Impulse
Title: Impulse
Author: jumpertastic
Pairing: None, although pre-slash Sherlock/John
Warnings: Triggers for Trichotillomania and Dermatillomania.
Word Count: 1100
Spoilers: A Study in Pink and The Blind Banker
Summary: "John had invaded Afghanistan, but this; oh this was much more rewarding."
Entering 221B after a particularly long night of running around the back streets of London was nothing new for Sherlock Holmes. Neither was the crash that would eventually occur after he could flip the switch from deduction to safe mode. Usually Sherlock would play the violin, start a new experiment or pace the flat until his mind wore to exhaustion, forcing him to rest. But tonight, before Sherlock could pull off his Bellstaff coat and leather gloves, he found himself lying on the sofa. John made a bee line towards the kitchen muttering something about tea-- unimportant, dull, delete. Pulling off his gloves, Sherlock inspected his fingers, noticing every imperfection that he had been attempting to avoid all day. Out of sight, out of mind. He brought this on himself. Hang nails, redness, broken cuticles, ripped skin. Mustn’t think about that. Then again, the inability to think was the issue at hand. Although it was hard to admit, Sherlock gave into impulses, losing control without thinking or knowing-and that, to Sherlock, was a sign of weakness.
Sherlock could force himself to go without his body’s need for food or sleep and he time and time again washed away any impulse for sex. His body was merely transport. Yet when it came down to it, there were some things that even Sherlock could not control.
Transport: that was irrelevant right now. Sherlock just wanted to keep away from pulling the skin from his fingers, keep them away from the minor injuries that have scabbed over so that he doesn’t have the urge to touch, pick. For the first time since solving the Black Lotus case for Sebastian three days prior all Sherlock wanted to do was breathe. How could one possibly breathe when their head was clouded with such rubbish?
Sherlock closed his eyes.
His impossibly long, thin fingers found their way to his scalp, occupying on a small patch of hair towards the back of his head. Twirling the dark curls around his pointer, Sherlock opened his eyes, exhaled, and let go. No, Sherlock.
Despite the internal scolding, seconds later Sherlock’s fingers were exploring the smoothness of his scalp yet again, fixating on a rough patch towards the crown. His fingernails poke, prod, then invade the area-scratch, pull, pick. He closed his eyes yet again. John had invaded Afghanistan, but this; oh this was much more rewarding-no. No, no, no, stop it. He opened his eyes and made a conscious effort to pull his own hand away from the abused section of his scalp that was now emitting an odourless, clear fluid. Certainly it would scab over by morning, and then the cycle starts again.
You are better than this.
His fingers have a mind of their own. Sherlock’s digits were far less daft than most of London combined but so much more bloody infuriating. There. Another rough spot, pick, no. Anxiety and frustration set in fast.
When he is able to refocus his attention to his surroundings, John was standing over the sofa, mimicking his cramped expression, tea mug in hand. “Figured you could use a cuppa”.
Wrong. Could you perhaps cut my fingers off instead? “Hmm?”
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John sat the blue and white striped mug down on the coffee table in front of the sofa then walked across the sitting room to his chair. He fluffed the Union Jack pillow and plopped down, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling. It was perhaps the simplest thing that he had looked at in weeks. But John Watson would not give up living on Baker Street with Sherlock Holmes, not now. Sally Donovan had warned him that first night on Northumberland Street that Sherlock got off on this. What she didn’t know is that he did too. He needed the adventure, craved the thrill, could be dangerous, oh god yes.
But even John needed time between cases to embrace what was still simple in his life because hell, nothing in life was simple anymore. He recently shot a cabbie for a brilliant sociopath he had known for less than 48 hours and just a few nights ago he had been taken hostage, along with his date and nearly murdered by the Black Lotus tong. Oh, and let’s not forget the various body parts strewn across both the kitchen and in a more surprising, rarer instance, the bathroom. Simple?Never.
But he would never leave; he couldn’t, because this magnificent madman was just what John Watson needed.
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In the moments that John peered at the ceiling, Sherlock realised two things. First, he was holding his breath whilst staring at John. The man was impossible to figure out, which should infuriate Sherlock to no end, but instead it excited him. He should have been able to deduce the life of Doctor John Watson at first glance, he thought that he did (Afghanistan or Iraq?), but he had only grazed the surface. The man was full of surprises.
Second, and even more disturbing was that Sherlock’s hand had yet to leave his head. As he pulled away, both his penetrating gaze and his hand, he lightly grasped a few strands of hair and ripped them away. Yes, god, beautiful. Not once did John glance down to notice the relief that flooded his expression, and he certainly did not notice Sherlock’s hand explore his mind’s casing and pull the perfect strand once again. Yes, better. Somehow seeing the result to his insanity was so bloody satisfying that he forgot how inadequate he felt as his mind betrayed him and impulse took over. He fingered the detached lock between his pointer and thumb, inspecting its texture and length before letting it go.
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Out of the corner of his eye, John took quick notice to the patterns Sherlock’s fingers were taking, brushing, picking, and focusing with the same precision that he inspected a corpse. He should say something; he was a doctor after all, but the fight Sherlock would put up and the eventually sulk wouldn’t be worth it, not tonight. They’d both fall asleep soon anyway.
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Sherlock’s hand migrated back, separating and inspecting each strand until he found just one that didn’t quite feel right. After a moment of scavenging for the perfect hair, he found it, buried in a thinner patch of curls, quite a bit shorter than the rest (he had pulled here before) and different than his natural, curled texture. His fingers ran along the length.
Imperfect, pluck.
He held the hair to his face, inspecting it further before letting it fall to the ground.
He could breathe.