Hey guys. Uh, definitely a trigger warning? Be careful with this chapter a whole ton of stuff goes on. Long chapter.

He woke up once we were home. Of course, I'd contacted Mycroft as soon as we were home, and he'd arrived in a few minutes.

Mycroft was pacing in front of Sherlock's bed as we waited for him to wake up. His eyes fluttered open slowly and he looked around. Mycroft noticed and, silently, sat down, burying his face in his hands. Everything was silent for a few minutes as Mycroft and I looked at Sherlock, and he looked at the both of us.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said. Just that. It was all he could say. I was sitting there, thinking. What in the hell could have made him pass out. Blood loss- no. Vitamin deficiency? How? Undereat-

The coffee. The long periods in his room. Skipping meals. The-

"John, why didn't you tell me Sherlock wasn't eating enough?" Mycroft said. He must've figured it out. Of course he did, he's as smart as Sherlock!

I shook my head, running a hand through my hair. "I... I didn't notice. I mean, I didn't think..."

Mycroft sighed again and looked up to Sherlock, who looked down. I noticed all the symptoms I hadn't seen before, the signs I wrote off as "just Sherlock". His hair was thinner and dry, he was even skinnier than he had been before, and he wore his coat constantly, yet still shivered. Then there was the skipping meals, going to his room (probably to exercise, or something), and so much more...

"Sherlock," I whispered, and he looked at me timidly. "I'm so sorry I didn't notice."

He looked to Mycroft, confusion in his eyes. "What? Why isn't he angry?"  was probably what he was thinking at that moment.  People with anorex... with whatever he probably had didn't understand why people weren't angry at them, usually. They didn't tell people about their struggles because they thought others would be angry about it.

Mycroft had gotten up and was pacing again. "You're not trying to lose weight again?" Sherlock joked. Mycroft didn't respond at all, except to glance at Sherlock to be sure he was joking. Sherlock smiled slightly, his same old self, but sick. So sick.

This is a top killer from mental disorders.

I got up and walked to Sherlock's bedside. He weakly looked up at me, and I could feel the tears threatening to spill over. The concern in his eyes told me he could see it, too. "God, Sherlock. No. I can't have you go again," I whispered, leaning down and hugging him. His gangly arms wrapped around me, and he hugged me back silently as my tears fell. A door closing outside broke us apart, and I was aware of Mycroft sitting on one of the chairs awkwardly. Two pairs of footsteps made their way around, and I heard a woman's voice say, "Hmph. They don't really keep their place that neat, do they?"

Mycroft looked up, a smattering off emotions running across his face, then wiping off as quickly as they had come. "I had to, Sherlock. I couldn't not tell them. They have the right to know."

Sherlock was staring at Mycroft with a look of anger and resent lingering on his face. I had no idea what was happening, but stayed by his bedside.

"Hello, Mum. Dad," Mycroft said as an old couple walked into the room. "Mikey! Thank you for calling us. Oh, Sherlock," Sherlock's mother rushed forward and hugged him, then gently let go. Sherlock looked awkward, his arms pinned to his side. "Hello."

I left the room to make coffee and bring scones as Sherlock's family spoke. When I returned, Sherlock was sitting up in his bed, the mother and father were standing by it, and Mycroft was sitting. I brought in the tray and set it on Sherlock's bedside table. Sherlock stiffened and, for the first time, I noticed and knew why. "Sherlock-"

"I don't want..." Sherlock trailed off, looking at the tray with annoyance and anger all over his face. Everyone else was looking at him, and I'm sure he knew.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and pressed his face to them. I looked to Mycroft for help, but he just shrugged. "Coffee first," he mouthed. I nodded.

I poured Sherlock a small cup of coffee, and he took it in his shaky hands. "Thanks," he muttered, sipping the scalding drink and shivering as the heat radiated through him.

We all stood around for a little while, with an occasional comment from Mr. or Mrs. Holmes about the flat, or Sherlock, or Mycroft, or even me. Otherwise, silence. When the coffee was almost gone and the Holmes parents were assured Sherlock was in good hands, they left. "We've got a flat in the city. Don't be afraid to call, any of you!" Mrs. Holmes called as they left.

Mycroft exhaled as he sank into his seat. "Sherlock..." he said, looking up at the ceiling. Sherlock dragged his hand down his face in an annoyed manner.

"Why?! Why do you have to goddamn care..." He groaned.

"Sherlock," I said, "we care because we love you. Can't you deduce that by yourself?"

Mycroft's ears were tinged slightly pink as he put in, "Just brotherly love. From me."

Sherlock looked at me as if expecting me to add something more. I just shrugged awkwardly. He lay back again and put his hands on his face. "Why'd it have to be you who found out..." He said, sounding pretty exasperated and kind of tired. I looked over at Mycroft, knowing it'd be better if only one of us was there, and that this was probably not ideal for either of them.

He nodded lightly. "Listen, I've got to be off now. Sherlock, eat something. Please. I don't care how many calories are in it, food tastes good, and you need to eat it to survive. You need to." 

Once Mycroft left the flat, I shut the door and came back to Sherlock's room. Half of the scones I had brought were on the  floor across from his bed, and one was squashed in his hand. He seemed to have thrown them. 

"Sherlock. Listen to me. You and I both know how dangerous this is, and how hard it is to recover from. You've got to start now. There's no other options. Please. I can't... I can't let you do this to yourself..."

He nodded, loosening his grip on the scone. "I know," he said quietly. "John, I'm sorry. It wasn't your fault for not noticing. I hid it really well. Recently, everything's been harder. I..." He stopped, hands shaking. I walked over to the bed and sat next to him.

"What is it, Sherlock? You can tell me, and Mycroft may have to know, but that's it. Not your parents, nobody."

He sighed, looking at the scone as it tried to go back to how it was before being squished. "My sleeve, John. Roll it up. Left."

Icy cold horror stuck my heart. I knew what he was saying. I knew what that meant. I knew. I've had to stitch people up before. Hopefully his weren't as bad as that.

I reached down and took his hand in mine, holding it, and slowly rolled up his sleeve, then turned over his arm.

"Sherlock..." I murmured. His arm was littered with cuts. Some were like little cat scratches, some were short but deep and some needed stitches.  "I know, John. I wasn't able to stitch myself up very well when I tried a while ago, so I didn't, but I kept these clean. You can get the needle and do it yourself, they're not too old" Sherlock sighed. He took off his shirt when I left the room, but buried himself under his blankets. He was still shivering.

"Sherlock, if you do that again, please bandage yourself. They could open and you could start bleeding. But first, try your best not to do that again," I said, pulling on my medical gloves. "And would you have something to eat?"

Sherlock sighed and smiled weakly. "All right. What do get if I do?"

I was busy administering the numbing medication to his arm so I could stitch it. Rifling through my supplies and setting the box on the table, I replied, "I don't know. What do you want?"

"How about... A kiss."

I started and looked at Sherlock, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. "W-what?" I stuttered, confused. A kiss?! Why would he want a kiss? And one from me, of all people?

He smiled roguishly. "John, really. You think I wouldn't have noticed? 'Because we love you.' Yes, actually, I could deduce that by myself. That sentence was all I needed to be sure. And... I guess... It applies from me to you, as well."

"Oh, shut up," I snapped, jokingly, the pink still on my cheeks as I worked.

 It scared me. How he could do this to himself?

And how in the world did he manage to flirt with me, even while I'm stitching him up?