A/N:

Hello friends! I'm working on an actual chapter as well, but here's a Christmas chapter to tide you all over! Sorry it's so late, but I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaas, Yule, or whatever it is you celebrate!

-Wren

***

Sherlock

It was Christmas Eve, and the flat truly looked it.

They had put up the tree the day after Thanksgiving, and done their Christmas shopping the next Monday. Decorations and outside lights came in the first week or so of December, and presents from friends and neighbors started accumulating under the heavily-adorned tree a week and a half ago.

Sherlock enjoyed Christmas, even though he knew it was just consumerism thinly veiled by religious fanaticism, and he enjoyed how much John enjoyed it as well.

Growing up fairly well-off meant that Christmas could always be afforded, and Sherlock and his siblings always received what they wanted (within reason--he remembers one year being horribly disappointed in not receiving the same type of live dragon he read about in one of his fantasy novels), and it had been largely a positive event in his life.

Sherlock knew John wasn't nearly as well off as he had been, but John seemed fairly captivated by it, and somehow seemed more into it than Sherlock ever had been.

Still, it was their second Christmas as a couple, and this time Sherlock was not in a hospital for it. That's reason enough to celebrate, Sherlock thinks.

They were hosting a party, as they usually did for Christmas Eve. Last year was no exception, but according to John it did seem rather hollow without Sherlock there. Molly was indeed disappointed, he had heard. This year, hopefully, promised more fun and enjoyment now that he was home.

It wasn't going to be as big of a gathering as usual, just Sherlock, John, Molly, Greg, and a brief appearance from Mycroft. Sherlock never really liked most of the others that showed up, and John had suggested a smaller gathering this year, so the rest were cut from the list. More intimate functions were his speed; there was just less anxiety with less people.

People were supposed to start arriving in less than an hour, at 7:00, and John was busy in the kitchen finishing up the food. It was mainly just hors d'oeuvres, but John was dead set on making a Christmas turkey that year. He had started cooking it at noon, and it was looking like it wouldn't be ready for another hour. He could tell John was stressing about it, but he didn't really know how to help with that. Comforting people wasn't really his strong suit, and he felt guilty because he knows that John would drop anything and everything just to make him feel better.

"Do you need any help with that?" he asks, walking over to the kitchen.

"Um, I'm not sure," John says, pulling the meat thermometer from the bird. "It just needs to keep cooking. You were a real help earlier today with the hors d'oeuvres while I was with the turkey, but all there's left to do is wait, I suppose. Everything else is done, the table set and the string lights on, yeah?"

Sherlock nods, still feeling a bit useless.

"Thank you. I think it'll be alright, worse case scenario is that it'll take a bit and everyone can just have the hors d'oeuvres in the meantime." John says, standing and placing the thermometer on the counter, then closing the oven again.

"Sounds good then," Sherlock says, awkwardly clasping his hands together and turning to walk away.

"Hey, come here."

Sherlock feels two arms slide around his waist and cross in front of him, closely followed by the warmth of John's body pressed up behind him. The detective smiles, resting his hands on John's. The fact that John's arms still crosses easily around his midsection did not escape him, but he mainly just enjoyed being touched by John. It was new, the appreciation for physical contact, but it was welcome.

A knock at the door is heard, and his boyfriend releases him. John crosses the room to answer the door. He opens the door, and exchanges greetings and hugs with the guest. Sherlock recognizes Molly's voice.

"Hello John! I know I'm a bit early; I overestimated traffic a smidge and ended up getting here a few minutes ahead of schedule." she says, stepping across the threshold.

"Hello, Sherlock." Molly says softly, not quite discreetly giving the detective a once-over. Sherlock represses an uncomfortable squirm, feeling very much on display. The fitted suit he was wearing had to be altered to fit him this year, and he was still very touchy about it.

"Hello, Molly," Sherlock replies, giving her a once-over as well. A new dress, but not too revealing; her bag held a a few gifts that look to be professionally wrapped; she was wearing perfume, but not too much; and her makeup accentuated everything the way it should without being over the top. It was obvious she was taking precautions to avoid being deduced and called out on her attempt to impress Sherlock. He knew she still fancied him, but she had respectfully backed off once she found out he and John were an item, which Sherlock appreciated.

She smiles at him fondly before handing her gifts and coat to John. 

"It's nice to see you looking so well. We really missed you last year," she says, still smiling.

"I...thank you..." Sherlock says, a little uncertainly. "I missed being here last year as well. It's good to see you too, Molly."

Molly takes a step forward and hugs Sherlock, something she had never done before. He finds his arms around her almost reflexively. She squeezes him tightly, then pulls back, a little too quickly.

"I'm sorry, that was rather forward. I just...we missed you a lot--I missed you a lot. And I was terribly worried about you. It's just nice to see you looking well." 

"No, it's fine. I just wasn't aware it...impacted others so greatly." Sherlock admits, not meeting Molly's eye.

"Of course it did, Sherlock, we lo--"

Molly is cut off by another knock, and the conversation is halted by the rest of the guests entering the room.

Much hello-ing and hugging and laughing is offered, and Sherlock finds himself among them, feeling for once in his life as if he belongs somewhere, that he is not merely tolerated, but liked, even loved, and it feels wonderful.

"Oh, these cracker things are lovely, did you make them, Sherlock?" Lestrade says through a mouthful of food.

"Oh, yes, actually. The turkey isn't quite ready, so help yourself until it is," he replies, gesturing at the table with plates of finger food on it.

Lestrade places several hors d'oeuvres on a plate and hands it to Sherlock, who takes it reluctantly. "Have you had any yet? They're very good."

"I haven't, actually, but I'm not really all that hungry..." Sherlock tries to protest, staring at the food on his plate. He had intended to eat at the party, but after googling how many calories a tiny hors d'oeuvre could pack, his resolve weakened with every passing moment. Not to mention the turkey and the cider and the champagne and the cake afterwards....it was too much. He couldn't do it.

"Oh. Well, aren't you supposed to be eating more now?"Lestrade asks quizzically.

Sherlock's head shot up to meet his eyes. "Who told you that?"

"Well, no one told me, but word is that you have some sort of, I don't know, food problem, of sorts? It's not my business, but I just thought--"

"You're correct, it's not your business." Sherlock interrupts icily. 

Lestrade shrugs, unbothered. "And your whole deducing bit you do is none of yours either. You eat what you'd like, but I'm pretty sure John would want you to eat something."

Sherlock feels a muscle in his cheek start to jump, and he forces himself to take a breath and relax his grip on the plate. "What John wants of me is his business. Go on and mingle now, Craig."

"It's Greg, and okay." he says, walking off.

Sherlock returns his gaze to the food. It's Christmas, and he's supposed to be having a good time. Surely he could stomach a few extra calories tonight.

It was rather strange, having an eating disorder and being in active recovery from it. He always felt as if he had a limit he couldn't eat past, but a limit for what? He wasn't going to be able to lose weight anymore, and he wasn't really going to be able to maintain anymore either. So why is he obsessing over his limit when there's no reason to have one? Yes, he feared gaining weight more than anything, but it was going to happen--hell, it is happening, so why can't he just say fuck it, and eat?

"You doing alright, love?" John asks, appearing beside him.

Sherlock's eyes snap up to John's. "Yes, I'm doing alright. Lestrade was just...testing my patience."

His boyfriend laughs. "Yes, he does that to us all. Anyway, I just asked because you're looking at those crackers a little intensely. You don't have to have the hors d'oeuvres, but I'd like you to try some turkey later on. When they leave you can have whatever you'd like in return. Within reason."

Sherlock nods, and then forces himself to speak his next words. "I think I'll have some anyway. And the turkey. Maybe the champagne too."

John smiles, and it makes the detective feel oddly inside. A mixture of guilt, pride, and love. "I'm proud of you, love. Eat whatever you feel you can."

So he did. He silenced the voice he had inside telling him to starve, and ate. And ate. And ate.

It wasn't a lot, given how his stomach had shrunk, but he ate enough to where his stomach hurt, and with each bite he felt more and more out of control. He was full, so why couldn't he stop?!

When John finally announced that the turkey was ready, time stood still for Sherlock.

Looking at that bird, all he could see were calories. 200 calories in one serving of turkey breast, over 1,000 calories in one leg, and that was assuming he could stop eating after that. His fists clench, and while John is carving the turkey, he steals away into the bathroom.

He read a news report once of a bulimic girl who met her end kneeled in front of the toilet. She had gorged herself to the point of food coming back up her esophagus when she swallowed, and the act of purging ruptured her stomach and bowels and she died on the spot. Naked, bruised, and covered in her own vomit, blood, and feces was how she was found by her mother. Autopsies showed that her stomach had pushed its way up her ribcage and displaced her other organs to accommodate the sheer amount of food she ate. He hated that he thought this, but his first thought when he read this was just that she was weak. If she wanted to lose weight so bad, why didn't she just quit eating? Didn't she know she can't lose weight when she's eating enough to sustain a family, even though she's vomiting it back up? Disgusting. Pathetic. Weak.

But in this moment, Sherlock felt pretty close to what he thought the girl must have felt in her last moments.

He had been purging for close to fifteen minutes. He had gotten everything up in the first ten, but he couldn't stop raking his fingers down the back of his throat, obsessed with getting each tiny morsel of food out of his body and down the toilet. His knuckles bled, his throat was raw, and snot and tears dripped off his face and blurred his vision. Nothing but bile was coming up, but the detective knew the statistic that stated you could only purge up to 80% of what you ate, but goddammit, he had to get everything out.

A knock at the door startles him, and fear rushes into his system as he freezes where he is, his fingers still partway in his mouth.

"Sherlock, are you in there?"

It was Molly.

He knows he's been caught, surely they must have noticed his nearing 20 minute absence. The only thing he can do now is make her go away long enough to collect himself.

He clears his throat and swallows, trying to make his voice come out smoothly. "Yes, I'm in here. Give me a minute."

He begins to start wiping his hands and mouth and flushes the toilet, and like a well-oiled machine, becomes presentable in a matter of seconds.

He opens the door to Molly standing outside, he eyes tearful and distraught.

"You know, I've been standing here for ten minutes listening to you making yourself sick." Her voice shakes with sadness, her lower lip trembling.

Sherlock feels like his heart stops, and he opens his mouth to speak.

"No, don't even say anything to defend yourself, Sherlock. I thought you were doing better. John said you were doing better."

"Did John tell you about...what was going on with me?" Sherlock says carefully, already irritated with the breach of privacy.

"I was in the hospital when you tried to kill yourself. I know all about it. I just never said anything because it wasn't my place. But I can't just let you keep destroying yourself. Do you know what would happen if you died and left John? You know what happened when you left the first time. Do you really think he could survive a second time? He tried to kill himself too, you know. A few weeks after you jumped."

"I know." Sherlock says quietly. "I didn't see it, but I heard about it. After."

"Then why are you in here, throwing up the lovely meal you made, when you should be out there with him telling him that you feel so terribly?" Molly's eyes are hard and tears are freely flowing, her hands tightened into fists.

"You...know...how I feel about you." she says, her voice tight. "So you should know that it kills me to see you hurting. I know people aren't very nice to you, and that you don't have a lot of people in your corner. But I'm here for you. John is here for you. Don't you fucking waste that."

Molly wipes her eyes, careful not to smear her makeup. "Get back out there and go back to John. Tell him what you did after we leave, or I will. I will not have you hurting yourself on Christmas Eve."

Sherlock nods mutely, still in shock. Yes, he knew Molly cared for him. But she had never been so vocal about it before now. 

He makes his way back to the living room, leaving Molly in the bathroom to collect herself. John is busy talking to Mycroft, who had apparently just arrived. John excuses himself and walks over to Sherlock, worry already creasing itself into the furrow of his brow.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"Yes, I'm fine," Sherlock lies. 

John gives him a hard stare.

"We'll talk after. I'm fine for now." Sherlock repeats himself.

His boyfriend smiles thinly and nods. "All right. After."

Sherlock is then accosted by Mycroft, and is kept busy with him for about half an hour before he had to go again. He was on his way to visit their parents, and Sherlock declined visiting once again. His brother had been near begging him to go, as he hadn't seen them in over a year, but Sherlock doesn't want to worry them, as they know nothing of the recent goings-on. Sherlock was grateful that Mycroft kept his privacy to such a degree, if nothing else.

Molly returns, and it's as if nothing happened. She stays within eyeshot of him, but doesn't smother him. 

And, despite everything, Sherlock has a wonderful time. He doesn't eat anything else, but after about an hour after his purging session, he finds himself swept up in the holiday spirit, and things are fine.

He knows he'll have to have a serious and uncomfortable conversation with John later, but it's nothing that he hasn't done before. 

So he lets go, and he makes merry.