It was a rather cold, dreary day; nothing really surprising for London.

The morning at 221b Baker Street started out not being very surprising either. John got up and made tea for himself and coffee for Sherlock, who was sitting on the couch, staring blankly at John's laptop for whatever reason. The doctor didn't even bother asking why Sherlock couldn't just get up and get his own damn computer anymore; it was more than a lost cause.

There hadn't been an interesting case in awhile, and John could tell that it was putting Sherlock on the edge. He was much more jumpy than usual, and quite a bit more emotional. By that, John meant that he was prone to digging through everything in the flat to find his hidden cigarettes, or exploding into hysterical laughter at something that really wasn't to be laughed at on the telly. John did his best to try to distract him, but without a case that would get his brain spinning, there was nothing to help.

As he was handing the coffee to the detective, he noticed a slight trembling in the younger man's hand as he reached out for it, never taking his eyes off the screen. John knew it could just be from his lack of nicotine, but he thought he would ask, anyway.

"Sherlock?" John inquired, holding the coffee away from the outstretched hand, trying to get the man to look at him.

Sherlock's gaze tore away from the computer and looked up at John. "Yes?"

John pressed his lips together, his eyebrows furrowing. Well, Sherlock's voice didn't seem to be any different. But John was still stumped as to why he was shaking. It wasn't very cold inside the flat, although he knew the detective got cold easily thanks to his weight, or lack thereof.

Suddenly, it clicked in his mind. "Sherlock, when's the last time you ate?" He asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowing.

Sherlock huffed impatiently, trying to grasp the coffee that the doctor was still holding. "Well, yesterday morning, when you rudely shoved a piece of toast down my throat." He finally grabbed the cup of hot liquid and smirked in triumph as he inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of the drink.

"I didn't 'shove it down your throat'! You need energy, Sherlock. You can't go that long without food. Look, you're shaking," John said exasperatedly, running a hand through his sandy hair.

Sherlock looked down at his hands at the doctor's request and noticed that he was indeed shaking. "I don't need food, John. I'm fine."

John wasn't about to let this go, so he stormed off into the kitchen, throwing open the drawer where the bread was kept and slamming two pieces into the toaster. "You're going to eat!" he shouted from the kitchen, wanting the detective to know that he wasn't kidding.

The man sitting on the couch said nothing, but he bit the inside of his cheek in despair. John was going to make him eat yet again, and he really wasn't sure what the outcome would be this time. Yesterday he accepted the food gracefully, although they did argue for a moment before Sherlock took a large bite out of the bread to get the doctor to shut up. And that was that; the rest of the day was spent pacing around the flat while John read and blogged, with John asking him what exactly he was pacing about. But it isn't like he could tell him. It isn't like John would understand the need to get all those disgusting calories away so that he could focus on his work once more.

When John returned from the kitchen, he was holding a small plate with two pieces of toast, lightly covered with butter and some type of jam; probably blackberry by the looks of it, and since that was the only kind Sherlock could stand choking down, he doubted it was anything else.

The doctor slid the computer out of Sherlock's lap with one hand and deposited the plate onto his lap with other. Sherlock let out a sigh of annoyance and looked up at John.

"Is this really necessary?" He said, not letting the panic he was feeling show in his eyes. There was no way he was going to be able to get out of eating this; he could tell by how John was standing over him with his arms crossed, in a very military-like stance, which usually meant he was ready to put up a fight.

"Yes, it's necessary! I'm not moving until you eat it, Sherlock," John growled, narrowing his eyes at the man sitting in front of him.

Sherlock exhaled noisily and picked up a piece of toast, trying to control the shaking in his hand. He took a small bite and chewed for a moment, thinking about spitting it at John, when suddenly the doctor's phone went off.

John immediately answered, knowing that there were only two people who would call so early in the morning, and one of them was in the same room as him. "Harry, hi. What's up?"

He wandered around the room, chatting with his sister while keeping an eye on Sherlock, watching him slowly eat the toast. Sherlock rolled his eyes at seeing John keeping an eye on him, but still continued to eat. "Yes, yes, Harry, you've already told me. And I thought we were going out tomorrow and not today? But…right now? Well no, I'm not busy, but…Oh alright fine, see you in five."

John snapped his phone shut and sighed, looking over at his flatmate tiredly. "Sherlock, Harry wants to meet with me to discuss something about her...problem, so I'll be back in about an hour or so. Please finish that toast and don't blow anything up!" John quickly tugged on his coat and with a slight wave to the detective, he was out the door.

Well.

Sherlock immediately spit the piece of toast he had been chewing onto the plate in his lap and frantically looked at was left in front of him. He had consumed at least one of the pieces and a fourth of the other, and that simply would not do for him.

He stood up and briskly went into the kitchen, dumping what was left on his plate into the trash and, after throwing the crumb covered plate into the sink, he ran to his room, heading to his bathroom.

Once in, he slammed the door shut behind him and threw himself onto his knees in front of the toilet. 'Get out, get out, get out,'' Sherlock thought as he shoved his fingers into his mouth, searching for his gag reflex. And then, finally, the toast was in front of him again. The soggy mess looked rather gross, but being a consulting detective, obviously he had seen much worse. He sighed in relief. It was out of his body. Gone. He was perfect, clean once more. Nothing to distract him if a task came up, and it would come up, it always did.

Sherlock leaned heavily back against the wall, feeling the energy drain away from him. He coughed once, feeling his throat burn from what just occurred, and then he was out like a light, his head hitting the wall that he was leaning on rather sharply.

Less than an hour later, John came bounding back into the flat, shrugging off his coat and throwing it on the arm of the couch. He noticed that Sherlock wasn't where he had been when he left, which wasn't unusual. But he was curious as to where the detective was, since he didn't hear anything from the kitchen. So that meant that he wasn't working on some experiment.

John looked towards Sherlock's room, and was surprised to see that the door was open. Sherlock was somewhat very private when it came to his room, and he almost always kept the door closed if he was in it.

The doctor slowly walked towards Sherlock's room, and paused in the doorway.

The detective wasn't in his room.

John frowned, and entered, walking around to the other side of the bed to make sure that Sherlock wasn't in between the bed and the wall. It wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had slipped between there in his sleep after passing out from pure exhaustion due to a case.

But where was he? He wouldn't have gone out without telling his flatmate first. Well, he would, but John had already seen his coat by the door when he came in, and Sherlock definitely wouldn't have left that behind.

Then, John's eyes locked onto the bathroom door.

The shower wasn't on. The water wasn't running. There was no sound coming from there. But..the light was on under the door.

John cautiously moved to the door, and gently put his hand on the knob. "Sherlock?" he said, rather loudly. He wanted to give the man time to respond in case he was in there doing…well, whatever.

There was a stir in the room, the light shifting under the door. "John..?" came the soft response. The detective's voice sounded rather scratchy, as if he had just woken up. Had he fallen asleep in the bathroom? Again, wouldn't be the first time.

John stifled a laugh at the thought of that and asked, "Sherlock, is it alright if I come in?"

More movement. "What…?"

The doctor turned the knob. "I'm coming in."

"NO! No, no, no, STAY OUT!" The man inside began shrieking, and John felt pressure against the door, as if Sherlock was trying to block it to keep him from getting in.

"Sherlock! What in th-," John pushed against the door and it opened a crack. The detective couldn't win against his army training strength, which they both knew, but Sherlock was trying anyway.

"John, please, please. Don't come in here!" The voice begged.

John bit his lip, and pushed harder, the door opened about a foot. His worry mounting, he knew something must be very wrong if Sherlock was getting this desperate about not wanting him to come in. He had never heard Sherlock this riled up unless he was acting.

Suddenly, the weight was gone and the door swung open all the way. "Sherlock, what are you doing in here that it so important for me not t-," the doctor's words were cut off by what he saw in front of him. Sherlock. Standing there looking helpless. The toilet. Filled with…vomit?

John looked concerned, his hand immediately going to Sherlock's forehead to check his temperature. An inaccurate method, but good enough. "Sherlock, are you feeling alright? You got sick!"

Sherlock nodded dumbly, rubbing a hand over his face, and that's when the doctor noticed that his finger on his hand looked rather dried with something that resembled saliva. Interesting.

Oh.

"Sherlock," the doctor said softly, "did you make yourself sick?"