"Ow," Sherlock Holmes, age fifteen, poked at his innards. Those were some nice innards, he speculated. He stretched the skin over the wound further back. What exactly was he like on the inside?

Sherlock really needed to know. "Ow," he muttered again. He wasn't seeing much of interesting value... just a lot of blood. If he wanted to get to the better stuff, he'd have to go deeper. And maybe a cup or vacuum for the liquid?

Sherlock vowed that the next time he tried this experiment, he would have a vacuum.

In the meantime, he merely lifted the knife and slit deeper into his chest. More blood. Eurgh. Would it ever stop? He was getting tired of the sticky red stuff blocking his view. (Of course, Sherlock knew that he didn't really want the blood to stop. If the blood stopped, he would be dead.)

Sherlock reached a couple of fingers from each hand into the sticky red stuff to expose more innards. "Ow, ow, ow, ow," Sherlock muttered. This actually hurt. He wished it wouldn't.

But, hey! That's what the pills were for.

Sherlock popped a pill into his mouth to numb the pain. (The blood on his fingers almost made him drop it, but Sherlock was quite good with small objects. Sherlock had had a hobby of underwater model-plane building previously.) He knew he still had to be careful, or he would die, but Sherlock was always careful.

Okay, enough wussying, Sherlock thought. It was time for him to continue shredding up his torso.

Sherlock wiped away a bunch of blood, and finally got to see something- he could identify it later, when he wasn't busy trying to look- before another rush of blood covered up his experiment sample. (Otherwise known as his own chest.)

Sherlock was getting irritated with the blood by that point. Blood was boring (currently the most-used adjective and verb in Sherlock's vocabulary), he decided. He wanted to see tissue and bone and what the underside of his skin looked like!

As he was carving deeper into his chest, a door slammed open. Mycroft strode in.

"Sherlock, have you seen-" his eyes alighted upon Sherlock, laying bloody and topless on the floor, with an open pill bottle beside him, and a bloody knife. Mycroft's eyes widened with horror. He was actually struck momentarily speechless. Was this a ploy for attention? If so, Sherlock was succeeding.

"No, I haven't seen. I haven't seen anything. That's the problem."

For the first time in his life, Mycroft thought that maybe, while sociopath fit himself quite accurately, psychopath might be a better fit for his idiotic little brother.

"Mother? Father? Ah... Come here," Mycroft called. It wasn't often that you heard Mycroft's voice waver quite so fearfully. (Except in plays- Mycroft was an excellent actor.)

Mycroft had good reason to worry about his idiot sibling. After all, anybody that was capable of average (at minimum) thought processes could tell that carving up one's own body was not a good (or even sane) idea.

Sherlock tried to stand. "No, no," he assured his brother. "No need t'summon them. I'm fine." Mycroft was unconvinced.

"You have an open pill bottle, dilated pupils, and... Oh let's see, what else? That's right. A gaping gash in the middle of your chest. So no, I'd say you're not fine, as you so eloquently put it."

"I'm..." Sherlock made an attempt to reassure his brother again. "Spaghetti." It didn't work, of course, because 'I'm spaghetti' is really a terrible argument for being fine. (Especially when you aren't spaghetti.)

Black spots had begun to dance before Sherlock's eyes, making him dizzy. He tried to tell Mycroft that he just needed to sit down a bit, okay? But it sounded more like,

"I'm gonna campfire the pantyhose, okra?"

Sherlock didn't end up sitting down; he ended up blacked out on the floor.

Yes, Mycroft had very good reason to worry for his little, hospitalized and soon to be institutionalized for six weeks, brother.

A/N: This is a little more towards the crack!fic side of things, I'll admit. I will also admit that I am not as immersed in the fandom as some other people (most other people, actually), so I don't know the popular fanons for teen!Sherlock. (And yes, I am aware that he is quite a bit out of character to the adult Sherlock. However, people change, right?)

And my apologies if you were expecting a fanfiction where Sherlock is bullied or something and then we get brotherly fluff.

I just happen to think blood is funnier and more interesting.

It is T, not M, because this isn't actual violence. It's just Sherlock performing surgery on himself.

Thank you for reading this far!