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Epinephrine |SHERLOCK| MONKEY BUSINESS

Sherlock Holmes didn't feel fear. He didn't really feel anything. Emotions were nothing more than weaknesses and distractions, of course. He wasn't foolish enough to fall under its control. 

At least, that's how Sherlock seemed to the rest of the world. That's how he presented himself: the perfect detective, practically a machine solving crimes without getting attached to anything or having bias. 

But Sherlock knew his exterior was beginning to crack, that his inner thoughts were showing through. All it took was a single letter, and the sociopath was afraid. 

It was difficult to see from afar why the neon sticky notes scrawled on in a messy blue text would be so terrifying. In fact, up close it looked fairly innocent as well, the message not showing anything sinister or devious. But Sherlock could see right through its colorful façade. 

It was a simple code. It was simple because it was meant to be cracked, meant to be seen by the consulting detective. The notes used null code, making it look more like a few reminders than a dangerous message. But the first several words of each line told a different story. That was the story that Sherlock had seen, that was story that made his heart race and sweat break out in miniscule beads upon his brow.

He hated this feeling, of this weakness. To try to calm himself down, he thought of it scientifically. Fear was caused by a molecule made up of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and oxygen. It made a  hormone called epinephine, or more commonly known as adrenaline to all of those normal people. 

Typically, Sherlock liked the feeling of adrenaline. It was the rush you got when solving a case, when running across London chained to your flatmate. It was a very enjoyable feeling, after all, the feeling of the chemicals coursing through your body and heightening everything. 

The adrenaline was what made Sherlock want to become a detective and solve crimes in the first place. His brother had never found joy in the feeling and so had become boring...as well as the British government. All of his potential had been wasted sitting in silent rooms, in wooden chairs adorned with velvet. Sherlock needed that thrill in order to survive, it had simply become a part of him.

Sherlock didn't have that glorious feeling rushing through him at the moment. Just a single glance at the notes were enough to fill him with dread. His veins were filled with that epinephine, making him feel fear and nothing more. Everything was on edge in the most terrible sort of way.

This fear was deep, much too deep to be calmed by distractions. You might be able to look away and think about something for a moment, but that sinking feeling lying deep down in your stomach would snap you right back up again. Sherlock had thought that he could grow some sort of immunity against this reaction, but it had never left. He was still human, and he still had to feel.

"John," he whispered. "John, I need a pen. Or scissors. I need something," he said, knowing that his words would get nowhere. After all, he was aware that speaking to dead air. 

He stared at the quickly scribbled blue words, wishing that he was stupid and normal and dull just so that he wouldn't be able to understand what they truly meant. Sherlock had a vivid image of what it all meant, all playing through his head over and over.

He needed John, but that was the problem. John was gone. John was gone, and these blasted sticky notes were the only trail he had to his flatmate. He could figure everything out on his own, yes, but that was taking in account that he wasn't personally attached to the mystery at hand and not having epinephine rushing through him like an idiot.

This was simple chemistry that was tearing him apart. He wouldn't let himself forget that, but it didn't do anything to make him focus. The almost blindingly bright color of the sticky notes attracted his eyes and made his thoughts latch on to it as well. His stormy blue-grey eyes ran over the contents time and time again, knowing that there would be nothing new within the lines of text.

Finally, he realized that he couldn't take it anymore. He was beginning to snap, but in his own sort of way. He violently reached out over to the notes, taking them into his hands. With a sharp breath, Sherlock tore apart the sticky notes, the rip running along the split between the hidden message and the extra filler to put it in code. 

Even in his epinephrine-fueled frenzy, the consulting detective was working on solving the mystery. It was as much a part of him as anything else, that desire to solve, to deduce and unravel any problem set in front of him.

Snatching pins out of papers already posted up on the wall, he lined up the strips of the now decrypted sticky notes from top to bottom. To make sure they would stay, he stabbed them with the pins. The entire message was clearer than ever. Sherlock lifted the fallen papers from before on the ground, and then pushed them away. They just simply did not matter as much.

He read over the message again, just using his eyes to run over the words again. Nothing. He got absolutely nothing from it. This wasn't going to work, he decided. He had to try something else. Of course, an idea popped into his head almost immediately: cigarettes, or at the very least nicotine patches. 

Of course, only John knew where the cigarettes were. He had learned that through all of the incidents with Sherlock that it had to be hidden well and changed often, otherwise the sociopath would be done with the pack in a matter of hours. He had thought of throwing it out, of course, but he had realized that it would end up only causing more trouble. 

This meant that the cigarettes were in the house somewhere. But Sherlock couldn't focus on searching on something like that with how jittery he was. The nicotine patches would have to do. He knew where those were, of course. John didn't have to hide those, because they were meant to help stop Sherlock from smoking. 

Now a bit hyped up on nicotine on top of his uncontrollable nerves, Sherlock sat down from the sticky notes posted up against the wall and tried to think. He needed to avoid the thought of his fears, everything wrong that was going on, and just let the deductions come through. It was a science for a reason, after all. It required thinking, precision, facts.

Sherlock closed his eyes, placing his hands under his chin in his signature thinking position. Usually this was something that symbolized he was at peace, safe within the world of his own thoughts and blocking out everything around him. But as he waited for that calming feeling to set in, he found nothing of the sort. The epinephine was just too much. His heart kept on palpitating like a scared hamster on the run, pattering erratically. For a moment, he wished that it would just stop, just for that moment of serenity. 

"Why am I so afraid?" he hissed to himself, putting his hands into his black curls. This was one of the few mysteries that would stump him. It was strange to think that it was a mystery concerning himself. Everything about it seemed wrong. He didn't feel fear, he just didn't. If he appeared afraid to others, it would all be an act, or some sort of drug that messed with his mind. 

This was unique because it came from within. There was no antidote for epinephrine, no way to stop adrenaline. It would give him the fight or flight reaction for as long as he felt afraid. It could last forever if he continued to feel so scared. If nothing else about it was frightening, that much was. From the moment his heart rate began to speed up, he had wanted the feeling to be banished. 

There had to be something else to distract him from his emotions and to keep his mind on the facts. His eyes cycled around the room, looking for something, anything to do this. The nicotine patches hadn't been anywhere near enough on their own. He needed something more if he wanted to make it through this. Finally Sherlock's eyes set down on his stringed instrument, leaning against the wall right next to the bow.

Taking in a rather shaky breath, Sherlock made his way across the room and picked his violin up. This was going to have to work. He was running out of options as the epinephrine took over. 

He placed his chin against the violin, preparing to play. He began to draw the now across the strings, to play out each note to its fullest. But he found that his fingers were shaking and slipping from the strings. This was utter madness, not even his music could be enough of a distraction from his feelings-the worthless feelings that Sherlock worked so hard to suppress for his whole life.

That was the final straw for him. Sherlock understood that he wasn't going to be able to take his mind off of his fear. It was an emotion that was relentless, that would stick on like a pesky child and never let go. The pure fear within him was too much to bear. There was nothing he could do to stop it now.

For once in his life, Sherlock felt like he couldn't think. It was a ludicrous thing, but it was the truth. All of the conditions around him were perfect to stimulate thought. The flat was absolutely silent, there were no distractions to be found-minus the sticky note message, of course-and he had something to figure out. There were facts to deduce and a case to be solved.

There was no reason for his mind to go blank. It was that damn epinephrine, making his face pale and his heart race like it was a machine chugging out of control. Sherlock knew there were answers sitting right underneath his nose, but in this state he would never find them. But the problem was, he had to find the answers. He was willing to do anything to figure out what was going on.

He had always viewed fear as such a trivial thing, just like almost every human emotion. It was another form of caring, another form of weakness. He, being the detached man who he was, thought that it would never be something that could affect him. Little did he know just how wrong he had been. Now the true chemistry of the matter was coming through, but there was still that final connection missing.

Sherlock was determined to figure out exactly what it was about the blue text that made epinephrine run in his bloodstream. It wasn't really the message by itself. If it had been written in any other person's hand, it would just about meaningless to him. The handwriting was what put him on edge.

That was it. Sherlock had figured it out, finally. But it did nothing to qualm his fears. If anything, it only made the ache and sting within him worse. It was a simple detail that was getting him. He had noticed it from the start, but he hadn't realized how much of an impact it had on him.

It was John's handwriting. John's letter. John's secret message to him, and for him alone.

Sherlock had never been so afraid.

A/N Decided to a Sherlock one first off, just because. I really enjoy the concept of this piece, I dunno. The challenge for this round was fear, and I thought that our emotionless Sherlock would have quite a time struggling with this emotion as with all these things he had never really felt before. The whole concept for me was sort of around this idea of trying to think of it rationally and scientifically, which as we see isn't really possible. That's why the story is named after the chemical that causes that jittery fear reaction. I also love me some null code...we went over this in the oneshot, and yet I'm saying it again. I was trying to find a song that went with it, but I failed. So, enjoy. 

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