What will people do to satisfy their curiosity?
Disclaimer: The usual. Don't own. Don't profit. Silly science.
John's mobile beeped with an incoming text.
"Epi-pen"
His heart skipped a beat. Why would Sherlock want epinephrine? What proverbial bee-hive had he knocked over this time? Why send a text to him at work when a call to the paramedics, or even Mycroft for that matter, would be faster?
None of the answers were comforting. John hurriedly dialled Sherlock's number. He let out a sigh of relief when Sherlock answered.
"John," Sherlock sounded annoyed.
No matter. At least he was able to talk. Before the man could launch into his tirade, John interrupted. "Are you ok? Why do you need an epi-pen? What happened?"
"Too many questions, John. Just bring it," Sherlock snapped.
Pause.
"Is this an emergency?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes." He was clearly irritated now. His voice was terse and stilted.
"I don't finish work for another hour. Why don't you go over to the local chemists and pick up a pen yourself? I can call it in for you."
"I'll wait. Just bring it. And, John?" Sherlock paused, hesitating.
"Yes, what is it, Sherlock? Are you sure you're ok? This isn't another one of your stupid experiments gone awry, is it?"
"Of course not!" Sherlock replied too quickly. "I'm fine. Just bring the epinephrine and, while you're at it, some antihistamine tablets would be good too."
"Sherlock, if you're really having an allergic reaction, you should go to the A&E. It's not safe to wait until you're unable to breathe and dying of anaphylaxis." John paused. "Sherlock?"
The detective had already hung up.
"Bugger!" All sorts of worrying scenarios danced through the doctor's brain as he anxiously wrapped up his surgery. Thankfully his colleagues agreed to see the last of his patients. "Brains coming out his ears but no common sense," he muttered to himself as he rushed back to 221b Baker Street.
'Bring epi-pen' he says. 'Emergency', he claims. Then he says, 'I'm fine'. What does he expect me to think? I'm a doctor, for God's sake! He knows I'll assume the worst and come running. John's inner tirade continued as he gallantly rushed up the steps. If he's not asphyxiated already in anaphylactic shock I may just strangle him myself!
He paused at the top of the stairs.
The place was eerily quiet. Not a sound.
He turned the door handle and entered, dreading what he might find. What had Sherlock gotten himself into?
His eyes took in the chaotic clutter of their flat. Chairs. Pillow. Empty teacups. Books. Papers. The usual assortment of chemistry paraphernalia… "Sherlock, where are you?" John called out tentatively.
"I'm in the bathroom," a muffled voice echoed from behind closed doors.
John's shoulders relaxed. At least his flatmate was alive. "What are you doing in the bathroom?"
"Mrs Hudson said cold water might help," came the vague reply.
"Help what?"
Sounds of splashing water and a body climbing out of the tub followed in answer to John's query. Sherlock emerged wrapped in a towel, dark hair dripping, an almost sheepish expression on his face.
"What happened?" John gasped when he noticed the red splotches dotting his friend's skin. If it wasn't for the obvious distress swimming in his blue eyes defying his efforts to the contrary, John might have been tempted to laugh. The man's nose was as red a clown's and the rest of his spots gave him visions of Rudolf with the measles.
"It's a long story," the dripping spotted man replied. "Did you bring the drugs?"
"Yes, but…"
"Good. Just give them to me. I'll explain later." He snatched up the items and stalked off to his bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him.
John shook his head. "Arrogant bastard." He hung up his coat and busied himself making tea.
"No milk," he grumbled when he opened the door to the fridge. "Why am I always the one to fetch the milk?" He grabbed his coat once more.
~221b~
"You're back."
"Observant as always," John turned to see his flatmate slouched low in his chair staring into the fire. He busied himself with tea preparations and finally came into the living room, setting down one cup within reach of his flatmate. He sunk down into his own chair with relief. "I'd like an explanation now," he looked over expectantly.
"Like I said, John, it's a long story. I wouldn't want to waste your time."
"I've got time. Talk." John raised a steaming cup to his lips, waiting.
Silence.
At last a sigh escaped the detective. "Fine. It was for science, John."
"Oh?"
"Some idiot published a study on the comparative somatic sensory sensations of hymenoptera venom on different dermal localisations of homo sapiens. His results were not well founded. I needed to verify the facts."
"What facts?"
"Don't be so obtuse," Sherlock frowned.
"I heard you," John suppressed a smile. "You wanted to test out the man's theories on which body parts are most sensitive to a bee sting. Am I right?"
"Yes."
"And?" John prompted. "What did you find out?"
"Surprisingly, the research was mostly correct." Sherlock gave a wane smile.
"And why did you need the epi-pen and antihistamines?"
"Do I really need to elaborate for you, John? You're a doctor after all."
"I assume the antihistamines are to help with the itching and swelling associated with the bites." John recalled the numerous red spots on his friend's face, arms, and legs. "Clearly, you were thorough in your investigation. But, usually epinephrine is reserved for severe swelling in critical areas like the throat, which might threaten one's oxygen supply. You're talking reassures me that such has not been the case." He gave Sherlock a searching gaze.
The detective averted his eyes. "I'd rather not discuss it."
"Ok," John cleared his throat, "so what scientific findings did you confirm and not confirm with your day's experiment? Where should I avoid being stung?"
"The journal article claimed that the nose is the most anguishing place to be stung, followed by the upper lip and then the penis." He stopped.
"And you felt the need to replicate these findings?!" Even for Sherlock this seemed a bit extreme.
"I thought that the researcher had mixed up his findings. They were subjective and based on his personal pain scale, after all," he hurried to explain. "Why should the nose be the most sensitive when other areas of the skin are more densely innervated with sensory nerve endings?"
John raised an eyebrow. "And what subjective findings have you discovered?"
"That the nose is quite painful." Sherlock winced at the memory.
"The most painful?"
"Um…" Sherlock paused in his explanation, thinking how to phrase his next words. At last he plunged forward. " A sting to the inner nostril is clearly the most painful. Admittedly the upper lip is also quite excruciating and it is only marginally more so than the penis. However, there are other consequences of a sting on the distal shaft that were not mentioned in the original article that might mitigate the results. Pain may not be the only variable to consider when choosing the most amiable bits of one's anatomy for a bee to sting."
"Oh." (What else does one say in reply to such a confession?) John sat silent for several minutes.
Sherlock did not volunteer further details.
Finally, John broke the palpable silence. "I've heard that apitherapy is good for arthritis, tendonitis, and even multiple sclerosis."
"And if I happened to have any of those conditions, I'm sure I would be extremely grateful now. However, as I do not, I am not in the least comforted. Instead, it would be most helpful if you would refrain from further mention of this incident and concentrate on handing me more antihistamine pills. I shall endeavour to escape into their haze of drowsiness as the label so boldly proclaims as a side effect.
John handed over the tablets. He shook his head. In the name of science, huh?
A/N: Story is based on a recent publication in the scientific literature where someone did experiment on the most agonizing places to be stung by a bee. Five stings a day for 38 days… *shakes head* crazy scientists.