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221B-Consolation Fest 2020
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Published:
2020-04-06
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763
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1/1
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23
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147
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A Bowl of Comfort (Store-Bought is Fine)

Summary:

“When did you last eat?”
“What day is it?”
“Oh, for god’s sake - you can’t keep skipping meals like this, Sherlock.”
“It’s Lent.”
“And since when do you care about Lent?”
“Since you get chocolate eggs at Easter.”

Notes:

For khorazir, who sent the prompt "Skip" for the 221B Consolation Fest, which is also this month's Sherlock Challenge. As with most things, my mind runs to food.

This is more like the fic you get once you're on the airplane that takes you away from the con, seeing as it is now *checks* 12:28, but I hope you like it!

Please stay safe, everyone.

Work Text:

As a matter of course, whenever John got back from an extended stay away from 221B Baker Street, he did a sort of wellness check on Sherlock to make sure everything was in good working order. Sometimes, it involved dropping everything and grabbing his medical kit (“How do you not notice a broken rib?” “I never said it didn’t hurt.”), and sometimes - more frequently - it was a simple, loving affirmation that God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

But when he got back from seeing Harry off to a new flat in Aberdeen to find Sherlock sitting pale and listless in the kitchen, he recognized the signs. Not as dire as a broken bone, but worrisome all the same.

John left his bag in the hallway and went over to him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, running an unsubtle hand over Sherlock’s forehead and trying to peer into his eyes, which Sherlock rolled.

“Fine.”

“Fine. When did you last eat?”

“What day is it?”

“Oh, for god’s sake - you can’t keep skipping meals like this, Sherlock.”

“It’s Lent.”

“And since when do you care about Lent?”

“Since you get chocolate eggs at Easter.”

John smiled at that, despite himself. “That’s not for a week yet, and you’ve got another thing coming if you think I’m going to let you subsist on Kinder Eggs.” He sighed. “You’ve got to stop doing this when I leave you alone.”

“Stop leaving.”

“You know I never want to go, love.” John dropped a kiss on the top of Sherlock’s head, noting that he at least hadn’t forgotten to shower. “Now tell me: when did you last eat?”

Sherlock looked thoughtful. It wasn’t, as far as John could tell, that he meant to starve himself, at least not in his current state of mind. He just genuinely forgot to eat without external cues, especially if that big brain of his was occupied with something he deemed to be more important. Like the case files he had open all over the kitchen table. John was going to murder Lestrade.

“Don’t blame Lestrade.” Sherlock sat up and leaned against John, tilting his head up to look at him.“This is Hopkins’ doing. And she was desperate - the killer had a hostage.”

“Have they caught him yet?’

“Her, John. Murder is an equal-opportunity business. And, yes, they did, this morning.” He squeezed John’s hand. “About the other thing, I did eat after you left. Got two meals out of the leftover Chinese, since you didn’t finish yours. And Hopkins fed me during the stakeout. Shawarma.”

“And that was on...?”

“Tuesday. Night.”

It was Thursday afternoon. John swore.

Sherlock gave him a weak grin and threaded their fingers together. “I could murder a curry.”

“No, you don’t.” John wagged a finger from his free hand at him. “Not right now. With your stomach as empty as it is, you’d bring a curry right back up - doctor, Sherlock, actual doctor, remember I am one, I don’t want to hear it - and if you’d been arsed to call for takeaway yourself yesterday, you could have had some.” He brought their joined hands to his lips, pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s knuckles before going to inspect the kitchen cupboards. “Right now, you are having - good god, I do not want to know what that is, don’t tell me.”

John removed something in a jar from the cupboard and gingerly put it down in the sink. It was a congealed mass with bubbles in it and mold growing down the sides.

“Sourdough starter,” murmured Sherlock. “Started it Monday, but couldn’t take care of it. I’ll have to start over.”

“Ah.” John was more surprised that, for once, it was a kitchen-appropriate experiment than he was relieved that it had nothing to do with the decomposition of various body parts. He turned back to the cupboard. “Anyway, you are having chicken noodle soup and some digestives. It’s the stuff in a packet, but you know I love you, yes?”

“Always, John.”

He filled the electric kettle, turned it on, and emptied the packet of noodles and powdered flavoring into a bowl. “We can think about curry later, okay? Let’s go gently on your stomach for now.”

Sherlock nodded, and reached out a hand towards John, who took it, letting Sherlock gently lead him close enough to pull him into a long-limbed, sitting-down/standing-up hug.

“And after the curry?” Sherlock asked, nuzzling John’s middle.

“Anything you like, love.” John carded his fingers through Sherlock’s inky curls, holding him close. “Anything at all.”