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Chapter 18: Lying (1)

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They got up late that morning, and when they went down for breakfast, their hosts were already finishing their coffee under the pergola.

"Oh hello there!" exclaimed Mrs. Cubitt. "Have you slept well?" Her cheeks were tinged pink when she asked, and John glared at Sherlock. See? They heard us!

But Sherlock paid no heed to the doctor's scowl and gave Elsie his sweetest smile – the one John now saw as incredibly playful, and ridiculously arousing. This is stupid. It's not even a real smile. It made him want to kiss him senseless on the spot, to wipe the damned grin off his face.

"Very well, thank you. Today is such a nice day, don't you think?"

John stared in wonder at Sherlock doing small talk with their hosts – seriously, even talking about the weather? He shook his head, a smile spreading across his face, and sat as well, next to Sherlock.

"It is, isn't it?" Hilton commented. "Precisely, I was going on a ride with a friend. Would you like to join us? I have enough horses for all of us, and I'm sure he would be delighted to meet you!"

He winked, not so discreetly, and John had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Sherlock on the other hand seemed suddenly rather nervous – to the doctor, at least. He wondered if that was part of the act, but wasn't so sure... In any case, John was pretty enthusiastic and nodded.

"That's very kind of you. I'd love to–"

"I'm afraid that's not going to be possible," Sherlock cut in, perhaps a little too stiffly. John tilted his head to the side inquisitively. What in the world did the detective have in mind for today?

"Oh. I see," Hilton replied, stuttering a bit – obviously surprised by the categoric tone with which Sherlock declined the invitation. John frowned.

"Why not?"

Sherlock squirmed, then scoffed – and the contrast in attitude was just so comical John had a hard time not to laugh.

"I don't feel very at ease riding something alive that could do anything it wants while I'm on its back," he declared. Hilton blinked and John stared.

"You're scared of horses?" he said in disbelief, more as a statement than a question.

Sherlock glowered at him.

"Don't be ridiculous. I just don't appreciate riding them much."

But it was obvious for all that he was, indeed, rather frightened at the thought. Surely Sherlock himself must have realized he wasn't very convincing in his defence...

"Right," John said, a smirk playing on his lips. Sherlock was such a good actor. They were all falling for it. He turned to Hilton: "Sorry, mate. But I'd rather stay with Bill this time."

"Well, if you're rather...uneasy with horses, why don't we go for a car ride through the countryside?" Elsie offered amiably.

"Oh, that would be lovely!" Sherlock exclaimed, and it was so out of character it made John jump in surprise. Sherlock turned to him, frowning slightly.

"What are you being so jumpy about, dear?"

John glared. "What are you saying, darling? I was just startled by your enthusiasm, considering how sick a simple train ride made you."

He brought his hand to his partner's face and stroked his cheek gently, gloating inside.

"I'm just worrying about you. You know how sensitive you can be..."

Sherlock's eyes sent him daggers and turned to slits, but he couldn't retort – played at his own game. However he refused to give up just yet.

"Oh, sweetheart, that's so considerate of you. But I assure you, I'll be just fine. Elsie's driving is so gentle, I was perfectly fine yesterday when we went to the tea shop."

They stared venomously at each other, Sherlock jubilant that he'd succeeded in lighting a gleam of jealousy in John's darkened pupils. Darkened? Ooh... interesting. He took note of the fact, hiding a smirk, and went on:

"Look, you should go with Hilton. I know how much you miss riding." John's eyes widened, but Sherlock ignored it and turned to Elsie instead with doe eyes. "He had a pony as a child, you see – it was such a tragedy when it passed away from intestinal occlusion. But Mike always loved riding, and since we live in London because of my work, it's hard to own a horse..."

"Aww, you poor thing," Elsie said, sympathising. "Then you should really go. I can take care of your husband for another day, so don't worry."

John scowled at Sherlock, then forced a smile towards Elsie. "It's very kind of you, but I'd love to get to know you some more too. I don't know when we'll have time to come by again. Do you mind if I come on the ride with you?"

"Of course not! Shall we meet down here in an hour then? Will that be enough for you to have breakfast and to get prepared?" she eyed Sherlock's skin tight lilac shirt and John almost hit his head on the table. You think we're going to take hours to get prepared just because we're a "gay married couple"? Please...

"An hour and a half, perhaps? If you don't mind."

John turned round eyes to Sherlock, astounded that he'd just uttered such words. He shook his head. Oh, whatever.

"Good. Until then!"

She sent them a friendly smile and went back into the house. Once her steps had subsided, Hilton leant towards Sherlock with an air of secrecy, and whispered.

"That was very clever of you, saying you feared horses! I'm sorry I didn't think, I was so caught up in the 'old uni buddy' act that I forgot for a moment why you came... Naturally, it is much better if you can spend the day with Elsie. Have you made any progress at all?"

Sherlock smiled contentedly.

"Certainly, Mr. Cubitt. I shall get back to you before the end of the weekend, so rest assured."

"Good, that's good. So tell me... is it anything serious?"

He looked truly worried, and John thought he must love his wife dearly; but Sherlock did not seem to care much, for he replied coldly:

"It would be better if we did not discuss this here and now."

"Of course, I understand," Hilton answered precipitously, his look apologetic. "Well, I shall go and get prepared. Please enjoy your breakfast – and don't worry about cleaning anything up, Maria will take care of it."

"Thank you, Hilton," John said, since Sherlock seemed deep in thought, and unlikely to answer at all. Their host smiled meekly, and went back into the house too. John filled his cup with tea, and Sherlock's with coffee.

"So... horses?" There was a smirk in his voice. Sherlock frowned.

"I was just trying to make up for that idiot's blunder. It is necessary that we spend the day with Elsie Cubitt."

"But that's not the only reason, is it?" John insisted, leaning in closer. "You're truly scared to ride, aren't you?"

"And why is that so funny?" Sherlock finally snapped. "I was never good at dealing with animals. They're so brainless you can't even manipulate them, it's all about instinct and... Stop laughing!"

But John couldn't. This was so typical of Sherlock, and yet picturing him trying to talk a horse out of something was so hilarious that he couldn't help it. Sherlock snorted.

"You really are idiotic, sometimes."

"Sometimes? That' an improvement."

"Don't be stupid."

"I thought I was already."

"Well, don't be more stupid."

Their eyes locked, and it took only a few seconds for them to break into a fit of giggles. John loved it when Sherlock laughed. It was never noisy or ostentatious, but sober and genuine in its simplicity. You barely heard it, but the way his face lit up mischievously and contorted into a smirk was so full of jest John found it irresistible.

Once they had quieted down, he handed Sherlock a piece of toast with jam.

"Here. You have to eat something."

"I had something yesterday!" the detective protested.

"You had a piece of cake, Sherlock!"

"And isn't that food?" he grumbled.

"Not proper food. Not enough, anyway. Here. Or do you want me to feed you?"

"You already feed me..." Sherlock growled. John rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock, you have to eat if you want to be able to function, you know? You actually happen to be a human being."

John felt his blood turn cold when he noticed how pale his partner had become.

"Sherlock?"

I know you do have the muscles. You're so thin I can feel them shifting under your skin. It's a wonder how you manage to function with so little food – but then again, maybe you don't, do you, dear?

The detective felt a shiver run down his spine, but shook it away and abruptly took the toast from John's hand, biting at it feverishly, devouring it.

"Sherlock! Sherl... what the hell do you think you're doing?"

He jumped to his feet as Sherlock choked on a piece and took what was left of the toast from him.

"Did you even bother chewing before you swallowed?" he inquired, appalled.

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered, trying to get the rest of the toast from his lover, and failing as John raised his hand away. Sherlock scowled, but drank a sip from his coffee, and reached for another piece of toast – John however was faster than him and covered his hand with his, stopping his frenzy. He looked him in the eye intensely.

"What were you thinking? Tell me. What did I say? What did I make you think of?"

Sherlock took his hand away.

"Nothing."

"Sherlock..."

"I said it's nothing, John."

Something in John's gaze wavered, and he sat back down silently. Sherlock took another bit of toast and ate it, more slowly this time. He didn't glance once at John, not wanting to see his expression. John's pained expression was actually painful to see – it didn't express any complaint or plea; just tension and steel features, the expression of a man used to being confronted with terrible things. Sherlock hated to see it.

He shifted awkwardly on his seat, trying to dispel the hateful voice filling his mind.

"John? I'm eating."

John didn't reply, and his gaze remained cast down, pensive and shut off. It made Sherlock even more nervous.

"I've had two pieces of toast. John? Don't you want to eat?"

Still no answer. Sherlock frowned.

"Fine," he said, standing, "well, you can just join me in our room once you're done with breakfast."

He was about to turn and leave, when John caught his wrist in a death grip. Sherlock froze.

"Sit down," the ex-soldier said, and Sherlock couldn't decipher whether it was an order or a prayer. Either way, the voice was so compelling he fell back to his seat mechanically.

"Sherlock... What do you dream about at night?"

The detective blinked, not having expected such a question.

"What do you mean?"

John looked up and fixed his gaze on him.

"Your nightmares. What are they about?"

Sherlock shivered, but soon the flash of panic on his face was replaced by a scowl.

"You know what they are about," he replied dryly.

"I need you to tell me."

"Why are we even having this conversation?"

"Because I can't read your thoughts and I can't work out where I've gone wrong when you suddenly turn white and do something crazy!" John exploded.

Sherlock stiffened and looked up with something like horror in his eyes – disbelief, too. He hadn't intended to anger John. At all. He was certainly scared, but a little miffed, too.

"I thought I was supposed to be eating!" he protested.

"Yes, Sherlock. Why did you suddenly change your mind and take the piece of toast?"

"Because you asked me to."

"You're lying."

Petrified, Sherlock was at a loss for words. If he could no longer fool even John, what would he do?

"I..." He stopped, confused, not knowing what to say next. Then irritation swelled up in his chest and his eyes shone with frustration. "What are you so angry about? I don't get it. I didn't even do anything wrong, this time."

John felt something break in him and he grabbed Sherlock's hands, pressing them tightly in silent desperation.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I think I'm angrier with myself than with anyone else."

Sherlock frowned slightly, getting even more confused.

"With yourself?" he asked, incredulity in his voice. "Why would you be angry with yourself?"

John repressed a sigh.

"Because I'm an idiot."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, still not understanding. John had always been an idiot, so to speak, and he'd never been so aggravated about it. The doctor smiled sadly, for once able to follow Sherlock's thoughts.

"I can't read your thoughts like you read mine. I don't know what I said that made you go into a frenzy suddenly, and I..."

"Stop right there. I don't always guess what you think correctly."

John shook his head.

"Is this the eating problem again? Look, I told you: this is for your health. You're perfect. You don't need to put on weight aesthetically speaking, I'm just..."

"I know."

John eyed him searchingly. "If that's not it, then what?"

Sherlock remained silent and averted his gaze to avoid seeing the flash of hurt in his friend's eyes. For lack of a better way to understand, John started repeating the whole conversation in his mind. What could have possibly triggered this? What word, what expression? He suddenly stopped. You have to eat if you want to be able to function, you know? You actually happen to be a human being. John groaned.

"I'm such an idiot."

"Will you stop saying that?" Sherlock remarked, annoyed. True, John was no genius. But Sherlock was well aware that his definition of an idiot wasn't John's, so his friend saying so meant something entirely different. Not good.

"Sherlock, you do function properly."

The detective lost the very little colour that remained on his face and in seconds was white as a sheet.

"Sherlock? It's me."

"I know it's you. Don't be stupid."

John frowned, tired of the attitude already, and coming to a decision stood up and straddled Sherlock out of the blue, wrapping his arms around him, hugging him and snuggling up to him like a koala to its tree. Been wanting to do that for a while, he thought.

Sherlock stiffened at first, than squirmed a bit, but John remained wrapped around him and it didn't seem he felt like moving.

"Uhm... John?"

"Mm?"

"What are you doing?"

"You're being annoying. There's no use talking."

"... so you're hugging me?"

"So I'm hugging you."

Sherlock blinked, then looked around anxiously, a bit restless, not knowing what to do with his own arms.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Won't you have breakfast?"

"Nope."

"Then let's go to our room?"

"Nope."

Sherlock gave an adorably confused frown.

"But John, we can't stay here like this all day."

"Mm..."

Sherlock sighed and looked up to the sky, ignorant of what was expected of him, and deciding that if John wanted anything, then he'd ask. But he did ask, didn't he?

Focusing on the clouds so as not to think too much on the tightness of his throat, Sherlock murmured:

"They're black. Black, red and white. The dreams..."

John's eyes snapped open but he didn't move an inch, and kept embracing his infuriating detective and the chair he was sitting in. "Mine are grey, yellow and brown," he whispered back, pressing himself closer to the pounding chest. Sherlock didn't add a word, but clumsily wrapped his long, awkward arms around his friend, voiceless.

xXx

"It's such a pleasure finally meeting you," Elsie said, snapping John out of his thoughts some time later, as they were driving with Mrs. Cubitt through the countryside, which turned out to be a lovely sight indeed. They'd been chatting for half an hour or so, and John was getting more and more amazed at his friend's acting skills. He had also come to the realization that he found Sherlock much more endearing as his usual asocial, careless and clueless self, rather than as the perfect guest and agreeable man he was presently pretending to be. In other words, he preferred him when insufferable and candid, and not so boringly friendly and charming. Well, he doesn't need to know that... he pondered, not wanting his partner to make it an excuse to act even more like a jerk on a daily basis. He could picture it so well: "But John, you said you liked me more when I was infuriating, remember?"

"Be assured that the pleasure is shared," Sherlock replied amicably.

"I had no idea he had friends who were... well..." She trailed off, a little uneasy.

"Gay?" the detective finished for her, smiling a little too perfunctorily.

"I'm not..." John stopped in mid-sentence and hit his head against the car window. Sherlock turned wide eyes to him, his expression clearly saying: What in the world are you doing? and Elsie arched an eyebrow confusedly. Idiot, John thought. And then, lost in a sea of confusion: Wait. Am I supposed to be gay now? Sherlock rolled his eyes, barely hiding a smirk. In a cartoon, John's eyes would have been spiralling, he mused mockingly.

"I'm not so surprised," John eventually finished. "I mean, Bill and I weren't together when we met Hilton. We were just a bunch of uni pals hanging out together."

When he realized both other passengers were staring at him strangely, he let out a little nervous laugh, and added.

"I mean, I don't think Hilton is especially gay friendly or anything. He doesn't mind, and we were good friends, so..."

"But you would know, wouldn't you?" Sherlock suddenly cut in, eyeing Elsie. "That he isn't especially gay friendly."

John turned a puzzled gaze to Sherlock, then to Elsie. What?

"And you also know we're not really uni pals of your husband."

At this, John stared at Sherlock, stunned. WHAT?

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tbc ;)