AN: I'm sorry for how ridiculously long this particular chapter took to write. It's the longest in the series so far, school has decided to crush my soul with the workload I'm receiving and I couldn't seem to write any dialogue that I was happy with. I'm still not entirely happy in some parts, but I think it's as close as it's getting. I'm starting to over-think it far too much. I know, excuses excuses, but it's the best explanation I have for the delay.

But anyway.

The inspiration (and a few lines) for the first part of this comes from an xkcd comic (/651/), which made me think 'Wow, that's pretty much exactly how Sherlock would react to airport security'. Also, I'm baffled by just how much of this particular story my head seems to be supplying me with; especially since it was originally meant to just be the bedroom scene and the actual plane trip...

I've never flown first class, or on anything but an Irish airline, so if the details of the actual plane (especially the first class cabin) or the restricted items for flights are a bit off, please forgive me.

John's optimism about the trip managed to stay with him past the baggage check (which went off without a hitch), past receiving their boarding passes and lasted all the way up until they reached the security check-point. While they were waiting in line he saw Sherlock's keen eyes darting around the terminal, probably figuring out then promptly forgetting the life story of everyone he saw, then finally alighting on the huge list of prohibited items and security warnings. The second he saw Sherlock's brow furrowing in confusion and annoyance, he knew there'd be trouble.

"What's all this rubbish about? Everything in tiny plastic bags? Small bottles of liquid? Why do I have to take off my shoes and belt?"

John sighed, sensing it was going to be a long few hours.

"They're safety precautions Sherlock. They're there to keep everyone in the airport safe and alive." He didn't particularly believe that, but he wanted to avoid the inevitable scene if at all possible. Unfortunately, Sherlock was having none of it.

"How exactly will having belts and shoes on kill us? Things weren't like this the last time I was on a plane..." He grimaced.

John pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation and tried once more getting Sherlock to just cooperate.

"People... I don't know... Smuggle things in? They can bring stuff on and make bombs, or attack the pilot... You know everything's gotten so much stricter since... Well, you know... Please just go along with it." He looked Sherlock straight in the eyes "Please?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrow, obviously having no idea what 'Well, you know...' was referring to, but dropped the question before he'd even asked it. He'd learnt a small amount of the solar system to appease John but he didn't want to know about whatever this was, and if he didn't ask about it, he wouldn't have to sacrifice any space for it. It was a compromise he'd made between his desire to remember everything about the time he spent with John and the need to keep his mind clear. His head was getting far too crowded these days. He acquiesced with what he thought was good grace and all went well right up until the end of the queue.

The three of them split off towards different security checkpoints to help save time. Both John and Lestrade got through without a problem, but there was a distinct lack of Sherlock when they reached the other side. John turned around to see what was taking so long and spotted him at the top of the longest queue, doing what looked suspiciously like calmly listing everything that was wrong with airport security to an increasingly frustrated employee.

John sighed and headed towards the checkpoint, hoping to drag Sherlock away before he was escorted off the premises, only to catch the tail of end of what had to be an exhausting argument. Sherlock was talking a mile a minute.

"...and furthermore if you're worried about bombs, why are you allowing me to bring my laptop batteries on board? They're made using Lithium ions which are highly reactive with air and water; if I over-volted them and breached the cells it would create a sizeable explosion. A laptop battery contains roughly the same amount of potential energy as a hand grenade, which has much more potential to damage the plane than the bottle of water which you insisted on confiscating from me. Also the-"

"Sherlock," John started sternly, stopping him mid-sentence, wary of the fact that Sherlock was probably three words away from being arrested "There's a queue building up and we've a flight to catch. Please just do whatever he asked you to and let's go."

The man, slightly dazed from Sherlock's rant, turned to him, obviously glad to have found someone reasonable but still a bit miffed at being talked down to.

"Sir, do you know this man?" He gestured towards Sherlock who was standing his ground petulantly, showing no signs of movement.

"Yes, he's my, eh, boyfriend." He had stumbled slightly over the suddenly unfamiliar word "I'm really sorry. He... Umm..." He wasn't quite sure how to finish that sentence. "He hasn't flown in awhile."

Seeing the look John was shooting him, Sherlock made the wise decision to go through without finishing his rant. John muttered his apologies and to his relief the man Sherlock had cornered was quite friendly when he wasn't being talked down to.

"Look, it's no problem; I've a brother who's a bit like that too. Just tell him to keep all that laptop battery stuff to himself; I was about to call security on him before you came over and those guys really don't joke around."

After diffusing the situation, retrieving Sherlock and getting through security without too much of an incident, they continued on through the duty-free. John noticed the group was listing towards the alcohol section and to his surprise noticed that Sherlock had been subtly directing them that way. Lestrade cleared his throat, gave Sherlock a stern look and corrected their course.

"No, Sherlock."

The detective put on what could only be described as a pout and muttered "You're no fun..."

John felt like he was missing something.

"But you don't even drink...?"

"I don't fly either." Sherlock's tone told him not to pry, but despite having picked up on the bee-line that was being made for the alcohol cabinet, Lestrade didn't seem to pick up on this.

"You think he can be hard to deal with sober," The inspector rolled his eyes and winced, "you should see him under the influence of something. You still owe me for the last time by the way, Sherlock..."

John didn't like the way he'd said 'something', rather than just 'alcohol'. A worrying memory came unbidden into his mind.

Everywhere John looked in Sherlock's apartment was crawling with police officers, while Sherlock himself was in the middle of a stand-off with Lestrade.

"Well what do you call this then?" He inquired angrily, obviously irked at having his privacy invaded.

"It's a drugs bust." Lestrade had replied cheerfully.

To John in that moment, it had been one of the funniest things he had heard all day. Years of being a doctor had taught him (or so he thought) to know a drug-user when he saw one, and Sherlock was far from his idea of the average drug user. He'd actually laughed aloud and said as much.

"Seriously? This guy? A junkie? Have you met him?"

He should have noticed Sherlock turning and walking towards him. He should have noticed the look on his face. He definitely should have noticed him saying "John..." in a warning tone, but he hadn't. He had kept going.

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."

It was then that Sherlock's look had gotten properly serious and he'd muttered:

"John, you'd probably want to shut up now..."

It had taken him far too long to realise that Sherlock actually meant it.

"Yeah, but come on..."

Sherlock's piercing glare finally brought home the fact that they might actually find something in the flat and that John was digging a very deep hole for himself.

"No..."

"What?" Sherlock had asked, defiantly.

"You?" He was still having trouble reconciling Sherlock with his traditional view of a drug-user.

"Shut up!" Sherlock had looked disgusted, positively livid.

John had been so swept up in the case that had followed that he'd nearly completely forgotten it until now. He vividly remembered the next part.

"It stops being pretend if they find anything."

Looking back, Lestrade had seemed like a stern parent or teacher. He'd had a knowing look in his eyes.

"I. Am. Clean!" Sherlock had hammered the point home indignantly and somewhat exasperatedly; almost as if they'd had this argument a few too many times.

That knowing look was still in Lestrade's eyes.

"But is your flat...? All of it?"

As long as it was in Sherlock's past, he didn't care too much about the drugs. He'd done some stupid stuff when he was younger too, and felt it was unfair to hold it against Sherlock if he'd given it up. Though he did make a mental note to watch out for any signs of it starting up again in the future. While he was doing this, it suddenly struck John that while Sherlock had guessed his past from spending two minutes in his presence, he knew little to nothing about Sherlock's. He tried to catalogue what little he actually knew, and it seemed an incredibly small list.

Plays the violin very well.

Knows everything there is to know about crime, forensics and the back streets of London.

Has at least one older brother and his mother is still alive.

Works as a consulting detective.

Is involved in a feud with his brother.

Said brother may or may not be close to ruling the world.

Had no sexual experience before this morning.

Is a damn good shag, despite said lack of experience.

Well... that's pathetic. John thought, He knows nearly everything about me and that's all I can think of for him...

He supposed Sherlock was very private, but it still seemed very inconsiderate to him as a friend or a boyfriend to not at least know the basics.

Lestrade even seems to know a hell of a lot more about him than I do... They have history... He thought bitterly.

He had been too wrapped up in these thoughts to pay attention after Lestrade's comment, so he didn't notice Sherlock's jaw clenching, the filthy look he had shot in Lestrade's direction and his body language growing increasingly agitated. He especially hadn't noticed Sherlock watching him apprehensively, afraid that he was being judged or that John was having second thoughts, and having his suspicions confirmed in his mind by John's sudden silence.

Things became increasingly awkward between the three of them after that. All three seemed to have forgotten the entire English language, not to mention most of the basics of walking, and the silence was stretching out uncomfortably. Lestrade, without meeting their eyes, made a mumbled, incomprehensible excuse when they reached the gate and headed off towards the bathrooms with more haste than was strictly necessary.

John's mind was reeling, trying to come up with a solution that would dispel the cloud that had settled over them.

Oh, come on... Say something... Anything...

"Umm... So... How about that weather out there?" He regretted it even as it was passing his lips, but it just blurted out without his consent. He buried his head in his hands.

Well, you could have handled that better...

He looked up through the gap in his fingers to see how badly it had gone over. Thankfully it seemed to amuse Sherlock, at least somewhat. His smile was wry at best, the laugh he let out breathy and with an edge to it, but it was something.

"Is that the best you can come up with, John? Honestly?"

"It just sort of slipped out..." He admitted sheepishly, then took a deep breath. "Look, Sherlock..."

"I knew it..." Sherlock interrupted him, his face twisted into a bitter mask. "If you're breaking off our partnership, please do it now so I can go home."

This was the very last thing John had been expecting.

"You... what?" He honestly didn't mean to, it was so inappropriate and he didn't find this remotely funny, but he laughed. It had a slight edge of hysteria to it. Though he reigned it in as quickly as he could manage; Sherlock was definitely not in the mood. "I'm not breaking up with you, you stupid git. Why would you ever think that? For one thing we only got together this morning; you're not getting rid of me that quickly."

The bitter mask slipped off Sherlock's face to reveal just how vulnerable and fragile he was underneath. His voice was painfully relieved when he asked:

"You're not?"

John sighed and his expression softened further. With that look on Sherlock's face he had to very firmly tell his hand not to reach out; he had never gotten an answer about whether Sherlock was alright with hand-holding in public, after all, and he didn't want to push him. What he did do though, was give him the most comforting smile he could and rest his hand gently on his arm.

"Of course I'm not. Don't be silly, why would I?"

Sherlock's face remained neutral but John could see him visibly tensing and felt a slight shake in his arm. How had he not noticed all of this about Sherlock before? He'd had an image in his mind of the detective being nearly invincible, which was true to a certain extent, Sherlock could be tough as nails at times, but it surprised him to see just how easily breakable he could be too. The horrible notion of Mycroft delivering the traditional "If you ever hurt my little brother..." speech crossed his mind, but he decided to stop that train of thought before it went any further.

"There are elements of my past, and myself, which are... unsavoury. I was banking on you not discovering them, but the ever-helpful DI Lestrade had to bring that up... I'd really rather you didn't know." His eyes were down-cast, obviously still expecting judgement. It suddenly came into John's head that Sherlock must have had an incredibly strict father, and maybe that was why he wasn't too involved with his family.

Huh, Sherlock must have taught me a few deduction skills without me realising...

He brought himself back to reality and the situation at hand.

"Come on," He nudged the other man's shoulder, trying to lighten things. "If I can handle the head in the fridge, surely you have to know I can handle this?"

He was rewarded for his efforts when the corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up slightly. "If I remember correctly, you didn't handle that very well."

"Well, try me anyway." He was determined this wasn't going to put a cloud over the trip or the relationship in general; Sherlock needed to talk about it. "Come on. Tell me."

"There isn't much to tell." He began, "As you must know, I do bore easily..."

Ok, definitely drugs then... John thought, sighing inwardly.

"...and before you came along, I had a lot less to keep my mind occupied. I did some rather silly things sometimes while trying to alleviate the boredom and it eventually came to Lestrade's attention." He grimaced, obviously remembering the confrontation they'd had over it. "He basically told me that he was breaking enough rules consulting with me as it was; he wasn't going to have me around a crime scene if I was doing anything properly illegal at the same time."

John noted how Sherlock had skirted around the exact details of the things he'd done but decided not to press the issue. Though he couldn't help feeling that Lestrade's side of the story would involve more concern for Sherlock's wellbeing than the fact that the drugs were illegal; he seemed to be the closest thing Sherlock had had to a friend before John came along.

Sherlock, unnerved by the continuing silence, felt compelled to ask:

"Does that... bother you?"

"Not as such." He started, "I mean, I certainly don't much like the idea of you destroying yourself with all that stuff, but... well, we all did silly things when we were younger. You're clean now, and you're staying clean, and that's what I care about. Though I do find it odd that Lestrade got so touchy about alcohol of all things..."

To his surprise, Sherlock relaxed and broke into a grin that was only mildly self-deprecating. "Well, that's actually a separate issue. I had a few too many and rather embarrassed us both on our last plane journey..."

"Oh really?" John raised an eyebrow.

He was intrigued and oddly tempted to see what Sherlock would get up to while drunk, but rejected the idea as soon as it had crossed his mind. For one thing, he'd never seen him drink before and didn't know what his tolerance for it was; the last thing he wanted was for him to end up being sick on the plane or to have to carry him to the hotel. He also suspected Lestrade would never forgive him for it.

"Yes, if I flew at all, I tended not to fly fully in my right mind. In fact, it was the only occasion I resorted to alcohol. I used it to dull my mind. I just happened to go slightly over-board on that particular occasion." He was employing that very particular smile that applies to drunken incidents which only become funny years after they actually happen.

Lestrade suddenly appeared behind him.

"Overboard is an understatement... You threw up on me! Half way over the Atlantic Ocean, while I had no change of clothes on me. We were two rows down from the bloody bathroom!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes; they were obviously rehashing an old argument. "I did apologise you know. Several times in fact. It isn't my fault that the pilot couldn't fly the plane properly."

The atmosphere lightened considerably after that and they continued to bicker like an old married couple right up until they boarded the plane. John had never travelled in first class before and was surprised by how much more spacious it was. The seats were large, had a decent amount of leg-room, were surprisingly comfortable looking and in pairs, rather than the cramped rows of four he was used to. Even though well over half of the seats were filled, it didn't look at all crowded or claustrophobic. Despite Sherlock's annoyance over it, he found he was rather glad Mycroft had found out. Though he was curious as to how exactly he'd managed it.

They filed in, showed their tickets to the flight attendants and sat down; John on the aisle, Sherlock by the window and Lestrade with a pair of seats to himself in front of them. At this point Sherlock lapsed into an agitated silence with his eyes registering the locations of all the exits. He seemed to be humming with nervous energy and hovering a few inches above his actual seat. Lestrade sighed, picking up a magazine, looking away and seeming resigned to the situation, but John found the effect was getting unsettling. He eventually got sick of it, put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and forcibly placed the detective in his seat.

"Sherlock, for God's sake sit still. What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing." The answer came far too quickly for it to be true. "Nothing at all. I'm Excited... For Cardiff..."

Lestrade, already wearing a large pair of headphones, shot him a 'Just leave it. Seriously, just leave it' look over his shoulder, which he resented but chose to listen to for the time being.

"Fine, just... just sit still. You're really unnerving me..." He slumped back in his seat with his arms crossed; silently fuming over the fact that Lestrade suddenly seemed to know all these facts about his boyfriend while he was having to guess everything.

After a few minutes the lack of conversation was starting to get to him. Or rather, the fact that it was getting to him was starting to get to him. Normally he and Sherlock were perfectly able to relax into a companionable silence, just enjoying each other's company and going about their business, but the tension radiating from the man next to him made that impossible. When the plane started heading down the runway and picking up speed he was momentarily relieved to be moving, but this only lasted until he noticed the movement of his seat wasn't entirely cause by the plane.

"Ok, dammit Sherlock, that's it; you're actually vibrating the seat at this point. What the hell is wrong with you today?" He demanded furiously, determined to get to the bottom of this.

He regretted asking it quite so harshly when he turned and realised the state the man beside him was in. Somehow, somewhere between the time they'd left the taxi and the time they'd boarded the plane, Sherlock had lost all of his normal composure and turned into a complete nervous wreck. He was shaking more and more violently as the plane accelerated and lifted into the air, his breathing ragged, his eyes wild and his hands gripping the seat so fiercely that they were probably going to leave permanent dents.

"Jesus, Sherlock." He sucked in a breath through his teeth and placed what he hoped was a comforting arm on Sherlock's shoulder, "For God's sake, calm down. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Is. Wrong." He ground out, gritting his teeth and glaring at John, clearly irritated that he was seeing him in this state "I'm perfectly calm."

"Nothing's wrong? Look at yourself! You-" He halted mid-sentence, his mind connecting the dots and sudden realisation dawning on him.

"Sherlock...?" He knitted his brow, baffled that all of this could be cause by something so simple, but seeing no other reason for it. "You wouldn't, by any chance, be afraid of flying would you?"

Judging by the way Sherlock was now studiously avoiding his gaze, he was right.

"Of course not." He stated furiously "That's preposterous. Why on earth would I be afraid of such a silly thing?"

John rolled his eyes.

"You know, that would be a lot more convincing if you weren't about to snap that seat in half..."

Sherlock's nostrils flared and he shot John a glare that would have been much more intimidating under normal circumstances, but lacked the force that was usually behind it.

"Come on. Seriously, talk to me, you'll feel better. Why flying of all things?"

This time Sherlock managed to inject some measure of venom into his glare.

"I've told you. I'm. Not. Afraid. Of. Flying." His tone indicated that it would be of benefit to John's health to drop the subject and to drop it quickly.

The look John countered with was one that clearly said 'You don't scare me Sherlock, I can see right through you. Stop being an idiot'.

"Actually you only said there was nothing wrong with you. You mentioned nothing about flying... And you're normally quite a good liar." He cocked an eyebrow "Under a bit of stress are we?"

Despite all outward appearances of being light and playful, John was anything but. He just knew that at this point it was probably the only way of getting Sherlock to admit there was a problem without causing him to snap. If things were up to him they'd be back in bed. He'd at least be cuddling Sherlock or holding his hand to reassure him. John knew all too well how tactile Sherlock could be in private, but this was new to both of them and he was still figuring out what rules applied in public.

Stupid bloody boundaries... I don't even know if they exist or not. Why didn't I ask for a definite answer to that while I had the chance?

"I'm perfectly fine. You're imagining things." He flinched as the plane went through an air pocket, completely ruining his already unconvincing lie.

"You could have told me you know. Did you honestly think I wouldn't notice you having a breakdown in the seat next to me? I may not be as observant as you but for God's sake, give me some credit."

Sherlock bit his bottom lip ashamedly.

"It's completely stupid and infantile to be afraid of flying..." That seemed to be the closest thing to a confession that was forthcoming.

John sighed deeply.

"No. No, it isn't Sherlock. What's stupid and infantile is insisting nothing's wrong when you're clearly going out of your mind. Especially while somebody who cares about you is going out of their mind worrying and trying to find a way to help."

Sherlock cast his eyes down at the ground, suddenly realising that he wasn't the only one being affected by this anymore, then looked up at John, eyes wide and round, looking incredibly young and reminiscent of the frightened little boy he must once have been.

"Not that I am, but... If... If someone did happen to be afraid of flying, what might somebody do to help? And... if someone else happened to be 'going out of their mind' with worry, how might somebody help them in return?" His voice was very small.

He was tempted to roll his eyes. Sherlock normally wasn't so ridiculously transparent; the situation must really be taking it out of him. John was just glad he'd gotten through to him though, and surprisingly touched that Sherlock cared enough that, stressed out as he was, he wanted to ease John's worries.

As this exchange was taking place, they'd been unconsciously moving in closer, and their faces were now mere inches apart.

Fuck it. Boundaries be damned.

He moved one hand up to cup Sherlock's cheek and the other to grab the hand nearest to him and release the death-grip it had on the seat. After a moment of tension, he was glad to feel Sherlock relaxing slightly into the contact and squeezing his hand in return.

"Well, if someone wanted to stop worrying the hell out of their boyfriend, they'd only have to stop being silly and agree to let him help."

Sherlock shot him an un-amused glare, coming back to himself a bit, but didn't say anything.

"And... well... To be honest, I'm not really sure how I plan to help, but I'm not letting you do this alone. I suppose you could start by telling me why you're perfectly happy leaping across roof-tops yet you're afraid of planes."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat, biting his bottom lip. He looked off to the left and in a small and petulant voice he announced:

"They don't make any sense."

This brought John up short. He had been ready to regurgitate all the things he'd heard over the years about planes being statistically safer than cars and how the auto-pilot was so well programmed that the plane pretty much flies itself. He had nothing that seemed like a suitable reply to that though.

"I... I'm sorry? What? They don't make sense?"

"You heard me perfectly well." He said stubbornly, "They don't make sense. I can't understand them. They shouldn't work. Nobody seems to know the exact reason why they work."

John's eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

"But... What happened to all that 'if we went round and round the garden like a teddy bear it wouldn't make any difference' stuff? I mean, you don't know how the solar system works but you're perfectly happy to sit still in it without putting dents in the furniture. Why pick on planes?"

John was baffled, but happy they were at least getting somewhere. Especially since Sherlock seemed to have gotten into the spirit of the argument so much that it was nearly making him forget where he was.

"Because," He started, as if explaining how something very simple worked to an idiot, "I may not know how the solar system works, but somebody does. I may not have the information in my head, but somebody has catalogued it and explained it in theirs. If I ever needed any sort of reassurance of it, I could easily look it up."

That was quite possibly the silliest thing John had ever heard, but it made a strange sort of sense. Sherlock, a man who catalogued things and figured out how they worked, who made sense of everything through the science of deduction, who made it his life's work, needed to know that every fact in the universe had at least one person keeping track of it; needed to be able to access the information if he required it.

"But... they do know how planes work, or they couldn't have built any... It's differences in air pressure or something..." John tried his best to keep the question mark out of his tone as he realised he actually wasn't entirely sure of the facts himself.

"Exactly. Every explanation I've ever been offered has been as vague as that." Sherlock announced in frustration "It's always been 'differences in air pressure, or something', 'it's the shape of the wings, or something'..."

He made an expansive gesture with his free hand, getting carried away in spite of himself, and then continued.

"They never specify! The sentence always trails off before a concrete reason is given. For some reason that nobody will tell me, something that's only being propelled forward suddenly manages to leave the ground and fly upwards. It seems like some closely guarded secret." He was getting genuinely angry now, as if this lack of explanation personally offended him "It's as if they're defying the laws of physics and are afraid that somebody will catch on."

Shaking ever so slightly with the effort of containing his silent laughter by this point, John could take no more. He slumped forward, keeping a hold of Sherlock's hand, but with his other hand latching onto Sherlock's shoulder for support, and dissolved into and uncontrollable fit of giggles.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. But that. Is. The most. Ridiculous thing. I've ever. Heard!" He managed to drag in a breath before continuing "You, you actually think... You think the plane will go down, if you think too hard about the fact that you don't know how it works? I mean, you have to know that's not true don't you?"

He felt compelled to add that Sherlock seemed to ignore and defy physics in a similar manner himself a lot of the time, especially on roof-tops, and that it never seemed to bother him then, but thought it best to keep it to himself.

He regretted his ill-advised outburst when Sherlock snatched himself back from John's hands, turned resolutely away from him and crossed his arms, obviously sulking.

"Of course I know it isn't. I'm not an imbecile."

John's tone softened, all the laughter gone now.

"Then why...?"

Sherlock spoke quickly and in a low voice, still facing away from him.

"It's stupid and completely irrational. The rational parts of my mind know full well that whether the exact details of how it works are known or not, it isn't relevant to the fact that it does, in fact, work. They also know that it's statistically safer than driving or even walking down the street and that I take far greater risks every day than I do while sitting in one of these things."

His mouth twisted unpleasantly, as if he was not only highly disappointed in himself, but furious at John for making him admit to it, then he continued.

"The problem is that for some reason I can't convince myself of any of those facts once I actually find myself on a plane. The instant the doors close I feel trapped and fenced in. I can't stop myself shaking or jumping at the smallest provocation. It's incredibly frustrating and perfectly ridiculous. I turn into a scared house-wife with a mouse in her kitchen..."

Valiantly keeping a straight face, John pushed the image of Sherlock jumping up on a kitchen chair, wearing a dress and apron, and shrieking about mice from his mind. Promising himself he'd revisit it later, when Sherlock was in a fit state to deal with being laughed at, John placed his hands back in their previous positions, pulling Sherlock back around to face him. He was rewarded for his restraint by the fact that Sherlock smiled shyly and didn't pull away.

"Well if it makes you feel any better-"

"I severely doubt that it will." Sherlock interjected silkily.

"If it makes you feel any better," John ground out, making another attempt at it, "an irrational fear of flying is a pretty common thing. You're not the only one."

"Ah. I was right, it didn't." Sherlock sighed, as if lamenting the burden of his own genius.

"What I'm trying to say," John continued, still trying to find the right words to help and fighting the sudden urge to slap Sherlock, "is that it's only human to have some fears that are completely illogical."

"Like your fear of bees."

"Yes, like my fear of-" He stopped mid-sentence.

"Hang on a tick. How did you know I hate bees?" He demanded.

"Your reaction to the one in the flat the other day, of course. You refused to take your eyes off it until I'd let it out the window."

"Ah, right... Well, umm... like I was saying, everyone has an irrational fear of something or other. All part of the human experience."

"Bah. Human." Sherlock let out a derisive snort "Boring. Useless. Annoying. Overrated."

John sighed, wishing he could bring Sherlock back to the version of himself that he had been earlier that morning. Happy, relaxed and post-coital...

Oh...

John smirked dangerously at him, an idea suddenly occurring. He drifted his hand from Sherlock's face, tracing the line of his neck, across his chest, down his stomach and further down until Sherlock gasped and his eyes widened.

"If I recall correctly Mr Holmes..." he murmured.

Sherlock let out a small whimper at being addressed as 'Mr Holmes'.

"...there were some aspects of the human experience that you didn't find boring, useless, annoying or overrated in the slightest this morning." He drove his point home by curling his fingers around Sherlock's crotch and leaning his face in closer.

He could feel Sherlock's response under his fingers, and saw him moving to close the already small gap between them. That was, of course, until they hit another air pocket and he jerked away as if he'd been burned, suddenly sitting ramrod straight in his seat, eyes glued to the 'fasten seat belts' sign ahead of him and squeezing John's hand as if his life depended on it.

He drew in a shaky breath and pleaded "Please, just... Please not here John. Not now. I can't..."

God dammit... That was working. He was relaxing before he remembered where he was. Fucking turbulence, I thought I'd figured out how to help...

"Hey, hey, don't worry about it." He soothed "Sorry, I shouldn't have pushed you."

He placed his hand back down at his side and mentally chastised himself. The last thing he had meant to do was add sexual frustration onto Sherlock's list of problems at the moment.

"No, no... was fine. I was enjoying it until..." He trailed off, obviously ruing his new-found frustration as well. "Just... Just... At the hotel... Not... here..."

John was getting badly worried about the fact that Sherlock's ability to form a coherent sentence seemed to have deserted him. He slumped slightly into his seat.

"Am I being any help at all? I get the feeling that I'm just making it worse."

Before Sherlock could answer, the plane hit another patch of turbulence. This time it wasn't a slight rumble or dip in the otherwise smooth motion of the plane, but severe enough to rattle John's teeth and to warrant the pilot dimming the cabin lights while making an announcement telling them to securely fasten their seatbelts and take note of the nearest emergency exits.

John gasped, not from the shaking of the plane but because without realising it, Sherlock was now gripping his hand with nearly enough force to break it. It was his left hand and in light of the circumstances he decided that Sherlock needed it a hell of a lot more than he did. His more pressing concern though, was that from years of medical and military experience he knew that sort of grip far too well. It was like a death grip; desperate, unnaturally strong and gave him a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach.

Oh fuck...

His fears were confirmed when he turned and saw that the awful state Sherlock had now worked himself up into had now crossed the border between severe nerves and a full-fledged panic attack. He was squirming in his seat, looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights, pupils dilated and looking frantically in every direction with his eyes unfocused, looking for an escape, though not seeming to actually see anything. He was biting his lip, leaving dents, there was such tension in his muscles that John wouldn't have been overly surprised to hear tendons snapping and his breaths were coming in erratic, too-short bursts. He looked as if he was about to either faint, go completely mad or be violently sick. Maybe a bit of all three.

The sight of it alone nearly sent John mad himself. Instead he took a more active grip of Sherlock's hand, ignoring the screams of protest from his own hand, and firmly grabbed the other man's shoulder with his free one, keeping him as steady as he could. He forced his voice into his practiced doctor's tone – calm yet firm – reminded himself that nobody had ever died of a panic attack and tried to pretend that he wasn't frightened out of his mind in spite of that. He knew it was important not to lose his head or he'd just make things worse.

"Shit. Sherlock. Sherlock, calm down. Come on. It'll be ok. This sort of thing happens all the time. It'll be over soon and we'll land and everything will be ok. Just please calm down. Deep breaths. Come on."

It sounded weak and scared, even to his ears, and he had to shout slightly to overcome the noise of the plane, which definitely wasn't conducive to inspiring calm, but it was the best thing he could manage to come up with. Lestrade's voice drifted over to him from the seat in front.

"Shit, is he alright?"

He knew it was of no help to Sherlock to get angry. He knew there was no point to it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the quiet and rational part, he knew that after the last incident and what were probably some similar ones before it that Lestrade putting on headphones and ignoring Sherlock for the entire flight was probably somewhat justified. He knew that he shouldn't feel resentment towards the sudden, only slightly stupid, show of concern but damn it, he did, and he had been close to breaking point already. He twisted around.

"DOES HE LOOK ALRIGHT TO YOU?"

He turned back to Sherlock without waiting for a response, taking deep, frustrated breaths, already regretting the outburst. Partially because of the look it had put on Lestrade's face, but mostly because while trying to calm somebody down, it wasn't the world's greatest idea to start shouting and panicking yourself.

Dammit, man, you're a doctor, you should know better... Whatever happened to working well under pressure?

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, Sherlock was far too gone already for it to have had much of an effect on him.

"Hey, hey, Sherlock. Look at me." Sherlock's eyes continued to dart around in search of some sort of escape. John grabbed the side of his face and pointed it directly towards him. "Seriously Sherlock, look at me. Look at me!"

Sherlock's eyes finally fixed themselves onto his and he let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.

"Ok good. Now keep looking at me and try to calm down. Take deep breaths." Sherlock's eyes continued to stare into his, though they looked as if they were itching to resume their previous motion. His breathing, however, stayed as erratic and uneven as before, coming in short gasps that shook his shoulders rather than expanding his chest as they should have.

"Come on Sherlock. Breathe in and out. In and out. Deep, even breaths. Please try to do that for me."

To his immense relief, after a few seconds Sherlock took a long shaky breath in and blew it straight out again. He followed it with a few more panicked gasps, but eventually managed to bring it into a somewhat steady rhythm. It looked as if it was taking an immense effort, and the breaths weren't quite as even as John would have liked, but he was doing it. John collapsed sideways into his seat in relief, still maintaining eye-contact and his hold on Sherlock. He'd been sure they were in trouble for a minute there.

"Good. That's good, Sherlock. Keep doing that."

He moved his hand down to Sherlock's arm, rubbing it up and down in a comforting gesture, and just sat there, staring into his eyes, monitoring his breathing and muttering meaningless platitudes and reassurances to him for several minutes. Gradually the motion of the plane calmed down, the cabin lights were turned back on (though the 'fasten seat belts' sign was never turned off) and it was announced that they'd be landing in twenty minutes. From the collective sigh of relief that sounded from all around him, it was obvious that while Sherlock had had the worst reaction to the situation, he definitely hadn't been the only one to panic.

Lestrade, sensing that now that Sherlock was doing better John would be somewhat calmer, tried his question again.

"You two alright back there?"

John replied without breaking eye-contact with Sherlock.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Sorry I snapped at you."

"Don't worry about it. You were under a bit of stress. Perfectly understandable." He cast a concerned sidelong glance in Sherlock's direction. "Umm... Is he going to make it to Cardiff in one piece?"

"I... am sitting. Right. Here. I-I'm not deaf, you know..." Sherlock managed to bite out, in what was a weak shade of his normal cutting tone, not quite able to look away from John long enough to deliver his line.

Oh no...

John had been sure Sherlock was doing quite well, all things considered, but judging by the state of his speech patterns and the fact that he was still shaking, he was worse off than he was letting on.

John glanced at the seat in front of him to see a worried expression that mirrored his own.

"Don't worry. We're fine back here." He hoped Lestrade could take the hint.

Thankfully he caught on quickly enough and turned around with only one more concerned glance in Sherlock's direction.

In an undertone John asked "How are you doing? Really, how are you doing?"

When he got no response, he lightly added "Scale of one to ten?"

It got him a tense smile, but nothing more. Sherlock seemed to have realised his speech patterns were giving him away.

John looked down at the arm-rest that was dividing them, and as he had suspected, it could be folded up so that the two seats merged into one. He did this while Sherlock gave him a nervous, quizzical look, and then pulled Sherlock closer to him in an awkward cuddle. It was uncomfortable at the beginning due to the fact that Sherlock was stiff as a board, but it seemed to have the desired effect as he relaxed slightly into the embrace and gradually stopped shaking. John stroked his hair absently, wishing the rest of the tension would leave his muscles and he'd ease up the vice-like grip on John's hand, but he was just glad of what little progress he had made.

"Thank you... I'm... really, really sorry about all of this." Sherlock whispered in a tiny, thoroughly embarrassed voice.

"Hey..." John murmured, still running his free hand through Sherlock's hair "Don't worry about it. You're on bee-killing duty for the rest of your life though, since it turns out you know about that."

He felt a chuckle shaking the top half of Sherlock's body slightly. Not quite his usual one, but definitely an improvement.

"I think that can be arranged."

They sat like that for the remainder of the plane journey and Sherlock kept up his vice-like grip on John's hand until they had descended the metal steps, touched their feet back down on solid ground and entered the terminal, leaving the planes completely out of sight. The effect was instantaneous. Sherlock relaxed his grip, though didn't part their hands, flopped down in the nearest available seat with his head thrown back, and seemed to melt into a shaky human puddle where he sat, not caring anymore who saw.

"Never... Again..." He breathed heavily, trying to regain his composure. "Dear God... Never. Again."

John, sensing the storm had passed, took the opportunity to assess the damage to his hand. Hoping Sherlock was too out of it to notice, he experimentally flexed his fingers. Surprisingly, his hand had fared pretty well. Definitely not broken or fractured, probably a bit bruised but he could live with that.

Lestrade, who was standing uncomfortably next to them feeling like a third wheel already, cleared his throat and said "Erm, look we should probably be picking up our bags..."

John was about to tell him to give Sherlock a minute but the detective leapt up from the seat, obviously recovered, dragging John with him towards the baggage claim, muttering under his breath something to the tune of "The sooner we leave this airport the better..."

Lestrade suggested that he get the bags while the two of them get some air outside, and John found himself incredibly grateful to the inspector, since Sherlock was looking distinctly in need of just that. Sherlock's idea of fresh air turned out to be slightly different to his though.

"What happened to the nicotine patches? You were doing so well..." John eyed the small pack of cigarettes and the lighter Sherlock had purchased from the newsagents in the terminal with distrust. He honestly didn't want to be the kind of overly-controlling boyfriend who insisted his partner didn't smoke, yet he was mentally going over every horrible lung cancer case he'd ever seen and doing his best not to imagine all the tar that was setting up shop in Sherlock's airways. He'd taken his hand from Sherlock's so he could work the lighter, and as a small gesture of protest wasn't going to be giving it back until he was a smoke-free zone.

"I won't be buying any more, therefore I will resume doing well when this box is empty. The patches aren't going to cut it at the moment; I need a more direct delivery system." John couldn't really argue with that; he figured in light of the circumstances, falling off the nicotine wagon was pretty understandable. This didn't stop him wincing when Sherlock punctuated his point by taking a desperate drag on the first cigarette, reducing half of it to a pile of ash in one go and exhaling a cloud of acrid smoke. He did his very best not to think about the sheer amount of the vile things Sherlock must have smoked in his day to be able to do that so effortlessly.

By the time Lestrade returned with the bags, giving the grey cloud that now surrounded the two of them a disapproving glance but choosing not to comment, Sherlock had chain-smoked his way through four of what John was trying very hard not to think of as cancer-sticks. He at least seemed to have calmed down considerably.

They clambered into a taxi, John leaning his head on Sherlock's shoulder and closing his eyes, the experience having taken more out of him than he'd thought, and headed to the hotel. His hand was back in Sherlock's again and Sherlock was surreptitiously, or so he thought anyway, checking over what damage he might have done to it while in his panicked state, wincing when he found what felt like the beginnings of bruises, but happy overall that it didn't seem badly damaged. John decided to leave him to it without commenting; he was far too content where he was.

He was so comfortable in the warm taxi, cuddled up to Sherlock, that he must have drifted off without realising, because he lurched into consciousness to find himself in the process of being lifted carefully out into the open air. It took him a moment to realise out what was happening.

"Huh, you, what, Sherlock? Sherlock! What the hell are you doing? Put me down!" He squirmed and was eventually lowered onto his feet, fuming as he heard the distinct sound of Lestrade snickering as he climbed out after them.

"I thought it best not to wake you. You're generally rather irritable when your sleep is interrupted." Sherlock stated simply, obviously unaware of how inappropriate he was being "I see I was right in assuming this, since you now are, in fact, rather irritable."

John accepted that Sherlock probably hadn't known any better and decided instead to direct his irritation towards Lestrade.

"Could you not have told him carrying me was a bad idea instead of just sitting there?" He sighed, running a hand through his hair and looking around to see who had seen. Thankfully the taxi driver was the only one in the vicinity besides Lestrade trying to contain giggles; everyone else seemed either completely oblivious to them or to at least not find it so amusing. "Or at least mentioned to him that it's not generally socially acceptable to be carrying unconscious men around in public?"

"Sorry mate, I would have said before we got inside, but you have to admit it's pretty funny. You looked fairly comfy there too." Lestrade replied, unabashed and still grinning.

John found he was smiling in spite of himself as they retrieved their bags from the boot of the taxi and headed to check in.

John definitely sensed Mycroft's hand in the choice of hotel. It was ostentatious, decorated in opulent colours, full of marble and sandstone and looked like it cost more than he got paid in a year for a room. He sent off a quick 'thank you' text and made a mental note that, no matter how Sherlock protested and insisted that his brother had ulterior motives, he would thank Mycroft properly and in person when they returned home.

The second they walked in, they made straight for the check-in desk, that was until Sherlock's eyes darted quickly around the room and he sped off towards what looked like a recently married couple standing around in the foyer. Lestrade continued on, obviously used to this sort of thing and wanting to get settled in quickly, but John hurried after Sherlock in the hopes of avoiding the inevitable scene he was about to make. He caught up to him still half way across the room from the couple and grabbed the arm of his coat firmly, bringing him to a stop.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"He's sleeping with her sister, and only a few months after their wedding too. I thought it only right to inform her." He explained as if it was patently obvious.

Sensing that Sherlock would receive disbelief from the wife and a punch on the nose from the husband for his troubles, John pulled him away, back to where Lestrade was standing, holding three card-keys, two of which he handed to them, still looking fairly amused. He led them into the lifts, up to the top floor and with a grin, an expansive gesture and the air of a magician showing off his lovely assistant, he presented them with the room Mycroft had requested for them.

"The... The honeymoon suite...?" John stood there with his mouth hanging open, not entirely sure how to feel about that. "He... Your brother booked the honeymoon suite for us..."

Sherlock seemed similarly at a loss for words. "I'm not sure if I want to thank him or kill him... I suppose I could do both..."

Lestrade clapped them both on the back informed them they had to be out and hunting criminals in two hours then, still grinning, wandered off towards the lifts to find his own room. At that moment a beep sounded from John's pocket and Sherlock rolled his eyes, signalling that now they'd both received a text from Mycroft. John dug out his phone and Sherlock evidently had decided that ignoring his brother was pointless, since he did the same.

The text that Sherlock had received that morning read:

I do believe congratulations are in order Sherlock.

I'd like to say this is a surprise, but we both know it was a long time coming.

Mummy will be pleased you've finally found someone, you know how she worries.

MH.

While John's read:

I trust you'll make my brother happy John.

Enjoy the room, I picked it out specially.

I'll be dropping over for a chat when you return to Baker Street.

Do try your best to keep him out of trouble.

MH

The possibility of receiving a protective brotherly warning talk suddenly seemed a lot more real, but he decided not to worry too much. Mycroft would only bear him any ill will if he hurt Sherlock, and he certainly wasn't going to be doing that if he could help it.

Almost as if sensing he was being thought about, Sherlock came up behind him placed his chin on John's shoulder and snaked his arms around his waist.

"I recommend you ignore anything and everything he might have said to you." He murmured into John's neck.

"He told me to keep you out of trouble" John replied, leaning back into the unexpected embrace.

"That, for example." Sherlock said silkily "That is exactly the sort of thing you should feel free to ignore."

"He also said for us to enjoy the room." John added mischievously, impatient to get inside.

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment, the urge to go against his brother warring against his desire to make the most of the two hours they had before they had to get back to work. Eventually the stronger desire won out.

"Well... I suppose even Mycroft can have a good idea every now and then..."