The Devil's Chord

Chapter Sixteen

John hummed to himself as he removed another warm slice of bread from the toaster. It didn't even bother him that the chilled pat of butter was difficult to spread. Seven hours of consecutive sleep really did wonders for the body and mind. The rich scent of coffee filled the air, and the pot beeped just as Sherlock entered the kitchen.

If anything, the circles beneath Sherlock’s eyes looked darker than yesterday, making the lines of his face more angular.

“Did you sleep at all?” John set the leaning tower of toast onto the table.

Sherlock poured himself a cup of coffee and took a seat. “Briefly. I had to delete a particularly insistent image before heading to bed.”

Ah. After a circus case they'd had, Sherlock had stayed awake for three days straight, claiming he was being assaulted by images of clowns. John reckoned it was rather like getting a song stuck in your head that replayed over and over. Weren’t they called ear-worms? Except his friend would get a random image stuck in his head instead. Like an eye-worm. He grimaced. He really didn’t need to be thinking about retina-eating parasites before breakfast.

A moment later, Miss Walker joined them. The soft moss-colored jumper she wore brought out the green in her eyes. He was pleased to note a bit of color in her cheeks.

“You look nice." He pulled out a chair for her.

“Thank you,” she replied, though a tightness in her tone implied quite the opposite.

Sherlock chuckled, his mouth curving above his coffee cup.

“What?” John asked.

“Mr. Giles replaced Miss Walker’s clothes with ones he thought were better suited to her. You just helped prove his point.”

John pursed his lips. He would have been pissed to discover his own clothing replaced, especially if the cable jumper his mum had knit him had gone missing. “Well, that seems rather presumptuous on his part.”

“Thank you." Miss Walker cast him an appreciative smile as she reached for the toast.

Before she could take it, Sherlock’s hand darted out and snatched the plate away. “Digestion slows down the mind.”

“So does starvation." Her voice rose. “Give me the plate.”

Wonderful. So much for a nice, quiet morning.

“No. If you eat, your mind will be unable to function properly.”

She leaned forward. “If you don’t let me eat, Mr. Holmes, you won’t be able to function properly.”

Sherlock lifted a brow. “Should I feel threatened?”

She honest-to-god growled and rose to her feet.

John finally understood what it meant about being able to cut the tension in a room with a knife.

What the hell was Sherlock doing? Antagonizing a post-withdrawal patient wasn’t recommended. It usually resulted in relapse or violence. Of course, this could just be Sherlock’s own weird form of morning entertainment. Let’s poke the hungry bear with a sharp stick and see what happens. Sometimes the man was an idiot.

“Really, Sherlock,” he said.

Sherlock’s glare shifted to him. “No. I refuse to allow her to sabotage her own lessons. How am I supposed to instruct her if the majority of her blood is busy working through her digestive tract instead of where it desperately needs to be - in her head?”

She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Doctor Watson, how am I supposed to focus without anything in my stomach? I’ve already been kidnapped, tied up, and forced to go through withdrawals. And now I’m not allowed to eat? You should have just let me jump off the roof.”