Humans believe so many lies because we aren't aware. We ignore the truth or we just don't see the truth. When we are educated, we accumulate a lot of knowledge, and all that knowledge is just like a wall of fog that doesn't allow us to perceive the truth, what really is.

- Miguel Angel Ruiz

Nothing in life disturbed John Watson as much as the sight of Sherlock trying to appear calm when, in reality, his brain was actually screaming. Thoughts were firing across synapses, connections were being made like pieces of a puzzle being violently slotted together, plans were being formed only to be instantly torn down and started afresh all while Sherlock was pretending to be unperturbed. He was sitting next to John in the back seat of the car, his hands clasped on his knees, pale fingers intertwined, face impassive and turned towards the window.

He was willing his body to shut down, John could tell, he'd seen him do this a few times before. His breathing had grown slow and even – almost mimicking the sound of a medical ventilator. His eyes were closed but every few minutes or so John would watch them open and stare blankly at the ceiling. John was sure that if he reached out his hand and pressed his fingers to one of the pulse points on Sherlock's throat, he would feel a steady, gentle heartbeat pulsing back.

It was unnerving, frightening almost, to see Sherlock trying to shed his human skin and become a cold, calculating machine. To be honest, John preferred him when he was acting like he was strung out on cocaine. He preferred it when he fired bullets into the wall or blew up the kitchen or sprinted down dark streets at night like a race dog chasing a toy rabbit. No matter how often he chastised him for it, John enjoyed the acerbic slice of Sherlock's tongue and his downright abrasive rudeness.

He hated Sherlock's silences. It meant that he was trying to hide something, something dangerous, something he knew that John would disapprove of. He couldn't reach him when he was like this, not when he'd effectively shut himself off from the world and locked himself inside his mind palace.

Talk to me. That's all John wanted, to be let in, to know what was going on. He wanted Sherlock to look at him, he wanted to see his irises burning bright with a combination of exhilaration and anticipation. He wanted to hear him say that treasured phrase of his – the one he had coined years ago in the rooms of 221B. The game is on, John. That's what he wanted to hear. He wanted to know that they were in this together because right now, even though they were sitting a few inches apart in the backseat of the car, John couldn't help but feel like Sherlock was separated from him by an impermeable barrier of transparent glass.

He had a sudden, overwhelming, and rather childish desire to reach out and take hold of one of Sherlock's hand, just to get his attention, just to feel connected to him. He could do that now couldn't he? After all, Sherlock had agreed to give them a chance so... technically... didn't that make John his boyfriend? The thought was so dizzying, so uttered incongruous and yet uncharacteristically perfect.

John looked over – for what must have been the thousandth time since they had started their car journey – and stared at the side of Sherlock's face. He took in the sinewy expanse of pale throat, the hard edge of his jaw, the chaotic locks of his hair which, presently, where clogged with dried mud and the occasional decaying leaf. It was ridiculous really for John to feel so giddy, so positively fucking gleeful at the knowledge that the furiously intelligent, questionably insane – partially sociopathic – mind bogglingly brilliant man sitting next to him was now, technically, his... boyfriend.

He wanted to slap himself. He was a thirty-six year old, retired army doctor with a bad knee, a dodgy shoulder and an intermittent tremor in his right hand, not a love struck school girl. And Sherlock Holmes was... as he had always been: bright, brilliant and, sometimes, a complete and utter shit. There was no reason for him to feel so bloody happy but he did. He was practically ecstatic, even in the face of all their impending problems. Mycroft was in the murderous hands of Moriarty, Irene Adler was back from the dead and now, seemingly, weaving herself back into the very fabric of their lives, Sherlock still had two very serious gunshot wounds that needed to be properly examined and – due to being recently kidnapped and held hostage for the past week in an abandoned windmill – John had yet to do any of his Christmas shopping. For all intents and purposes they were royally screwed and yet... John couldn't help but feel sickeningly overjoyed at the fact that, when all this was over, he would be going home with Sherlock and he would finally get a chance to appease that painful ache that had been growing inside him for months.

Sherlock Holmes was now his and he could do with him, within reason, whatever he so wished. He could touch him, feel him, taste him. There was no reason why he shouldn't be able to do something as simple, as innocent, as hold his hand now. John gave in. He cast his hesitation aside, reached out his hand and brushed his fingers against the skin of Sherlock's outer wrist. The touch obviously came as a surprise because Sherlock jolted and snapped his head around to stare at the place where John's fingers were resting. He looked at them for a second and then looked up at John, his expression was one of utter bemusement.

John lost his nerve – there was no way that he was going to attempt something as intimate, and childish, as holding his hand while Sherlock was staring at him like he'd just admitted to being some sort of reptilian/human half breed. He withdrew his hand, cleared his throat and said,

"So, what exactly is the plan?"

Sherlock turned his face away from John and briefly met the gaze of Irene in the rear-view mirror. She hadn't said a word since they had started driving. Every time that John had looked up he had seen that her eyes were either fixed on the road ahead or scanning the screen of Sherlock's phone. She had to know what was going on, they'd obviously conspired together and the fact that Sherlock had chosen her to be his confidant made the base of John's lungs burn hot with jealousy.

John watched now as their eyes met in the mirror, a look passed between them, one which caused Irene to sigh and Sherlock to flinch.

"Oh Jesus," John said as he felt the slick cold strike of adrenaline flood down the length of his spine, "What on Earth are you planning?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and remained silent for a few long moments before he said, "Do you trust me John? Do you trust that, as long as it was in my power to prevent it, I would never let harm come to you?"

"I... yes."

"Yes what?" Sherlock snapped in irritation.

"Yes I trust you."

"Well then, trust me when I say that the less you know the better."

"Shit." John said as he buried his head in his hands, "Now I'm really worried. You're the world's biggest show off, if you don't want to tell me something then that must mean that you know that if I knew what you knew then I would absolutely disapprove."

Sherlock's right eye twitched slightly, "That sentence didn't make grammatical sense."

"Fuck my grammar, what are you planning? Trust works both ways Sherlock, if you can't trust me then how do you expect me to blindly trust you?"

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his fingers across his eyes. He looked so tired, so drawn, almost as if every drop of energy had been squeeze from his body.

"I do trust you John_"

"Just not as much as Irene_"

"John_"

"No, Sherlock. There are times where you have the right to withhold information, things that you get not tell me but this isn't one of those occasions! You expect me to walk blindly into battle without a clue as to what I'm supposed to be doing? That's not how warfare works."

Sherlock snorted and finally turned his head to look at John, "Who said that we were at war?"

John felt his jaw inadvertently clench tightly shut, "That man strapped explosives to my chest and attempted to blow me up in a swimming pool. He abducted me, held me hostage and then shot two bullets through your body. He has your brother tied to some rusty radiator in an abandoned building and is using him, like he used me, like he used Irene, to lure you into his territory. We are at war Sherlock, don't act like we're not. This man wants to destroy you and I will not let him do that. So please don't ask me to go over the top and walk through no-man's land unarmed. I've killed for you once and I'm perfectly willing to do it again. I would do anything that you asked of me but I will not stand in the dark and watch you put yourself in danger without knowing how to protect you. So fucking tell me what the plan is."

Sherlock was staring at him, his previous expression of complete impassivity had been replaced by a fierce mix of emotions that John couldn't quite identify. His cheeks, formerly deathly pale, were now flushed slightly red with blood. His breathing had picked up and John could see his chest rising and falling beneath his dirty, tattered shirt. They stared at each other and the silence that ensued seemed to vibrate with a tense, pressurised hum. John hadn't even realised that Irene had stopped the car until she said,

"We're here."

John broke eye contact first in order to look out the window and stare at the familiar streets that lay on the other side of the glass. The dirty white walls of Bart's hospital contrasted jarringly against the dark, inky black sky. The winter weather created a thick, oppressive fog that hung in the air like indecisive snowflakes. It was barely six AM and as a result most of the surrounding street lights were still beaming their jaundice yellow light. If John had seen a more ominous looking day he couldn't remember it.

After staring outside for what felt like an age, John turned back to see that Sherlock had unlocked the side door and was climbing out,

"Sherlock you need to_"

But before he could finish, Sherlock had slammed the door and had started walking briskly away from the car.

"That absolute..." John muttered as he violently ripped himself free of his seatbelt and tore at the handle of his own door, "True and utter..." he stepped outside, bracing himself against the sudden flash of freezing cold air, "Bastard!" He shouted in Sherlock's direction.

Even through the semi-darkness he saw Sherlock flinch. He didn't turn around or stop walking though.

"You bastard!" John shouted again – not for the first time resenting the fact that his legs was infinitely shorter than his complete and utter arsehole of a best friend. Sherlock looked like nothing more than an insubstantial shadow as he disappeared down one of the foggy alleyways. John swore savagely under his breath as he finally gave in and started running to catch up with him. The air felt as thick as solid ice, it made John's lungs ache and his cheeks burn with the cold. He rounded the mouth of the alleyway and stopped abruptly when he realised that Sherlock was standing in the middle waiting for him. The lights from the streetlamps feel directly upon him, causing the features of his face to appear half swallowed up by shadow. The strands of his hair looked far more chaotic, the flush in his cheeks burnt brighter and his blue irises seemed to flash – almost as if they were made out of some sort of metallic substance. His coat fell around his body, billowing around the backs of his knees like a black sea lapping at two protruding rocks. He didn't look human. He appeared to be, instead, some sort of anthropomorphised mythological creature that had just sprung up from between the cobblestones.

"Why are you doing this?" John asked when he'd finally got his breath back, "Why are you treating me like I'm some sort of simpleton, some wilting fucking desert flower who can't handle the truth? I'm not Lestrade, I'm not Mycroft or Molly or Anderson. You can't just dismiss me." John said as he raked his fingers furiously through his hair,

"What could possibly be that bad that you can't tell me about it? What are you afraid that I'll do? Disagree? I usually do disagree with you but that's never stopped me from helping you before. I disagreed with you when you wanted to try and toast that live goldfish but I still helped you extinguish the flames after your little experiment blew up the toaster. I disagreed with you when you said that it was safe to eat yoghurt that was two weeks past its sell-by-date but that didn't stop me from cleaning up your vomit and looking after you when that manky aforementioned Muller Crunch gave you a violent bout of food poisoning! What makes you think that this time would be any different?

"This is always how it is." John said as he extended his arms out to draw Sherlock's attention to the surrounding alleyway and the dark sky that seemed to be threatening snow, "I'm always left stumbling around after you, half pissed off and half in awe. But I don't mind, I'm always here, I never leave. You call, I come and as much as I loathe being cast in the role of your lapdog, that's just the way it is, the way that it's always been ever since that first text that you sent me."

Sherlock was still standing there in the middle of the alley, his gaze and face so infuriatingly impassive that John couldn't stop himself from closing the space between them and grabbing hold of the lapels of his coat. In one quick, rough move John had Sherlock pinned against the brick wall.

"Talk to me! Tell me what it is that you want me to_" But before John could finish he felt hands grabbing his shoulders and suddenly Sherlock was thrusting him backwards, half dragging, half shoving him until his back hit the opposing wall of the alley. He winced as the side of his head thumped against the brick.

"Ow!" John grunted as he reached up to massage the back of his skull, "Is this the plan then? Are we going to slam each other against the alleyway until we both pass out from a concussion? Jesus Sherlock, I think you might have drawn blood_"

Sherlock's mouth crashed down against his. At first it wasn't so much a kiss as it was a physical assault, there was too many teeth and too much pressure, but then Sherlock tilted his head to the side and started to roughly slid his lips against John's. This wasn't like the first time they'd kissed, where John had been so careful to take it slow, to drag it out and make it last as long as possible. This was no gentle suck and slide of lips with the teasing promise of tongue. This was frantic and desperate. He had no room, no space to breathe. Sherlock's body was pressed flush against his front, they were chest to chest and even though they were separated by several layers of cloth and skin, John could still feel the erratic beating of Sherlock's heart.

He was being consumed. The mouth on his, pressing hot and hard, so rough, so savage, so desperate. The tongue sliding against his, thrusting in and out of his mouth in such a gloriously suggestive way that made John's knees weak. Sherlock had ensnared the delicate skin of John's wrists with his fingers and was using his considerable strength to pin them securely to the cold brick wall behind him. He could feel the bony edges of Sherlock's hips pressing against the soft dome of his abdomen, could hear the pained little whimpers and half stifled moans that were inadvertently tumbling out of Sherlock's throat.

"Jesus, Sherlock." John half gasped, half groaned as he gently began thrusting his hips against Sherlock's thigh. He knew that he shouldn't be doing it. They were in a semi-public place, it was freezing cold and they still had to deal with the rather pressing matter of rescuing Mycroft from the hands of a psychopathic criminal mastermind. But all that seemed to pale in significance when compared with the fact that Sherlock had instigated this aggressive, body burning, lust driven, horrifically timed moment of blissfully agonising physical contact. Sherlock was kissing him like he wanted to, like he needed it, like he was desperately trying to suck the air out of John's lungs and steal it for himself.

The very thought made him shudder. He had no idea that Sherlock knew how to kiss like his, the first time he had been so pliant, so timid. How had he learned to do this, to reduce a person to a mere trembling mess just by pressing his mouth to theirs? John had never experienced a kiss as intense as this before, not even in his teenage years where his blood had been laced so thickly with hormones that even the slide of his own clothes against his skin had been enough to make him hard. He'd never wanted to absorb another person, to completely disappear into them like he did right now. But how did you get closer than this? How could you try and take more when this was already enough to destroy?

John had been on the verge of making some rather shameful noises in order to convey his frustration and state of painful arousal when Sherlock abruptly, and all too quickly, broke off from the kiss. John whimpered and inclined his face forward in an attempt to recapture his lips but Sherlock simply pulled his head further away.

"I need you," Sherlock began but his voice faltered, he swallowed and tried again, "I need you to wait outside Bart's."

John knew that Sherlock was speaking but all he could currently focus on was the fact that when he spoke he could faintly feel Sherlock's lips brushing against his.

"Er... what?"

"The plan, John, I'm telling you what I need you to do in order to make the plan work. That's what you wanted wasn't it? For me to tell you the plan?"

It wasn't fair for Sherlock to be saying things now, things that John needed to pay attention to, not when a significant portion of his blood was pooling in an area that wasn't his brain. "Um, yeah alright." He said as he feebly tried, and failed, to stop looking at Sherlock's mouth – his mouth that was still wet from where John's tongue had been_

"John! Pay attention!" Sherlock snapped.

"I'm sorry," John said as tried to scrub his face with his hands but soon realised that Sherlock's fingers were still ensnared around his wrists. He swallowed and tried to express his current predicament as articulately as he could, "I'm sorry, but I'm having a hard time hearing words at the moment because all I can think about is the feeling of your tongue in my mouth." That wasn't all he was thinking about but it was a rough estimation, the truth was he was thinking about all the various places he would like to feel Sherlock's tongue... and mouth... and hands... and_

"John," and this time Sherlock released one of his wrists in order to grab hold of his jaw, "Listen to me. I need you to stand outside Bart's, I need you to stand there and wait for me to call you."

John's brain was starting to engage now, "What? Why?"

"Moriarty needs to be able to see that you're not with me."

"Ok." John waited but when Sherlock provided him with no further explanation or instructions he asked, "So you want me to simply stand around and wait for you to call?"

"Yes."

"But... what are you going to be doing? Where will you be? I can do more than just stand around, I can help you_"

"Please," Sherlock said and his voice sounded almost pained, "John please just... just do what I said. Trust me. I need you to stand outside Bart's and wait for me to call, that's all I need."

Being pressed so tightly against him, John could feel that Sherlock was actually trembling.

"Sherlock_"

"Will you stand outside Bart's and wait for me to call you?" His voice shook and despite trying to clear his throat, his voice shook again when he said, "Will you do this for me?"

John stared at him. He wanted to reach out, to touch him, to ask him what was wrong, to share the burden, to assure him that it was going to be OK, that he would do anything that he asked. But because this was Sherlock he knew that any inquiry of concern or declaration of affection would, at best, be treated with ridicule and at worst be treated with mild contempt. So instead he settled for simply saying,

"Of course. But I don't have a phone, Moriarty took mine while we were in the windmill."

Sherlock nodded, seemingly appeased by the fact that John now seemed to be cooperating, "Take mine," he said as he removed his hand from John's jaw and reached into his pocket. Although he couldn't see, John felt the second the cold metallic edge of the phone pressed into his palm.

"Do I need to type in a password or something?"

Sherlock's eyes momentarily flashed with blind panic.

"What?" John asked alarmed as he watched Sherlock's cheeks grow slightly red.

"No, there's no password but... just don't looking through it. There are some things on there that I would rather that you didn't see."

John felt the base of his spine buzz. Sherlock Holmes had a secret, an embarrassing one, and now he held the container of that particularly intriguing piece of information in the palm of his hand. He searched his mind, trying to work out what Sherlock would be embarrassed of.

"Don't be so crude," Sherlock chastised with a roll of his eyes, obviously realising what John was thinking, "I've told you before, if I wanted to watch porn I'd just borrow your laptop."

"So what is it then?"

"Telling you would somewhat defeat the point of asking you not to look. I shouldn't have mentioned it, I'm sure that even if you found it you wouldn't know what it was_ oh for goodness sake, must you look so gleeful?"

John couldn't help but smile, "It's not often that I get a moment of feeling like I have some sort of power over you. I know that it's petty, but petty men need petty moments in their lives. It's what makes us feel important."

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment before he said quietly, "Don't be ridiculous John, you've always owned me." And then, before John could take in the true profundity of that admission, Sherlock staggered away from him.

Cold winter wind assaulted the places on John which had, seconds ago, been warmed by Sherlock's body. His wrists, although no longer held in place, were still pressed against the wall, his mind was hazy from arousal and the intoxicating taste of Sherlock that was still lingering in his mouth.

John blinked a few times, taking in lungfuls of icy air as he tried to process exactly what had just transpired between them. He turned his head and just managed to catch the sight of Sherlock as he turned out of the mouth of the alley and disappeared into the dark, fogging streets of London.