliest Biscuit.

In which Sherlock's stubborn refusal to eat during a case results in John resorting to unusual methods. Contains a little hurt/comfort, obstinate Sherlock, deadly biscuits, and fluff.

A silly little oneshot inspired by my day off, in which I devoured an entire packet of Custard Creams and remembered a ridiculous article about them.

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Sherlock had a case. He had been working on said case for four days now, and in that time not a morsel of food had passed his lips. He was running solely on adrenaline, stolen catnaps in the back of taxicabs, copious amounts of builders-strength tea, and the pure tenacious compulsion to prove that his brother Mycroft was, in fact, wrong about this case - it was solvable, it was important and it was much more worthy of his time than some British government agent's missing fiancé. He just needed time to figure it out.

John had had enough. He was a doctor, for Christ's sake. He could see the signs of exhaustion in his flatmate, as clear as the blog he had open on his laptop screen that he'd been pretending to read whilst concocting a plan to get his aforementioned flatmate to bloody well eat something before he passed out. And preferably, before Sherlock figured out what the evidence was pointing to, went legging it all over London with those stupidly long limbs of his, outrunning John as usual and putting himself in harm's way, probably getting beaten to a pulp or shot or worse by the perpetrator before John could catch up and put a bullet in the murdering bastard.

He sighed. Sherlock was frighteningly pale and had outright refused all offers of assistance. Even Lestrade had noticed the alarming pallor and had suggested that the ailing detective get a few hours sleep while they handled the interviews with the victim's family members, which of course Sherlock had paid no attention to at all. He had stood defiantly behind the two-way mirror, firing off impertinent questions and almost cruel deductions, and pressing a trembling hand to his head when he thought no one was looking.

John checked his Facebook, for want of a better thing to do, seeing that Harry had been posting ludicrous articles again and spamming his newsfeed. "Custard creams." He murmured, clicking on the link absent-mindedly and scanning the page that popped up.

It was then that he got an idea. He gave Sherlock a sly glance, deciding on his course of action, and discreetly excused himself to make himself a cup of tea. As luck would have it, he had been out earlier this morning to pick up some food to eat before he became so entangled in the case that there was no time for even the thought of breakfast anymore.

He had made it his mission to get Sherlock to eat something, but the toast he had proffered had been completely ignored in favour of reviewing the witness tapes, and the ham sandwich he'd prepared was refused outright, and still sat on the kitchen table, the bread beginning to curl at the edges and the ham drying and darkening where it was exposed to the air. No doubt it had become an experiment of sorts.

John opened the cupboard. Well, this time Sherlock wouldn't be able to refuse. John may not be smart but he could be manipulative, when he wanted to be. He had a lot of experience dealing with difficult patients, usually small children, who could be quite stubborn when refusing medication. John knew how to deal with them, and he knew how to deal with Sherlock. The detective had a lot more in common with an unruly sickly four-year old than he realised. They just needed the right incentive; that was all.

He smiled at the packet of Custard Creams and made his way back into the lounge where Sherlock was huddled in his thinking pose on the sofa, hair in disarray and eyes staring.

He looked positively manic. He needed to eat something.

"Custard cream?" asked John, innocently.

Sherlock didn't even bless him with a response. He looked like a pale hunched scarecrow, knocked over in the wind.

"They're Britain's most dangerous biscuit," John elaborated, "I was just reading an article on them. Much worse than Jaffa cakes."

Sherlock didn't look up, he bent forward intently, lips pulled in the absent expression reserved for when John was being a mild disturbance to his concentration but not annoying enough to warrant telling him to piss off. "Jaffa cakes are not biscuits, John." The reply was an auto-pilot response, not engaged in any conscious thought. "The clue is in the name."

John was encouraged enormously. This was as much as Sherlock had acknowledged him since he had made his nest here seven hours ago. "Go on," he pushed, "try one. I dare you."

Nothing.

"Sherlock?"

Not a peep. Not even a flicker of an eyelid. He was like a gaunt, unblinking, dead-eyed piranha, hanging eerily suspended in the water. Silent and watchful, mind completely focused, waiting for the kill. John found it hopelessly disturbing, and it only spurred to egg him on.

"Sherlock, Mycroft took your skull."

A slow blink.

"Your skull Sherlock, it's gone - I tried to stop him but he hooked his umbrella handle right into the eye socket and whisked it away like something out of Mary Poppins - there was nothing I could do."

"Hmm?" Sherlock ceased his intense perusal of the evidence folder to shoot a look at the mantelpiece, where his prized skull sat comfortably and innocuously despite its macabre appearance. John could see the wheels turning slowly in his head, as the information filtered through to his conscious mind. The skull was still there. Not pilfered by Mycroft. Conclusion: John was attempting to gain his attention. John smiled as Sherlock finally turned his glare on him, an eyebrow raised at the intrusion. His pale eyes soon caught disdainfully on the packet of Britain's most dangerous biscuits, and he rolled them as he realised John's well-meaning and completely unwelcome intentions. "Go away."

"Oh," said John, with a look of complete understanding, "I see. Never mind."

"What?" Sherlock snapped, annoyed.

"It's okay, I understand if you're scared. I mean, it's a perfectly natural human reaction. It's not as if Scotland Yard would have a field day if they ever found out that the Great Sherlock Holmes was too frightened to take on a lowly custard cream…"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You're goading me." He reasoned, hitting the nail on the head as usual. "Obvious. Dull. You're worried, as usual, that my blood sugar has dipped too low for me to function properly should these proceedings take a foul course, and you are trying to rectify the matter by provoking me into eating a biscuit under the pretence that they are somehow dangerous - as if the 'threat' will appeal to me. You are becoming increasingly transparent, John." John visibly wilted, but the packet stayed under the detective's nose. Sherlock's snout crinkled in annoyance, and his baritone became distinctly lower as he rumbled: "I am not eating it, John. I have a case."

He wiggled the packet, and Sherlock's eyes became positively enflamed.

"Just one, or are you too afraid?"

Sherlock didn't rise to it. "Digestion slows me down. Go consume your soggy relatively harmless biscuits elsewhere." His voice became flat and emotionless when the packet failed to move. His eyes pieces of sharp flint. "I am not above poisoning, John. The means are easily attainable. I know how to make it look like an accident."

A lesser man would have quaked in his slippers and retreated. But John was not a lesser man and his hands were perfectly steady as he popped one of the biscuits out of the packet, and dunked it into his tea. "Well, if you're sure." He spouted happily, sitting down next to Sherlock, and settling his laptop on the tabletop next to the file, with the offending biscuit article displayed clearly on the screen in full view of the detective.

John munched his custard cream obnoxiously, the packet lying innocently within reach of the both of them.

"I guess this makes me braver than you." He remarked casually.

"Bravery is just another word for stupidity." Was the biting reply.

John took another biscuit, taking his time with dunking it. Sherlock's gaze was focused on the files splayed out before him, but it was getting increasingly obvious that he was distracted, a nervous twitch of his slender fingers, a furrow of his pale brow. His pale eyes flicked to John's hand as he watched the biscuit's descent into the steaming tan-coloured liquid like with the intense scrutiny that one might employ when fighting a skilled knifeman and calculating his next move of attack.

"Dangerous." The detective muttered, and John knew he had him on the ropes now, "Ridiculous. Who even takes the time to work these things out? Their lives must be so mind numbingly dull."

John smiled, using a crumb-dusted hand to tap at the keys of his laptop, as he continued to read the article. "They've got a risk rating of 5.63."

Sherlock's face crumpled in what John fondly called his 'what it must be like in their silly little brains' expression. "Stop filling my mind with useless drivel, John." He picked up a photo of a disturbed welcome mat and stared at it intently. Ignoring him, but muttering something under his breath about the absurdity of concocting a scale to measure the perils of biscuit consumption.

John shrugged. "You usually love this sort of thing. Something seemingly so innocent, but having a hidden risk that people don't think about. It might even help you one day, with a case or something."

Sherlock waved his hand flippantly. It was a gesture that John had long since realised meant that he was being told, none to politely, to shut up. But John pressed on, he was near to the completion of his plan, Sherlock's clear agitation was testament to that.

"They injure people all the time apparently," he murmured interestedly as he flicked through the article on his laptop, with an amused smile tugging at his lips, "from people choking on them, to accidently poking themselves in the eye. One man even got stuck in concrete after he dropped one on his tea-break and then wading in to fish it out."

"People," Sherlock deduced, dismissively, "are intolerably stupid."

"Hmm." Said John, eyebrows raising in provocation. "So. Think you can handle it?"

The detective took his time in answering, seemingly absorbed in the case in front of him. John waited him out. He did his best to look completely and wholly disinterested but John had lived with the insufferable man for long enough to know when something had his attention. His pale blue eyes were almost grey as they flicked up to his own in barely concealed annoyance. "I know what you're trying to do."

Of course he did, he was Sherlock Holmes, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to fall for it anyway. "Yeah, I know. You know." He picked up the packet and dangled it in front of Sherlock's nose. "And yet we both know that you're going to eat one eventually. In the name of science."

Sherlock seized the packet with an indignant sniff that was more becoming of his brother. "I'll need a cup of tea." He snapped irritably. "This is for research purposes only. No bragging rights."

John got up to put the kettle on, when he returned with a mug of steaming tea, he noticed with a small smile that half of the packet of Custard Creams had mysteriously vanished, and there were suspicious beige crumbs around Sherlock's face.

The detective was once again engrossed in the case papers and photographs, his eyes filtering through the barrage of visual stimuli with his usual nimble precision, only now there was a distinct air of smugness about him.

John sat beside him, trying his best not to grin.

"Harmless." Sherlock muttered under his breath, snatching the tea from John and taking an almighty gulp of it. Another biscuit was suddenly in his hand. "People," he said smugly, "are stupid."

Between the two of them they managed to finish the packet of deadly custard creams, and the world, thanks to Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, was now a little bit safer.

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