Suddenly he was gripped with an unfathomable urge. His frenzied mind clashing and crashing and grating over the impulse. Panic pulsed through him. He knew what he needed, and he knew where to get it.
Warning: the focus of this fic is self-harm - in particular cutting
Rating: reflects both the content and some swearing
Suddenly he was gripped with an unfathomable urge. His frenzied mind clashing and crashing and grating over the impulse. Panic pulsed through him at the idea of not meeting the thoughts behest. He knew what he needed, and he knew where to get it.
His long legs moved him forward, pushed him seemingly without conscious instruction. Then he was throwing himself down onto the cold bathroom tiles, he was ripping open the delicate double doors of cupboard under the sink, he was searching; with his eyes, with his hands. Pushing past innumerable objects all so neatly stacked and organised by John. Searching.
His mind screaming at him with one thought. One impulse. One need.
Where were they? Bottles and boxes and plastic containers and packages crashed to the floor as his hands became frantic. Hitting the hard floor; smashing, breaking open, spilling their contents, rolling to the four corners of the room. Sherlock didn't care, didn't break his wild search.
His need overwhelmed everything. Where were they? He cried out his frustration – a strangled sound he was barely aware he had made until he heard it. He smashed his fist down onto the corner of the sink unit and he immediately relished the pain. But the need didn't leave. They aren't here. Why? Why aren't they here!?
He grabbed at the plastic packaging in front of him and spilt its contents on the blue tile. Not as good but sufficient. He snatched up one of the cheap plastic razors. They were there, the blades; glistening, taunting him, fixed safely in their plastic cages.
Turning frantically, his breath coming in short painful gasps, he searched debris littering the floor around him. He needed something… The burn was unrelenting. His mind was all but switched off. There was just the need and he would do anything to satisfy its hunger…. There! His arm was flung from his body and was returning before he was even truly aware of seeing the heavy glass jar.
He brought it down again and again onto the fragile, inflexible plastic housing. Pained, burning gasps growing slightly easier as the orange polymer fractured and released its hostages. Desperate fingers replaced the jar, prying the blades free from the last pieces of the brittle plastic.
He held the freed blade aloft. It reflected the muted light creeping into the darkened bathroom from the rooms beyond the hallway. A deep shuddering breath ripped through Sherlock's slender frame.
Holding it between his finger and thumb he quickly yanked at the sleeve concealing his left arm. It was a practiced move. The buttons at the cuff ripped free and hurriedly he forced the fabric upwards, bunching it around his bicep. Then slowly, carefully he brought the blade down to his forearm, just below the crease of the elbow.
The nerves tingled and jumped as he slowly sliced into his pale white flesh. The first cut was shallow, it was always shallow. He stopped and pulled the razor back. Watching as the blood beaded, rising up from the simple, superficial cut. Fuck yes. He groaned as he felt the burn lessen, as he felt the stress, the confusion, the angst, the upset, the EVERYTHING… just… lessen.
He brought his arm up to his mouth and licked away the red liquid, savouring the taste of iron on his tongue. For a moment he paused, savouring the sensations. Then he lowered the shining blade to the wound once more and this time he pushed it deeper. The second cut was always deeper.
This time when he removed the blade, slick with red, the wound didn't bead blood – it welled. It rushed out of the precise, clean score and ran in a bright red rivulet down his forearm.
Sherlock moaned quietly. Not with the pain, though this did hurt, he moaned with release. Release from his feelings, from the constant nagging pressure of his thoughts, from his failures, from the ever present pressure that built and built and built on itself inside his skull… He simply watched as the blood dripped from his outstretched fingers and onto the floor below. The burn continued to fade, the need continued to lessen.
But it wasn't running quickly enough, it wasn't deep enough yet. The pressure, the stress, the confusion were starting to stir again. He needed more; more blood, more quiet, more control, more time, more... he brought the blade back down to the laceration and pressed it deeper still.
He gasped with pain as the metal sliced through buried nerve endings. The third cut was always deeper, it was always painful. The pain was always welcome.
The blood streamed forth from the fissure before he had even completed the movement. It streamed down his limb, following the path set by the gentle rivulet. The brilliant red a stark contrast against alabaster flesh. His breathing was easier now, less pained as the blood pooled and congealed on the cold floor. His release from this torment was near. The need was barely there anymore. Just one more cut, one more time, just a little deeper and the need would leave entirely. It always did.
He repositioned the blade, forcing it into the incision once more. Sherlock pushed down hard until the need that had burnt through him, the unfathomable urge, completely abated.
Finally.