A/N: Hello friends! This is yet another prompt for Unattainable Dreams' prompt exchange challenge. This month my prompt was the song 'Hurt' by Johnny Cash, prompted by ImpalaLove. I hope you enjoy.
TRIGGER WARNING: Self-harm, drug references.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything.
It was barely 10 AM, and already Sherlock could feel the itch beneath his skin.
The itch that once urged him to needles, and syringes filled with chemical bliss.
The itch that, the first time he felt it, drove him to claw at his skin until he drew blood, and even then he couldn't stop until someone tore his fingers from his wrist.
John wasn't in the flat. He and Sherlock had gotten into a pretty bad row the night previous, so John had gone on "a walk" to cool down.
This was, Sherlock noted dimly, the longest walk he'd ever witnessed.
It wasn't as though Sherlock didn't think John would come back. Of course not, sentiment. John had to come back, it made sense that he would. John hadn't even taken his coat with him, he had to come back eventually.
So he kept telling himself, at least.
He resisted for as long as he could stand it. Unfortunately, Sherlock Holmes was not a patient man, and so this was not a very long stretch of time at all.
His mind, the logical, sensible part of his mind, screamed at him to put down the goddamn razor right now you bloody stupid idiot. This made him feel worse, and so he locked that bit of his mind away in the farthest reaches of the cellars in his mind palace.
This was almost new found territory, having the logical part of him stripped away, leaving him raw, naked, and vulnerable to emotions and sentiment and feelings. It would have terrified him, under normal circumstances. Not only were these circumstances precisely the opposite of normal, but even without his logic and distance, Sherlock found that he was simply...devoid of feeling.
Well. He'd need to fix that, wouldn't he?
Sherlock sat on the edge of the bath, razor held lightly in his palm. He stared at it in fascination for a few minutes, almost as if he'd never seen one before in his life. He had, of course, dozens upon dozens of times. This time, though, it was different somehow.
For the first time, Sherlock felt like he had free will. Like he could actually choose whether or not he'd do this. Every time he'd felt the itch before, it was as though some unseen force somewhere was causing him to act upon those urges.
Without making a sound, there was a flash of movement from Sherlock's hand and then there were crimson droplets staining the clean white linoleum of the loo floor.
When he looked at the still bleeding but remarkably straight gash on his forearm, Sherlock's mind whirled with information. He gritted his teeth and dragged the blade across his skin again.
Back when he'd first started doing this, a fellow junkie had noticed the scars and asked him about it.
"I need something to make it stop," Sherlock had hissed frantically. He hadn't been on cocaine then, he was experimenting and at the moment he was on a pretty damn bad trip of LSD.
The junkie considered the emaciated, posh-as-fuck twenty three year old next to him.
"Focus on the pain," He'd said finally. "Nothing else."
Now, the thirty-three year old detective closed his eyes and bit into his skin once more.
This time, his mind was quiet.
A/N: I don't know if this is where it's going to end or not. I might turn it into a multi-chapter, but for now, it's a one shot. Thoughts on if I should continue, and thoughts in general are greatly appreciated! Please review and...
DFTBA darlings, :)