Sherlock is acting like he's just stepped into Oz. His facial expressions are varying from wonder to awe to fear, his lips pursing whenever his eyes scan over clowns with painted faces, lips hidden with lipstick and face paint. His eyes lighten when he sees stands of men and women selling candies and toffees, saltwater taffy packaged in discreet cellophane that crinkles. John is so out of his element.

He's never seen so many smiling children before. They swell around him, and all he can think about was that fact that he was never like this; he never smiled at strangers when they offered him pink and blue and purple candies. Lollipops the color of neon, chocolate with sea salts, bags of cotton candy larger than toddlers and tricycles and toy trains.

John was not a real boy. He grew up before the age of seven, and tried to wrap his mind around the thought of a normal childhood when he was much past his teenage years. To think that he's a 26 year old man, dawdling around in a sea of color for the first time in his life, to think that he is surprised by something so stereotypically childish... he is astounded. He may have been deprived of a childhood, but he wasn't aware that he'd been deprived of something as intoxicating as this.

He takes Sherlock's palm, which is clammy and nervous, and squeezes. He feels like he's said this a thousand times, but again, he asks if Sherlock is alright.

And he answers, "Yes," yet again.

Is he alright?

Well, surely, he is. But he's never felt this way. There's a certain kind of energy about this place that no alcohol has ever given him. Every color, every smell, every texture - they are all discombobulating and sobering at the same time, and John holds his hand to his leg to keep it from giving out like a twig snapping underfoot. God, he's not okay. He'd feel more "okay" if he were in the midst of battle, a gun in his right hand, a gray-green grenade in his left palm, and a handkerchief cutting off the blood flow in his shoulder.

He'd feel more comfortable on the operating table, with a scalpel held against his still-beating heart. He'd feel better if he was jumping out of a plane with only an umbrella to help break his fall. He would feel less insane if he were running through the streets, trying to hide from his step-father, work boots covered in puddles and mud.

Now, he is out of his element. His lungs feel arthritic. They are not working correctly. His hands are shaking into Sherlock's, and they are clenching onto each other so tightly that their skin is stitched together by desperation. You would have to pull them apart at the elbows to part their bodies. You would have to set John on the edge of the cliff with a 300 kilogram stone tied to his foot in order to have them separate.

Sherlock and John are more scared in this place than they have ever been in their lives. And they know it's stupid, and they know it's insane, and they know that wishing that they were in the midst of a battlefield instead of here is the worst kind of sadism, but they will stay because they are normal and not damaged and the adrenaline rush is just chemicals, the fear is just primal and unfounded.

They will stay, and breathe in through their arthritic lungs, for they are not broken. They're just waiting, like passengers, for a train that may not come.

***

"We should - uh," John stammers. "We should go on the Ferris wheel."

Sherlock's eyes shift to John, whose face is white as a sheet, and gulps. The Ferris wheel is massive. Looks like it came out of a sci-fi movie, with its blinking lights and all-too-real grandiose. He stares at it like it's a beanstalk, poking through the sky.

"Yes," Sherlock says, his voice a tiny whisper, "we should go on the Ferris wheel."

John steps onto it. It doesn't get up and walk. Sherlock follows, eyes saying, "Is it safe?"

John nods once, and sits in a bright pink seat, wrapping his free hand around a pole in the middle. He's holding on so tightly that his hands are blotchy and red, like a palm's worth of sausage.

Sherlock joins a moment later.

"We'll survive this," John says hoarsely.

"Are you implying," Sherlock says, just as scared, "that we weren't going to survive in the first place?"

"No. No - I - no." John laughs a little. "God, Sherlock. Do you feel like you're being lit on fire?"

"I imagine that if I felt as if I were being lit on fire, I would actually be lit on fire at the moment." He smiles, and uses his right hand to grab the hand that John is desperately clinging to a bar with.

The man in front of the ferris wheel taps a few buttons, and then, slowly, the car begins to rise.

"Oh God," John says. "Oh God. I hate heights. Why did I agree with this - why did I let you-"

"You suggested it, you imponderable idiot!" Sherlock's grip, if at all possible, tightens. John thinks that if he squeezes any more, his hand may implode and become a small black hole.

"You didn't tell me that it was an awful idea!"

"I didn't want to hurt your feelings-"

"When have you ever cared about anyone's feelings? Now's not a great time to start!" John yells, face turning a flushed pink. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus..." he squeezes his eyes shut as it climbs, only a fourth of the way up.

"John, referring to Jesus isn't going to make you feel any less-"

"Shut up," he hisses between his teeth. "I can barely..." he chokes on the oxygen-poor air. "Uagh, Sher..."

"John."

"I'm going to vomit."

"John."

"All over you."

"John."

"And you're going to have to lick it off the fucking floor, dear fucking God..." John shakes, pinching his nose in between his index and thumb. "Can't look..."

"John, guess what?"

"What, Sherlock." He takes heaving breaths, blowing air out through his mouth in gusts.

"The ride's done."

"What?"

"It's done."

"Really?"

"Yes."

John's eyes shoot open. The ride is not fucking done.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRISTSHRRLOCKWHWATJHWGUUH," he yells. They are at the very very very top of it, the entire carnival small and ant-like underneath them. John doesn't take this well, as he is screaming so loud and so angrily that he literally forgets that he's on the ride and stands up. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH I DON'T LIKE HEIGHTS, SHERLOCK, I'LL TELL YOU: I DON'T LIKE THEM. NO, I DO NOT," he starts babbling. He babbles and babbles, and somehow the topic of peanuts come up, because John hates peanuts just as much as he hates heights, oh God, oh God.

Sherlock just smiles calmly as the Ferris wheel slows to a halt with a grinding, chalkboard-like squeak. Then, he gets up, and walks off, leaving John cursing loudly at an empty seat.

Realizing that the ride is in fact over, John looks in confusion at the ground for a few moments, then back at the Ferris wheel, heart about to spill out of his mouth. He takes a cautious step off of it, half afraid that the ground will give out underneath him; and then, he steps onto the grass.

Sherlock smirks at him playfully. He looks fine, unlike John, whose hair is disheveled and whose voice is hoarse from screaming. "Do you want to go again?" Sherlock says, teasing him with his eyes.

John blinks a couple of times, turns slowly and looks back up at the giant he has just slain, the beanstalk he has just cut. He looks back at Sherlock, face pale and gaunt and sweaty. And begins to let out thick, laughing sobs. "Haaaa, wheeeee, haaaa, eee heee ee heeee, haaa, Sherlock" - he snorts - "that was... the stupidest... fucking thing... I have ever..." He wheezes and coughs and laughs past the constricting pain in his chest, gasping a choked response. "Let's go again. Yes. Yes."

***

Sometimes, when Sherlock thinks everything is going poorly, he looks at John and he's okay again. It's a conundrum. He could write a mathematical formula to explain why his head is filled with happiness, he could write an equation to show how the chemicals react in his brain, but he can't even come up with a logical hypothesis to explain John.

So when he looks at John, and his hands dart out to snatch a piece of candy from a vendor... he isn't confused. That action was the only thing that made sense, out of all of it.

He prays to a higher power that John won't see.

***

They grab a bite to eat. "Pizza and lemonade?" John had asked.

"Pizza and lemonade," Sherlock agreed.

They then discussed how pizza came to be, and Sherlock recounted a number of Italian accents as he ate, letting John draw a small goatee on his chin in pen as he spoke.

Now, John sits, laughing boisterously as Sherlock speaks rapid Italian.

"Where did you learn?" John asks, sipping lemonade. He chews on the straw as he drinks.

"Italian? French? Spanish? Ukrainian? Arab? Hebrew? Which one, John, there's a lot more." Sherlock bites into his pizza hungrily, and laughs through the cheese.

"English," John jokes. "No, um, Italian."

"I learned Italian from my tutor. We covered three languages at once. He was, just like me, a genius. Not to be arrogant," Sherlock states sarcastically, permanent marker beard wobbling on his chin, "but I was a child prodigy."

"Ah," John says, nodding mockingly. "And you learned Italian when you were...?"

"Four. At my father's estate."

"Your brother?"

Sherlock scoffs. "He's an insufferable fucking prick."

"He knew more languages than you, didn't he?"

Sherlock's face crinkles up into a lighthearted laugh, joined soon after by John's strange wheezing, breathy laughs. "Yes," Sherlock laughed. "God, but he was a prick. He was a malignant fucking tumorous growth. I hated him." Sherlock starts drinking his lemonade, but accidentally laughs mid-sip, and splutters it all over the table. "He stuck me in the oven once," Sherlock says, deadpan, and then chuckles deeply. "And then," he accentuates, "he turned it on."

"Jesus!" John yells. "I knew you were a family of sociopaths. I didn't know you were bloody murderous."

"Hmm, well," Sherlock sighs. "What about you? Any riveting tales of sisterly compassion?"

"Dozens."

"Go right ahead."

"My sis, right, she used to always think she was better at everything. So in kindergarten," John cackles, "she brings me in for show-and-tell - keep in mind that I am literally four years old - and she makes me draw our family out on the chalkboard to prove I'm a complete idiot, right? So I do my art, and I start labeling the names. 'Ma, Pa, John,' and for her name, I write, 'stupid.' Of course, I spell it completely wrong, but they make me sit out in the corner until my dad can pick me up, even though I don't even go to the school."

"You didn't even go there?" Sherlock laughs.

"No!"

"You could have sued for a lot of money."

"Undoubtedly." John sips his lemonade, and every few seconds, he'll snort and do his signature laugh. Sounds like a pig on crack, and Sherlock loves it. "Why are we here anyway?"

"I used to come here as a child in the winters. Very exciting, noisy, fresh. I loved going on the bumper cars, as any child would. My brother would drive here with me and chaperone, groaning the entire time. After a while, he just dropped me off."

"What's his name?"

"What's whose name?"

"Your brother's. Your dad's. Someone's."

"Which?"

"I don't mind."

"Mycroft and Siger." Sherlock tries to keep his throat from constricting around his vocal chords.

"What are they like?"

"Oh, they're..." He's not sure what tense to use. He's not sure what to even say. "They were basically arrogant 'geniuses' with no sense of respect."

"So... you."

Sherlock chuckles. "You could definitely say that, to an extent. But they were always a bit more savage when it came to personal affairs. They always had a more cold streak."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock stares at John for a number of seconds, opening his mouth, and then shutting it. Then, "They always seemed mechanical to me."

"Oh?"

"They were like robots. Emotionless, and the better for it. I took after them in every respect, except I could never quite master their level of sentimental detachment."

"Oh." John bites into his pizza. "So, like, does it ever, you know..."

"Spit it out, John."

"Does it ever bother you?"

Sherlock breathes out heavily through his nose. "No, John, why do you keep on asking me the same question in a psuedo-poetic way if the answer is no, no, no?"

"Because," John says with a coy smile. "I think you're lying."

"Why?" Sherlock puts down his pizza slice, puts his hands together, and leans into John. "I do consider myself to be an exceptional master of deceit."

"Because, hell, Sherlock," John explains, "I'm bothered. I'm bothered a lot."

"Really," he drawls.

"Well - yes. I'm bothered by the fact I never speak to my family. That fucking bothers me, yeah? Fresh out the military, and I have to shack at a shitty apartment instead of my sister's house? That bothers me a lot."

"I'm not fresh out of the armed forces. Nor do I have a sister that owns her own house. My family is composed of a rich old man, a dead old woman, and a prissy intern that works at MI6, John, I don't kid myself. I don't entertain the preconceived notion that my 'family', however wealthy they may be, are supposed to love me, are supposed to care, are supposed to feed me and clothe me and pay my rent and my electricity and invite me for cups of tea, oh, dear, John, it doesn't bother me."

John's lips fold into a upset line, eyebrows furrowing densely into his expression. "It should."

"Doesn't," Sherlock says dismissively.

"You're allowed to feel things, Sherlock. No one outlawed emotions recently. It's okay to be human."

Sherlock smiles a stale smile, lips twisting coyly and savagely, a menacing smirk carved into his skin. John, for an instant, can see a glint of that insanity that Sherlock dubs so eloquently "kleptomania," and he tries to wrap his head around it, he tries to grasp the concept in his hands like sand. But that look, oh, it is so deadly. John half expects a viper tongue to dart out his mouth and spit venom into John's eyes, but instead, it's just a kiss.

"Oh, John," Sherlock whispers, brushing bright blonde hair away from his face. He leans in slow and presses carnation pink lips into John's in a delicate manner. The feeling would be extraordinary if it weren't for that smirking, manipulative detachment in Sherlock's eyes. The vibrations of his voice tear John through, and he realizes, once again, how easily Sherlock can steal things you never thought you kept locked up.

"Haven't you heard?" he says, lips breathing pressures along John's inner ear. He sounds like a dark angel; intense, controlling, and falsely faithful. "I'm not human."

***

He moves in Morse code. There's a ticker in his footsteps, and John can hear the faint beeps of incoherent language, the taps and holds. He can't read him, exactly, but he knows when the small sounds stop, and when they start again, and when they're trying to slip something that doesn't belong in.

When Sherlock steals, he feels happy, like he's in control, like he's trading a nasty habit in for gold. But then he looks at what he's stolen, and it isn't gold, and it isn't silver - it's usually just some poor bloke's car keys, or a piece of gum that they were keeping in their pocket for later.

He tries not to feel guilty; it's not his fault. He didn't decide to steal, it was spontaneous, uncontrollable, you couldn't have stopped yourself. Calm down, calm down, breathe...

Then he's guilty. He wants to return it. He wishes he could slip it back into their pockets and relieve himself, but he can't, and that makes him feel even more tense, so he steals some more, and wraps his hands around things that were previously on stands and in pockets and with people that deserved those things. He hopes John doesn't notice. He hopes to God John doesn't notice.

Because then John would know this wasn't working. Because then John would know that he couldn't ever stop this useless crusade, day in, day out. Because then John would know; hear the Morse code replaced by the loud thrum of Sherlock's warm blooded heart, and he'd know, he'd know, he'd know.

So Sherlock prays, and he steals. He prays that he'll be able to stop pretending he's unaffected soon, he steals a bag of skittles from a child who isn't looking, he prays that John will stop staring at him so hard so he can steal the soft linen that hangs upon a metal bar - fuck, he missed the window, and John's still looking - his hands are itching like an unchecked rash to touch metal, or cloth, or plastic, or paper, or something...

Sherlock prays, shuts his eyes, reaches out his hand, and takes the only thing he can. He doesn't know what it is. He doesn't look. He just sees, out of the corner of his eye, John staring with the disgust Sherlock had always feared. He pretends he doesn't see the face John is making, he pretends that John is someone he doesn't care deeply about, just a stranger, only a person. He turns, and he smiles.

The morse code is disrupted. It's raining dots and dashes, inky whirlpools of noise, and Sherlock is scared, but he grins thickly. John doesn't grin back.

***

When Sherlock steals again, John closes his eyes and clenches his fists until the white turns to red and that turns to black.

And when it starts to rain again, John tightens his coat around him until he swears that the only noise he hears is the ruffling of a Belstaff two sizes too big, and another layer of warmth that comes all too suddenly. John opens his eyes again, and Sherlock is wearing only his dress shirt. His coat is around John's shoulders, as if he felt bad about letting the wind touch John's body. He's cloaked in wool, and the smell of mint. John wonders what's under Sherlock's scalp.

There must be something besides the primitive need to take.

But as Sherlock extends his hand to steal, John can't help but grasp the hand that's reaching... reaching...

"Um," John says, prying Sherlock's fingers apart. "Sherlock." Sherlock's eyes flicker down to meet John's, surprised and angry, as if upset by John's audacity. To disrupt the silence, John says, "Aren't you cold? You're getting wet."

Sherlock looks away, his frown becoming more mild. "No," he replies. "Rain doesn't bother me."

"Um," John says as Sherlock begins walking away. "Do you want me to get us ice cream?"

Sherlock nods as he sits down onto a bench, staring expectantly up at John. "Okay, John."

"Okay, um, Sherlock..." his words trail off into the rain, and are blocked by droplets of water driving the strength from the syllables. "Please don't... steal." John smiles without using his eyes, and then limps away, still wearing Sherlock's trench coat.

***

John is wrong, wrong, wrong here.

He is not supposed to be buying that flavor in that spot in that time frame - he is not broken like Sherlock could be, he should not be here. He is wrong, and that makes everything worse.

Just like that, Sherlock stops praying, and as he watches the drizzle thicken into literal spattering drops, he builds inside himself. This isn't right. Nothing about this is right.

***

He steals the first thing he can get his hands on. He doesn't even wait to see if John's back is turned - if anyone's back is turned, actually - and he takes a cup of mixed pence without thinking once about whose cup it is.

He hears a voice behind him. A voice that's deep, and angry, and shocked - it doesn't compute, and he doesn't want to look the man whom to these coins belong in the eyes, so instead he stares straight at the ground and walks away, quickly.

People - or maybe, person - begin yelling at him - he can hear the faint sound of his name pressing against his eardrums.

"Sherlock," the voice whispers, "Sherlock, Sherlock..." And then, the words, "Thief!"

Sherlock snaps awake, and begins running.

A/N: i am so close to finishing guys! ACK i stared at the screen for three days wondering if i should post it but i finally have

It is done

Also dearwatson and I are on chapter one of our new story, shshsgshsggghh we will get it done soon and post the prologue which in my opinion is p intense so

Sorry, again, it took so long. Life update: SCHOOL IS HARDER THAN EVER BUT i kinda want to write an original story. i ain't got time tho especially since ali and neil literally i wrote in 2012 and i have not done a single thing with it since then so

WHAT DO YOU THINK IS GOING TO HAPPEN NEXt AGHDHFBRH WHO JUST YELLED THIEF AND WHY IS IT SUCH A BIG DEAL AHHSHFJE

ILY ALL THANK YOU FOR COMMENTING AND VOTING LY BAI