Sherlock's secret

CHAPTER 17

Sherlock's POV

Pain radiated throughout his body, and a small moan escaped him, going unheard amidst the flurry of people surrounding him. Nurses stood by, assisting the doctors lift him up onto his hospital bed. The foul stench of vomit assaulted his nose and his stomach turned.

It all became too much. He couldn't breathe.

Sherlock tried to take in a breath, but choked on the thick tube that was shoved down his throat. Panic took over and he thrashed around, kicking anyone close to him.

Shouting.

Curses.

A sharp pinch in his arm.

Fading...

Fading...

Until everything turned to black.
                                                                 
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The first thing Sherlock was aware of as he woke up was the emptiness where his stomach should have been.

They had drained his stomach.

Reaching down, he dragged his shaking hands over his protruding ribcage, down to his hipbones, and rested his hands in the hollow in between. A small smile lifted his lips as the familiarity of the hunger calmed him.

Forcing his eyes open, a figure became apparent by his bedside. He watched as John stared at Sherlock's stomach, his hand having flattened the hospital gown and accentuating the bones he so loved.

"You need help..." John whispered.

"Don't we all?" Sherlock replied, attempting to make light of the situation.

"No. Don't do this. This is serious, Sherlock."

"So I'm insane, now?"

"I never – "

"I'm fine."

A sharp, sarcastic laugh erupted from John. "You are many things, Sherlock, but you are definitely not fine."

"You want to leave me in some psych ward because you don't think I can handle it?" his voice was dripping with anger as he spoke. "Look, John, I appreciate you trying to help, but there is nothing to worry about. The Sherlock you see now? That's who I really am. It may look terrible from the outside looking in, but from my point of view, there is nothing wrong, and there is nothing you can do to help. I. Can. Handle. This."

Taking a deep breath, John composed himself. "No."

"No?"

"No. You are going to be put in 'some psych ward' because you need it, Sherlock. I don't care what you say. Two suicide attempts in two days doesn't exactly come across as someone in good mental health, wouldn't you agree?"

"Hmm? And how are you going to make me?"

A smug look crossed John's face as he prepared himself to say the one word that he knew would make Sherlock do as he said. "Mycroft."

"You bastard," he hissed.

John stood and made his way to the door. "They'll be coming for you tomorrow. It's a nice place in upper London; you'll be fine." he paused. "And if I don't see you before then, I'm telling you this now: Don't do anything stupid."