Eat! (BBC Sherlock FanFiction)

AN: I genuinely imagined the first part of this whilst sitting trying to motivate myself to eat the last of a rather large New Year's meal... I think I'll keep the tactic as it works wonders :)

Sitting stiffly at the kitchen table of 221B, a plate of food in front of me in the small space cleared of towering instruments and experiments, John pacing slightly, face furrowed in mild annoyance, through the way to the living room.

"Come on, Sherlock, eat." He nags, with the air of a grumpy mother.

"You need to eat something." Persisting, hands coming from behind his back and waving slightly, he continues to babble after a moment of silence.

"Seriously, though, when do you ever eat?"

Eyebrows raised and face expectant, I leave the question unanswered other than with a slight smirk as I stare him straight in the eyes.

Not moving my gaze, I swipe up the fork, stab the contents of the plate, put it in my mouth, slowly chew and swallow whilst still staring at him.

"Look there, see? Eating. Apparently it humanises me."

I wink and smile, fork still in my hand.

He rolls his eyes, sighs, and walks into the living room, flopping down in his armchair.

His hand gesturing weakly; "Fine, Sherlock, just you be... you." He sighs again in fairly mild humor before resting his head on his hand.

I look down at the plate again; read it from everything to what it originally was to how clumsily it had been cooked in which pans, shrug my shoulders with a bit of a mock attitude, swap hands with the fork and pick up the knife on the table.

I begin to eat, eyes often glancing up at him to see him watching through his fingers, slight surprise etched on his face.

After a few minutes, the door bell rings. Putting down the cutlery, I get up from the table and cross over to the window in the living room. I lift and peer through the curtain.

"We have a client." I direct at John, with an amused air. He remains in his seat.

"Well?" I ask after a moment. "Aren't you going to get the door?" The words come with a smirk on my lips.

John sighs heavily. "Well, it's hardly exactly a full meal, but then I don't really know what I was expecting. Well done, I guess, Sherlock."

The sarcasm drags at his weary expression. I look through to the kitchen, half eaten plate of food abandoned at the table. I look back to find his eyes on me.

I pull him a wide smile, my arm gesturing to the door.

He grunts a little, pulls himself up, and goes to the stairs to welcome in the next client.

It wasn't as if he was that bad a cook.