Fic: The Weight of Knowledge - Chapter 3 of 3 - Facing the truth

[bradspyjamas]

Title: The Weight of Knowledge
Author: bradspyjamas
Beta: The imcomparable kizzia
Rating: Adult concepts (nothing explicit but still, sex is mentioned so you've been warned)
Status: Complete (finally, thank the lord!) Word count: 10,607 total
Tags: Johnlock, Post-Reichenbach, food issues, weight issues, smut, fluff,
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Moffat and Gatiss - I'm just borrowing it for fun. No copyright infringement intended.
Summary: They say that a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. When John’s curiosity is piqued by Sherlock’s reaction to a simple offering he decides an experiment is in order. The data he gathers lead him down a path to the one situation he’d never thought he’d find himself in. Or not in, as the case may be.
Authors Notes:
The ‘rules’ John discovers are not made up – they used to be mine.  Needless to say this could contain triggers if you have issues with food as I wasn’t in a good place in my life when I followed them.This is a very self indulgent piece on my part, more cathartic than anything else, though I’ve written from John’s perspective because I actually couldn’t write much from Sherlock’s – too close to home I guess! However the tone of this isn’t dark and the ending is quite fluffy and positive but if you have an eating disorder this could be triggery, especially this chapter. 

I should also apologise for this taking so long to finish. To be honest this chapter nearly broke me and I'm really, really glad I'm finally able to post it! Huge thanks must go to kizzia, without whom this would not be up at all, she's held my hand, helped me write and re-write and write it again and then beta'd this earlier today before I then fiddled with it some more (so all the mistakes are my own).
I hope you enjoy this. Or at least don't hate it! 

Chapter 3 - Facing the truth

And … we’re back where we started, so to speak.

John’s in the bedroom with the trousers – which sounds like the dénouement of the weirdest game of Cluedo ever played, even odder than the game which ended with Sherlock skewering the board to the wall with the pen knife – and it’s all about to go to hell in a hand cart.

Which you knew already. It’s why you’re still reading. But you’re more interested in the how and the why. We’ll talk about the why first.

John, despite how he’s currently behaving, doesn’t normally lie to himself. About anything, regardless of how much whatever it is matters to him or what he tells other people. He’ll happily admit - only in the solitude of his own head, but still - that while he thought Sherlock was dead he wore the brand of cologne Sherlock had used because it made him feel a bit less like following him off the roof of St Bart’s. He was also brutally honest with himself about why he didn’t; he wanted to keep Sherlock’s memory alive more than he wanted to join him in the next life. Which was a blood good thing too, really, seeing as how it all turned out.

He’s also perfectly clear on why he and Harry don’t get along.

It wasn’t the alcohol. That came much later. No, he and Harry really, genuinely, haven’t ever got along. Harry - as far as John can tell because, in all honesty she’s never actually told him this straight out – resented John from the moment he was born for apparently no other reason than that he was there. And John? Well he tried, he really tried but when he finally realised that no matter what he did, he could never win her over because she’d always see him as a usurper - an inconvenience who stole her spot and diverted the spotlight of their parents praise - he gave up trying and started to stay out of her way instead. Which was wrong in her eyes too, because then he was one more member of her family not giving her the attention she deserved. The dislike turned to resentment before morphing into hate and then he really got it with both barrels. Because John’s new, grown up stance to her behaviour coincided with his body getting geared up for puberty; having always been small and slight, the weight gain that appeared almost overnight made a huge difference to his frame and knocked him off balance even before Harry got going.

For, to Harry, it was a gift from the gods. Golden boy - popular, friendly, hard-working, bright and, as their parents were so fond of saying, not a moments worry, unlike you Harriet with your mouth and your attitude – finally had a visible, obvious flaw. And she really made the most of it.

In front of their parents it was sly, underhand: she suddenly appeared to care about her brother. Was John alright? Had those comments upset him? Oh, hadn’t he heard them? Well, they can’t be repeated over the dinner table but ... maybe he shouldn’t have pudding tonight, you know, what with everything.

In front of his friends it was more of the same: You don’t think any less of John now he’s a bit chubby do you? Anyway, it’s not really that bad, is it? Well, not from the back anyway. And he doesn’t seem to be able to help himself so we’ll just have to be nice about it.

In private it was downright vicious and John refused to repeat, even in his own mind, what she said in each of those awful interludes.

Once he’d got over the shock he dealt with it in the only way he knew how. He ignored her taunts and attacks and, instead, concentrated on doing something about the weight. He started jogging first thing every morning and then, when the Army did a recruitment drive for Cadets at his school – barely a month into Harry’s campaign of abuse - he joined up.

Six months later he was a different boy; still one of the shortest of his year group but four inches taller than he had been and a physique so toned you could bounce rocks off his abs. Plus, thanks to the “man in uniform” effect – he was one of only three cadets at his school - he became Mr Popular overnight. And being a typical teenage boy he didn’t let it go to waste. Come on now, don’t look so surprised. After all which continent did you think he started on?

The girls were the final straw between him and Harry. She called him Soldier Boy and sneered at all his choices and he simply continued to call her Harry and affected an air of pity for her. Pity that became real when the drinking started and then quickly got out of control. He didn’t hide his relief when she disappeared off to Uni under a cloud of parental condemnation, not after her three failed attempts to steal John’s latest girlfriend.

Their lives moved on, staying in contact for the sake of their parents and because neither of them could quite put aside the sibling bonds that were, underneath it all, still hanging on by a thread. Neither of them ever mentioned John’s brief and effective battle with his weight or Harry’s part in it and John buried the emotional baggage of the bullying so deep under layers of explanations and excuses for her that it would never see the light of day again - or so he’d thought.

In fact he’d believed the only lasting legacy of that period in his life was turning back to the army - when he’d wanted to make the switch of specialism from general practitioner to trauma surgeon - and the fact that he’d maintained a fitness regime ever since. Even when he’d been invalided home he walked daily despite the limp and did sit ups and push ups when he was able to. Sherlock’s “death” provoked the most sustained and intensive exercise schedule he’d kept up since his Sandhurst days and that had continued, escalated in fact – he needed to work out his aggression somehow, given that he couldn’t bring himself to punch someone so emaciated and guilt stricken - when Sherlock returned.

But in these last three months? The three months in which Sherlock had completed him in a way he hadn’t known was possible until it happened? Morning runs had swiftly been replaced by morning shags, sit ups and push ups often interrupted by Sherlock’s hands or mouth – more usually both and between the sex, the cases and Operation Increase for the first time in over twenty years he wasn’t doing targeted exercise on a regular basis and was eating more junk food than he’d ever done in his life.

And that, plus the sight of his stomach expanding out of his jeans after that meal and the subsequent thoughts about how vehemently Sherlock abhored overeating, was all it took for those layers to start unravelling faster than a ball of wool under a kitten’s paws and for his subconscious to flip into a protective mode that would rival Sherlock at his most dogged.

But lies can only survive while someone believes in them. Just like fairies.

John doesn’t believe in fairies.

He’s about to stop believing his own lies, too.

Which brings us - rather neatly it must be said - to the how:

The tuxedo was the most aggressively tailored piece of clothing John owned, despite the fact it was off the peg and not made to measure. The trousers had fitted him like a second skin when he’d bought it and judging by Sherlock’s reaction when he’d put it on - the atmosphere between them had been so sexually charged John had begun to consider spontaneous human combustion a viable possibility – it had accentuated all the right areas.  So he didn’t immediately think anything of the fact that he really had to work to get them up his thighs. Especially since he was too busy remembering how Sherlock had almost ripped them off him after he’d dragged him into a disused – and poorly secured – store room in the Leicester Square Odeon, murmuring praises of John’s arse and musculature into and unmentioned but very … uh … attentive part of his anatomy.

A memory which was crudely dispelled a moment later when it became clear that the self same arse was now seriously impeding the progress of the trousers and John’s memory became very clear on one point – the trousers may have been tight but they weren’t this tight.  Not by a long shot. And Sherlock certainly hadn’t put them through the wash. So this must be down to …. He pushed the thought out of his head, got a better grip on the waistband and yanked, hard. Of course he’d put on a couple of pounds. How could he not when he was eating like he was? But a few pounds wasn’t a problem. Not a problem at all and once he’d got the bloody things up and fastened, they’d hang properly, Sherlock wouldn’t notice anything untoward at all and everything would be fine. Just fine. Thank you so very much Harry.

Because after all these years he could hear her voice - right at the back of mind, to be sure, but he could hear her - whispering fast, voice sharp with malice and dark delight .

No! He shook his head violently and took a steadying breath, returning his concentration to the matter in hand.  Bloody hell they were tight, he thought as he squirmed, redoubling his grip on the waistband and pulling up and round as he attempted to do them up.

He couldn’t get the material to meet over his stomach.

He screwed his eyes shut, trying not to think about anything other than the task in hand as he heaved in a breath, pulled his abs in so hard he whimpered at the pain and began trying to force the fastening together. Without success. So he did it again. And again, and again, and again, desperation increasing with every attempt but unwilling to give up because if he could just get them done up then everything would be alright. Just once more, he kept telling himself. Just one more time and they’ll fasten and it will all be fine.

Who do you think you’re kidding? Harry was back, louder, and suddenly it was as if he were fourteen again, back in his room at home, fighting to get his favourite pair of jeans done up when she’d appeared in the doorway. There’s no way you’ll get into those. Not now you’ve turned into a flabbier version of the Michelin man.  Besides, even if you could get them on, it wouldn’t matter. No one in their right mind would want you for a boyfriend. Especially not the sort you go for, all tall and slim and sexy. They’d be embarrassed to be seen with you, barely reaching their shoulders and spilling out of your clothes. God, just imagine what you’d look like - beauty and the blob! No, really Johnny, just look at yourself!She’d stalked into the room and turned him, so he was facing his mirror. Take a good long look at what you’ve become!

And that was it. The lies shattered like terracotta after a frost.

Because he opened his eyes in an effort to get away from the memories and looked straight down at his stomach. Which, framed as it was by the open edges of his shirt at the top and squeezed up by his hands as he continued to try and close the waistband of the trousers, looked positively huge. Releasing the material as if it were something deadly he sagged back onto the bed, covering his face with his hands as he re-assessed everything that had happened in the past five weeks.  All the comments, every single time he’d forced his shirt buttons closed and struggled to do up his jeans, all those pretty little stories he’d told himself to excuse it all swirled round his head to the accompaniment of Harry’s voice repeatedly hissing You’re fat, Johnny, short and fat and disgusting. You turn my stomach. You’d turn anyone’s stomach until he couldn’t stand it any more and he was back on his feet, wanting nothing so much as to get away from both his body and his mind.

The movement made the tux trousers dig into his hips and constrict round his legs and he scrabbled at them, as desperate to get them off as he had been to get them on not five minutes earlier. How could he have let this happen? he wondered frantically, What on earth had been thinking? And, more to the point, how was he going to fix this?  Having nearly fallen getting them off his feet he flung the trousers across the room - with a curse he’d last used when he’d found a camel spider under his camp bed in Sangin - and then, very, very slowly, he brought his hands back to his torso and forced himself to look properly at his body.

The fear and panic hit him solidly in the chest as his hands mapped the bulge of his newly acquired belly, fingers having to probe into the yielding flesh in order to confirm that yes, his abs were still there, still quite strong and well-developed too, but just hidden by this … abomination he’d visited on himself.  This wasn’t just a couple of pounds, he conceded, cupping his stomach and then running his hands round his - now significantly more padded - hips. This was much more than stone, probably closer to two and it wasn’t going to be hidden easily. He tried though, sucking his muscles in again, tightening them as much as he could and watching, with growing terror, as bulge receded but remained stubbornly present, the curves quivering with the effort involved until he couldn’t hold them anymore and his gut sprang back out, dragging a sob from his chest as it did.

At which point a soft John? stopped him in his tracks and he looked up to met Sherlock’s eyes. Instantly the maelstrom in his head was gone, leaving behind the one thought that he’d been trying not to think.

Sherlock wouldn’t want him once he realised what John had become.

He whirled away from the door as if he’d been electrocuted, grabbing haphazardly at his jeans and t-shirt while keeping his back to Sherlock as he tried to hide himself. Except the t-shirt strained over his stomach and he was shaking so much he couldn’t get a proper grip on the jeans to force the buttons closed. He didn’t know what he was saying - shouting actually but lets not be too picky here - but he knew “go away” was the most polite of the phrases. Unwilling to turn round while still hanging out of unfastened clothes he risked a quick look back over his shoulder in the hope Sherlock had gone and he could find some jogging bottoms and at least make a start on repairing the damage.

He hadn’t. He was still there. Frozen in place with an expression so horrified that John knew he’d seen everything. Of course he had, Harry’s voice supplied, he’s Sherlock Holmes, how could he miss his partner turning into a blimp right under his nose.

Pulling his abused stomach muscles in one more time he managed to get his jeans done up, biting his lip as he let them back out and his gut expanded out over the top of the too-tight waist band, t-shirt riding up at the same time to leave a strip of flesh visible. Slowly, tugging the t-shirt down as best he could, John turned back towards Sherlock. His cheeks burned red as he moved and he knew he was this close to fucking bursting into tears but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t hide so he’d just had to get it over with. Only the vain hope that it would hurt less facing it all at once -like when you need to get a plaster off and just rip it - keeping him moving.

And then he was facing Sherlock and they just stared at each other - John’s gaze a mix of mortification and defiance and Sherlock’s wide eyed with worry - until the silence was stretched so taut between them that if you’d given Sherlock his bow he could probably have got a tune out of it.

John was waiting for Sherlock to tell him to leave, to use the words he could still hear Harry sayings, to confirm that he was as vile and gross as he felt. And Sherlock? Well, for the second time in his life - the first being when he’d returned and tried to find some words to say to John - he was completely at a loss. He could see John’s distress but had no clue as to which of the several possibilities he could deduce was actually causing it, nor any inkling how to make it better. So he said nothing.

Which didn’t turn out so well because in the silence John’s fear turned to anger - anger at himself, at Harry’s words from long ago which were still echoing in his head, at the whole situation in general - and eventually it exploded out of him with no warning.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he snarled, stalking forward a couple of steps “You have to have noticed this … this …” he prodded his stomach, hard, making a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, “before now. You notice everything. It’s what you do and I’ve never know you to be backward at coming forward So? … Come on Sherlock! Explain to me why the hell didn’t you tell me I was turning into a blimp?”

Sherlock opened his mouth but John couldn’t hold himself in check long enough to let him speak.

“Was it an experiment, Sherlock? Is that it? Did you want to see how long I could delude myself into pretending everything was ok? That I wasn’t gaining weight faster than you can say slob? Was that why you started doing the washing? To give me something to blame for my clothes barely doing up? Is that why you’ve been so affectionate lately? And excuse to measure my body as it expanded?” He paused for breath; one heartbeat, then two, and when he continued his voice was quieter but there was a hitch in it that made Sherlock swallow uncomfortably. “How did you bring yourself to touch me, Sherlock? I know how much fat revolts you, what you think of people who let themselves go. I don’t understand! Why haven’t you just told me to go? Why haven’t you made me leave?”

“Because I love you!” Sherlock yelled back, striding across the room and grabbing John by the shoulders as the horror that John would think he wasn’t wanted gripped him like a vice, “Because I don’t care about the weight, John! Because I like it!”

The air between them seemed to solidify, John's expression a mix of disbelief and confusion that would have wrenched even Mycroft’s heart. Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it again and John took the action for a mute denial of what he'd just said and turned away, only to have his arm caught and to find himself wrapped in Sherlock, held close as Sherlock's pressed his lips to John's temple and murmured listen, listen,into his skin.

John stilled, the plea in that voice - a voice so low and so undone that John had no defence against it - enough to let him lean into the hold, close his eyes and let Sherlock explain. Later John would say that he'd had no idea what Sherlock was about to say but that, if he'd had to guess, he would never have come up with Sherlock's real reason in a million years.

Because Sherlock spoke about love.

He spoke about a childhood filled with empty words and emptier gestures. One where he was tolerated and not treasured, where he looked on as Mycroft was showered with time and care and was shown just how much he meant to their Father whilst he was offered tokens - always in front of others - but otherwise ignored. He understood why, eventually, when Mycroft had taken him to one side and begged him to rein in his tongue and attitude because there was only so much a man like Father could be expected to take from the cuckoo in the nest.

He spoke about what he’d then said to his Mother, the following conversation with the man he had called Father, how he came to understand why Mycroft said that caring was not an advantage. How he began realise that worth was not inherent but had to be earned and exactly how little he possessed that those he called family actually wanted.

He spoke of University, of meeting Victor, of thinking that longing looks and whispered promises equated to love and being proved wrong so ... so visibly, so undeniably wrong that he finally learnt how to shut the feelings down. Learnt how to switch off, to wrap himself entirely in a label that would keep society at arms length.

Because alone was what he needed. Alone was the only thing that could protect him, that would allow him to keep his heart in a safe harbour.

And alone was how he had stayed. He finished out Uni and then, when Mycroft cut off his allowance and finally - when he realised that Sherlock was more than capable of generating his own income - banished his vein-searing comfort by force, he took up with a new master. Restraint. Restraint in all things. Which was infinitely more satisfactory, given that he needed nothing but himself and his infinite capacity for thought to elicit satisfactory results. Food became a way of keeping score, his body the outward manifestation of his success. Thin equalled successful restraint equalled safety - nothing more and nothing less would do.

And it had been enough. He had been content, after a fashion, until five foot seven of army doctor had entered his life and brushed aside his cloak of sociopathy as if it were less substantial than mist and insinuated himself into Sherlock's world as if he were meant to be there.

Sherlock's voice grew calmer as he continued to talk about John, his John and the happiness that he’d brought into Sherlock’s life. Happiness he had seen in others but not understood in connection to himself until the moment he’d seen the paint on the flat windows and thought it might be taken away before he had a chance to explore it.

He talked of fear, of the fear of driving him away but being unable to change the habits of a life time, the fear that Moriarty would succeed where his own defects had failed and then those three years, the years they still didn’t talk of much. He talked of the absence of John in life, at his side, of how it had become like a weeping wound in Sherlock’s heart, infecting every part of his life and making every day an agony of necessity over need. For the first time Sherlock had found exercising restraint a trial rather than a comfort but even so, when he returned, when he finally found himself acting on what he wanted he couldn’t give it up completely. Food, once again, became the constant, the one thing that he could hold over from his old life as he learnt how show his love for John in a way John could understand. Even when he realised he was getting out of control, that he was reaching the point his body would simply give up he couldn’t stop, couldn’t make adjustments for his new lifestyle, couldn’t let go. But yet again John was ahead of him, making it OK, making it right.

John’s arms tightened round Sherlock as he talked of the epiphany he’d had that night, after that blow-out meal at Angelo’s. The realisation - born of feeling properly full himself for the first time in years - that John had seen, had understood and instead of shouting or threatening, had simply worked round Sherlock’s limitations to make him well had been like a petrol poured on a bonfire. He’d thought about the bits of chocolate, the carrot sticks and all other random offerings and slightly out of character behaviour and realised that John had cared enough to find out what he could cope with, what he felt comfortable with and had done so in such a way that Sherlock hadn’t been made to feel like a freak.

His voice cracked as he recounted how, as he’d held John that night and massaged his overfilled stomach while he moaned and shifted and suffered, he’d been overwhelmed by the concrete, visible proof beneath his hands that John loved him. Really, truly loved him. All of him, even the odd bits and the strange habits and the rules he’d been living by.

He closed his eyes as he spoke of the relief it had been just to let John look after him, knowing that he was in safe hands, that he didn’t have to keep thinking about it because John knew, John understood and John, of all the people in this world, could be trusted with his body and his heart.

And then he spoke of watching John’s weight start to creep up. Of the warm glow the sight fired inside him because - in a similar way to how his own body had been a measure of his own success - John’s body was a visible testament to the fact that Sherlock was loved. As the days passed and John’s stomach curved a little more, his arse filled out more of his jeans and his thighs grew a little more plump, Sherlock felt like it was a huge neon sign to the world that he, Sherlock, was worthy of being happy, worthy of being loved, worthy of someone else’s efforts.

Then he stopped, turned John in his arms so he could look at him properly, took a steadying breath and simply said, “Thank you, John, for loving me just as I am”.

At which point John had given him a beaming smile then promptly burst into tears, sobbing his heart and his fears out into Sherlock’s chest.

Eventually the sobs gave way to gasped apologies and half sentences that even Sherlock’s brain struggled to find any sense in. He just held John, occasionally pressing a kiss to the top of his head as he rubbed his back, letting him get everything out of his system until he judged him recovered enough to be moved to the kitchen. He settled John in a chair with a glass of water and a damp flannel to wipe his blotchy face and proceeded to make the one thing he was sure would help. Tea. He even had the presence of mind to move the biscuit tin off the table, which gained him a very wobbly but none-the-less grateful smile from John. Who wrapped his hands round his mug, took a small sip, gave a sigh of contentment and resignation and then told Sherlock all about Harry and everything that went along with it.

It was dark before they’d finished talking - nearly eight hours since John had gone into the bedroom thinking about nothing more than seducing Sherlock and then maybe, once they’d recovered, going to do a bit of Christmas shopping - and they both looked like they’d been rung dry. Hearts had been opened, plans had been made, promises given and received and, although it was going to be a difficult road for a while, both of them were confident that together they would get through this. After all, they’d been through so much already they weren’t about to let a few pounds be the thing that defeated them. 

“Do you want some food?” Sherlock said tentatively when John’s stomach gave a small rumble of discontent, “We could get a takeaway. You haven’t had Tandori Chicken for ages.”

John’s tongue flickered over his lips as he reached across the table for Sherlock’s hand, “Yeah, alright. Will you just have some of mine or …”

“I’ll get a Sag Bhaji and we can split both. We’ll go shopping for proper food tomorrow.”

John smiled properly, Sherlock’s face mirroring him instantly and the remaining tension lifted. Sherlock stood, moving to the side where the menus were scattered but then he turned back, pulled John up from the table and kissed him, sweet and slow.

“I’m not going to call them quite yet,” he panted into John’s ear when they broke apart, hands roaming over John’s back and tugging at his t-shirt.

“Oh really?” The purr in John’s voice told Sherlock he’d been right to go in this direction, the teasing “Why ever not?” as John’s hands cupped his arse just confirmed it.

“Because I want to take you to bed and do wicked things to you,” Sherlock murmured, feathering kisses onto John’s neck. “You did say vigorous exercise was the order of the day didn’t you?”

John’s laughter, echoing vibrantly round 221B, was all the reward Sherlock needed. It wasn’t the only reward he got though - John may have felt a little awkward about his body once they got into the bedroom but that didn’t last long once Sherlock started lavishing every inch of him with love - but what precisely that entailed is for a different story, one with a much higher rating!

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Comments

[verucasalt123.livejournal.com]

I have been waiting to read this until the final chapter was posted, because I get too impatient with WIPs. And it was so so so worth the wait. This is a lovely, emotional and touching story. Very well written.

[bradspyjamas.livejournal.com]

Thank you, I'm really glad you liked it.

Sunday, 9 September 2012

[livejournal.livejournal.com]

User thisprettywren referenced to your post from Sunday, 9 September 2012 (http://holmesian-news.livejournal.com/234852.html) saying: [...] by (Adler/Watson, Mycroft | NC-17 | BBC) The Weight of Knowledge - 3/3 (Complete) [...]

[ladyprydian.livejournal.com]

Lovely! I'm glad I got to read it all in one shot.

[bradspyjamas.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I'm glad I managed to finish it, finally and in a way that I was happy with - well, not happy exactly but it felt real and it felt right.

[sunny-rainfall.livejournal.com]

that was clever and adorable of john. loved this

[bradspyjamas.livejournal.com]

Thank you!