Experiments in Endorphin Release
Title: Experiments in Endorphin Release
Series: Sherlock (BBCverse)
Pairing: preslash, sherlock/john
Prompt: "Sherlock-self-harming!fic somebody please! Slash or not, whatever you like." prompt here at
sherlockbbc_fic
Rating/Warning: R, Self harm, Cutting
Word Count: 1,016
A/N: This is my first kink meme fill ever. AND, my first Sherlock fic. So. Be kind. XD This is totally unbeta'd so all mistakes are embarrassing and my own.
Heavy footsteps thud across the sitting room and Sherlock pauses at the bathroom door. The detective frowns; John is home four hours earlier than normal. Obvious reason, he and Sarah have quarreled. Water drips down his chest and there is a momentary sting. Dismissing his flat mate’s return, he tightens the towel around his waist and heads towards his room. He idly thought it was a good thing Mrs. Hudson had bought him black towels as this one would be stained beyond saving otherwise.
“Sherlock!” John calls. “Where the devil did you put the good whiskey?”
The question only confirms his earlier deduction and while pondering what the argument could have been about, he forgets to answer. John comes stomping down the hall, annoyance written in every gesture. Remembering that he’s standing in the hall with only a towel, Sherlock tries to make the last yard to his room before John actually bothers to look at him. As he sails through the doorway, there is a startled intake of breath from behind and he knows he wasn’t fast enough.
John bursts into the room without so much as a by-your-leave.
“What the hell is this?” the doctor demands. Sherlock glances down at his torso, noticing with vague interest that the thick red cuts down one side of his ribs are still trickling blood.
“An experiment.” He answers in a tone that indicates his boredom. “Really John, I must insist you leave.”
Sherlock turns to rifle through a dresser drawer and John’s hand wraps around his bicep, fingers tight enough to bruise. His earlier annoyance has been replaced by rage. John’s reaction is irritating but interesting too, so Sherlock decides not to protest for the time being.
“What was the experiment, specifically?” the doctor demands as he drags the other man upstairs to his own room. He shoves Sherlock into a sitting position on the bed and fishes out the first aid kit he keeps in his bedside drawer. The detective tightens his hold on the towel around his waste but otherwise sits still.
“Several things. Endorphin release primarily.”
“A creative way to catch a high.” John growls while pouring peroxide onto gauze.
“Indeed.” Sherlock responds, pleased at his companion’s comprehension. He curbs the enthusiastic smile at John’s glare.
“Don’t treat the bottom three. I’m going to compare the rate of healing between-“
“Be quiet, Sherlock.” The solider snaps as he kneels in front of him and presses the soaked gauze to the first cut. Sherlock hisses through clenched teeth but doesn’t flinch. “This is unacceptable.” John tells him a moment later and there is some new emotion in his voice that Sherlock can’t place right away.
“I thoroughly researched bone and muscular configuration of the area before the attempt. I was in no danger.” The detective said dismissively.
“That isn’t the point.” John answers, that something still in his tone and still indefinable. Sherlock considers it for a long while, allowing the doctor to finish cleaning all the wounds. “Two of them need stitches.”
The detective nods and lets John smear ointment over the cuts. It only takes one point eight minutes for his skin to start going numb.
“What is the point?” Sherlock finally asks after the doctor begins to stitch his skin back together with perfect precision. He likes watching John work and wishes he was at a better angle to see the needle move through his skin. The doctor doesn’t answer him, focusing on the job at hand.
After Sherlock’s torso is bandaged and all the tools are cleaned and put away, John joins him on the bed. His shoulders slump and he looks tired.
“I shouldn’t have to explain this to you.” He tells Sherlock. The detective frowns; he doesn’t like the defeat in his friend’s voice.
“Would you, with my consent, try this same experiment on me?” the doctor asks. The thought of causing John pain in any capacity makes his stomach hurt. That reaction makes no sense so he files it away for later examination.
“No.” he responds with a certainty he doesn’t understand. John looks relieved and it bothers him that the doctor wasn’t sure of his answer.
“That should be explanation enough.”
“That doesn’t explain anything.” Sherlock snaps and hops to his feet.
“Damn it, watch the stitches!” John chides and reaches out to take his arm. He stops at the last moment and drops his hand back to his side. The detective takes in all the emotions flickering across John’s face with the clinical detachment he’s so good at. He adds it to the data already collected and begins to review, murmuring dates and facts out loud. He runs through everything twice, weighing certain things differently in each attempt for possible solutions.
John watches with fascination as Sherlock’s eyes move back and forth as though reading something and only half way listens to the recount of most of their association.
“You don’t think I’m a hero. That’s not why you were disappointed in me.” He says slowly.
“Correct.” John answers with some amusement. The other man nods and goes back to his review. Some time passes before Sherlock’s eyes snap John's face, alight with discovery.
“You care about me.” He spits it out like an accusation. It’s the only logical conclusion and he’s sure he doesn’t like it at all. He’s spent his whole life being disliked (but needed) by everyone outside his family and has no idea how to be cared about.
“Congratulations on working that out.” John says with a sigh. “Now go put on some trousers.”
Sherlock feels obligated to say something but can’t figure out what. He thinks he’s supposed to promise that he’ll never do such a thing again, but they’d both know it was a lie.
“I’m sorry to have caused you concern.” He finally says and leaves the room. John watches after him for a moment before quietly closing the door.
As Sherlock returns to his own room he considers what it will be like to have someone care. He’s sure it’s going to be maddening and intrusive but wonders if he might learn to like it, if only just a little.
Series: Sherlock (BBCverse)
Pairing: preslash, sherlock/john
Prompt: "Sherlock-self-harming!fic somebody please! Slash or not, whatever you like." prompt here at
sherlockbbc_fic
Rating/Warning: R, Self harm, Cutting
Word Count: 1,016
A/N: This is my first kink meme fill ever. AND, my first Sherlock fic. So. Be kind. XD This is totally unbeta'd so all mistakes are embarrassing and my own.
Heavy footsteps thud across the sitting room and Sherlock pauses at the bathroom door. The detective frowns; John is home four hours earlier than normal. Obvious reason, he and Sarah have quarreled. Water drips down his chest and there is a momentary sting. Dismissing his flat mate’s return, he tightens the towel around his waist and heads towards his room. He idly thought it was a good thing Mrs. Hudson had bought him black towels as this one would be stained beyond saving otherwise.
“Sherlock!” John calls. “Where the devil did you put the good whiskey?”
The question only confirms his earlier deduction and while pondering what the argument could have been about, he forgets to answer. John comes stomping down the hall, annoyance written in every gesture. Remembering that he’s standing in the hall with only a towel, Sherlock tries to make the last yard to his room before John actually bothers to look at him. As he sails through the doorway, there is a startled intake of breath from behind and he knows he wasn’t fast enough.
John bursts into the room without so much as a by-your-leave.
“What the hell is this?” the doctor demands. Sherlock glances down at his torso, noticing with vague interest that the thick red cuts down one side of his ribs are still trickling blood.
“An experiment.” He answers in a tone that indicates his boredom. “Really John, I must insist you leave.”
Sherlock turns to rifle through a dresser drawer and John’s hand wraps around his bicep, fingers tight enough to bruise. His earlier annoyance has been replaced by rage. John’s reaction is irritating but interesting too, so Sherlock decides not to protest for the time being.
“What was the experiment, specifically?” the doctor demands as he drags the other man upstairs to his own room. He shoves Sherlock into a sitting position on the bed and fishes out the first aid kit he keeps in his bedside drawer. The detective tightens his hold on the towel around his waste but otherwise sits still.
“Several things. Endorphin release primarily.”
“A creative way to catch a high.” John growls while pouring peroxide onto gauze.
“Indeed.” Sherlock responds, pleased at his companion’s comprehension. He curbs the enthusiastic smile at John’s glare.
“Don’t treat the bottom three. I’m going to compare the rate of healing between-“
“Be quiet, Sherlock.” The solider snaps as he kneels in front of him and presses the soaked gauze to the first cut. Sherlock hisses through clenched teeth but doesn’t flinch. “This is unacceptable.” John tells him a moment later and there is some new emotion in his voice that Sherlock can’t place right away.
“I thoroughly researched bone and muscular configuration of the area before the attempt. I was in no danger.” The detective said dismissively.
“That isn’t the point.” John answers, that something still in his tone and still indefinable. Sherlock considers it for a long while, allowing the doctor to finish cleaning all the wounds. “Two of them need stitches.”
The detective nods and lets John smear ointment over the cuts. It only takes one point eight minutes for his skin to start going numb.
“What is the point?” Sherlock finally asks after the doctor begins to stitch his skin back together with perfect precision. He likes watching John work and wishes he was at a better angle to see the needle move through his skin. The doctor doesn’t answer him, focusing on the job at hand.
After Sherlock’s torso is bandaged and all the tools are cleaned and put away, John joins him on the bed. His shoulders slump and he looks tired.
“I shouldn’t have to explain this to you.” He tells Sherlock. The detective frowns; he doesn’t like the defeat in his friend’s voice.
“Would you, with my consent, try this same experiment on me?” the doctor asks. The thought of causing John pain in any capacity makes his stomach hurt. That reaction makes no sense so he files it away for later examination.
“No.” he responds with a certainty he doesn’t understand. John looks relieved and it bothers him that the doctor wasn’t sure of his answer.
“That should be explanation enough.”
“That doesn’t explain anything.” Sherlock snaps and hops to his feet.
“Damn it, watch the stitches!” John chides and reaches out to take his arm. He stops at the last moment and drops his hand back to his side. The detective takes in all the emotions flickering across John’s face with the clinical detachment he’s so good at. He adds it to the data already collected and begins to review, murmuring dates and facts out loud. He runs through everything twice, weighing certain things differently in each attempt for possible solutions.
John watches with fascination as Sherlock’s eyes move back and forth as though reading something and only half way listens to the recount of most of their association.
“You don’t think I’m a hero. That’s not why you were disappointed in me.” He says slowly.
“Correct.” John answers with some amusement. The other man nods and goes back to his review. Some time passes before Sherlock’s eyes snap John's face, alight with discovery.
“You care about me.” He spits it out like an accusation. It’s the only logical conclusion and he’s sure he doesn’t like it at all. He’s spent his whole life being disliked (but needed) by everyone outside his family and has no idea how to be cared about.
“Congratulations on working that out.” John says with a sigh. “Now go put on some trousers.”
Sherlock feels obligated to say something but can’t figure out what. He thinks he’s supposed to promise that he’ll never do such a thing again, but they’d both know it was a lie.
“I’m sorry to have caused you concern.” He finally says and leaves the room. John watches after him for a moment before quietly closing the door.
As Sherlock returns to his own room he considers what it will be like to have someone care. He’s sure it’s going to be maddening and intrusive but wonders if he might learn to like it, if only just a little.