AN: Okay this is my first ever fic so I really need some feedback, please, thank-you, bye.

Candyfloss and Motion Sickness

He couldn't see John, but he knew he was in the second carriage. Third seat on the left. Sherlock didn't usually give into the whims of his imagination, but today he allowed himself to picture John's hair glinting in the bright sunlight. He watched as the carriage neared the top of the slope. The muscles in his stomach tightened in sympathy.

The carriage was falling; he could definitely hear john now. No matter how many times he told himself John was the one in the roller coaster his muscles wound tighter. When the carriage started looping Sherlock had to give in to his irrationality and look at the ground. Any previous pretence of disinterest is given up as he has to clench his jaw and control his breathing to try and prevent the churning in his stomach. The last thing he wanted was to be cleaned up like a five-year-old. Like all the times Father had made Mycroft clean him up in the back of the car.

This weakness never ceased to affect him. Cars were often too much for him. The real reason he never travelled in a squad car. At least in a taxi if he knew he was going to vomit he could just get out or, worst coming to worst, play drunk. No plan was foolproof, but at least if he did vomit the cabbie was unlikely to remember him in the haze of hundreds of customers. Anderson on the other hand would never be so forgiving if the same happened en route to a crime scene. The endless torme-

"Sherlock?" somehow he'd lost himself in his mind long enough for John to finish the torture and return to him. John slips his hand over Sherlock's whitened knuckles on the railing and strokes his thumb up and down Sherlock's. Feeling that contact he calms enough to speak. Just.

"John," Sherlock echoes.

"Sherlock, look at me."

"I'm afraid I don't understand the importance of the coloured muscle surrounding your pupils," he moves on without pause attempting to side-step John, "More intriguingly the dirt here is similar in colour to that of the surrounding countryside although the particles are finer. Most likely because it blew here on the wi-" Sherlock stops able to feel both the soothing strokes of John's thumb on his and the baleful look being cast upon him. He spends a moment willing blood back into his face before looking into the pattern of calmed blue and hazelnut pebbles that he had memorised long ago.

"You don't feel nauseous," he states, "Your pulse is accelerated, but you show no symptoms of anxiety. You enjoyed that," and he cannot hide the incomprehension from his face.

"Yes," a pause, "Roller coasters are enjoyable," he reads the micro-expressions on John's face as the penny drops, "Are you afr-"

Sherlock butts in before he hears that word, "Motion sickness."

"So that's why you've never-"

He laces his voice with warnings about the end of this conversation, "Yes."

John threads his fingers between Sherlock's and peels them away from the railing, "Candyfloss?"

"Candyfloss?" Sherlock asks confused.

"Candyfloss," John replies, as if repeating the word will suddenly reveal its meaning, and begins to lead Sherlock through the fair.

"What is candyfloss?" he asks tight-lipped.

"You don't know what…" John trails off shaking his head. After all this isn't the first time Sherlock has been stubbornly ignorant of something that everyone else takes as a given. "What did you do..?" he mutters.

"Obviously not candyfloss," snaps Sherlock.

John stops them in front of a spinning contraption filled with some sort pink fluff that an unwashed man is handing out to small children. Sherlock stands at a distance and watches as the children stuff the fluff into their mouths. Of course. Only children, and John, would want to put something so ridiculous into their mouths.

"Your turn," John holds one of the spools out to Sherlock.

"I do not see the point," says Sherlock and John answers only by twitching the fluff towards Sherlock.

In one swift movement Sherlock snaps on a pair of latex gloves and snatches it from John's hand.

"I will only delete it," he adds. John stays silent watching Sherlock with a smirk. Sherlock could not imagine what could be so important about this fluff. He plucks a strand from the top as if it were a particularly intriguing piece of evidence. Next he pulls his fingers apart noting how the fibres break apart as they stick to his fingers. Candyfloss is added to the list of substances in the grotty film that coats young children. He sniffs it and reels off, "One hundred percent spun sucrose coloured with E120," almost finishing with a snarl. His eyes flick automatically up to John who is watching him intently, his arms folded. Finally he scrapes the fluff off his fingers with his teeth and feels it dissolve into an overly sweet taste in his mouth. He can already feel his teeth decaying. He swallows, "Pointless," that is aside from usual thrill gained from John's attention.

Keeping his eyes on Sherlock's John reaches out for a less graceful lump of candyfloss. Sherlock's turn to watch. To watch as John sucks the candyfloss from his fingers. To watch as the muscles in John's jaws clench in waves as he savours the sweet substance. To watch John's fingers still covered in candyfloss the edges of which were dissolving into his saliva leaving complex patterns of red syrup on the grooved skin of his fingertips. Enough watching.

Sherlock reaches out to grip John's hand so that he can draw those fingers to his mouth and lick them clean. What was once sugary nothingness is now a salted caramel draped over John's skin. A more refined taste, Sherlock thought, and when it dissolved away it left John's fingers. Sherlock had no issue with that.

"Much better," John is watching Sherlock's mouth. It takes him a moment to realise Sherlock is done and pull his fingers out.

John meets Sherlock's eye, "Carousel?"

"Baker Street."