My deepest apologies for leaving this work for so long. This chapter, and the one following it, were extraordinarily difficult to write. However, I must say that I am utterly touched by your comments. They pulled me through some dark times this autumn and I only hope you can forgive my absence. If anyone is still reading this story, I hope my writing has not suffered over much due to my lack of practice.
**** In a feeble act of rebellion, Sherlock folded each article of his outfit as he removed it, every movement painstaking, meticulous, and neat. His winter overcoat, his crested wool blazer, his uniform shirt, the thin jumper he wore under his shirt, the long-sleeved thermal he wore under that, and the undershirt below that.Müller simply watched, saying nothing.
Sherlock's excess of layers served a two-fold purpose. First, they bulked him up a little, thereby discouraging the gawking eyes of tedious imbeciles. Secondly, he was always cold, particularly in the winter months. Little body fat, of course, came with the unfortunate secondary effect of little insulation. A minor inconvenience, but an inconvenience nonetheless. He found hunger far easier to disregard than cold.
And so he stood, willing himself not to flush, or blink, or perspire, or shiver, or swallow. Not to show anything but cool compliance, in that drafty, mirrored office. Müller circled him methodically, as a wolf might a wounded deer. If he noticed the tiny tell-tale wounds on Sherlock's injection site, he said nothing.
Sherlock caught his own eyes in the mirror, pale and hooded under the dark wild crop of hair. As a rule, Sherlock did not look at his body, but for the weekly assessment of his measurements — his waist, his neck, his shins, his thighs, his forearms and biceps. Numbers were the only thing that mattered — there was no relevance in looks. He was not a shallow chat show schoolgirl anorexic.
And yet, as Sherlock saw himself, he felt a vague tinge of something he could not identify — a feeling — rising on the horizon of his awareness. His arms and legs were delicate, skeletal twigs, sheathed with ropey veins. His torso furrowed with the sharp hollows of ribs, and just under the sharp tip of his xiphoid process, a steady twitching. His heart. He was thin enough to see the pumping of his own heart.
"Weigh in." Müller commanded, opening a small leather book he'd retrieved from his breast pocket.
Sherlock stepped on the scale.
"Nearly two stone underweight," Müller observed, his pen scratching dryly against the paper.
The evidence was red and plain between his feet. He'd gained. He'd not yet had the chance to weigh himself since arriving back at school, and he'd gained two pounds. Rage cycled through his body — anger at himself for being so weak, and anger at his father for the judgmental, scolding eyes of Herr Müller.
No matter. Sherlock was clever and determined. He would make the necessary adjustments, and he would see his experiment through.
Two meals each weekday were to be taken in Herr Müller's office. One weigh-in per week, each Monday before lunch. His weight would be reported to his father by the end of the day.
Water weighs approximately two pounds per litre, and Sherlock could manage two and a quarter litres on an empty stomach. This provided room to lose nearly half a stone. While his solution was not elegant nor long-tern, it was nevertheless a solution. If he was careful, it could last nearly two months — sufficient to convince his father that this silly arrangement was not necessary.
So he ate. Quickly. Fats and proteins came first, and the rapid-digesting simple sugars last. The ordering of his meals were essential for minimal impact. Müller scarcely regarded Sherlock as he took his meal, glancing away from his game of solitaire only once Sherlock was finished. Sherlock, normally irritated by inattentiveness, was tremendously grateful that his father had hired this idiot of a tutor.
It took Sherlock three minutes and four seconds to get from Müller's office to the nearest private toilet, and another two minutes and fifteen seconds for the ipecac syrup to take effect. On an ordinary day, less than half an hour passed from the first bite of the meal to the purge. Few calories were effectively absorbed that early in the digestive process, and likely the effort of vomiting metabolized more than what was absorbed. He had tried, the first day, a manual triggering of the vomit reflex, but a simple finger down the throat is just that — simple. Simple, but at the cost of effectiveness, and entirely unacceptable. But with emetics, he could be certain. The ipecac syrup was neither a quick nor easy purge — each round utterly hollowed him out, the muscles of his torso aching and quivering with dehydrated heaving after there was nothing left.
It was a punishing, painful process, but thoroughness of method was paramount. Despite the pain — or perhaps because of it — Sherlock relished each searing retch that tore through his throat. What was taken from his body was given to his mind — thinner meant sharper.
Two meals a day meant two purges a day. Sherlock was exhausted and weak after each — purging sapped his energy far more than simply not eating did, but he persevered. He pushed it aside, along with the palpitations, the dizziness and the nausea. If nothing, it made the frenetic high of the cocaine more evident — feeling he might float away into vapor after each bump.
He lost two and a half pounds the first week — enough to make up for his gain, and then some.
Not that Müller knew — Sherlock swallowed early a litre and a half of water before his Monday weigh in, resulting in a quarter pound gain on the scale. Müller frowned. "I would have expected a little more."
"I told you, I've a fast metabolism. Father knows this."
With a sigh, Müller scribbled down the number in his leather bound book.
After that, a simple, innocuous request to use the toilet before lunch allowed Sherlock to rid the water from his stomach before taking his meal. Clockwork.
By Wednesday of that week, Sherlock had lost another pound. Less than a stone away from his goal, he thrilled. It was an ironic triumph — he'd scarcely lost weight so quickly as under the watch of Herr Müller.
He decided to call his father at the weekend and convince him to be done with this nonsense — in another week, Sherlock wouldn't be able to hold enough water to disguise his loss. He'd simply boast about his weight gain, thank his father for caring, and say that he'd been considering pursuing a career in government again. Despite his father's own considerable skill at manipulation — of world leaders and guerrilla warlords alike — Sherlock found his father was quite easily swayed.
Just a few more days, then.
It was Thursday evening when it happened. Mr Holmes's office phone rang — on the private, undisclosed number reserved only for international crises and family emergencies.
Mrs Holmes was on the other end — her voice fraught and strained.
"It's about Sherlock."