A/N: Thanks to the great vector-nyu, who gave me insider information about the Enchanted Island gala. The event was black-tie but given that John has a new, bespoke grey suit, I decided to forgo that particular stylistic requirement. And the Ravenna Music Festival began in 1990, which is a few years too late for my timeline (Sherlock would have been about 14 then, if he is the same age as BC). But we'll let that slide, now won't we? I was lucky enough to attend Ravenna in 2008 and it is amazing.

There are some photos of Lincoln Center posted on my tumblr site, to give you a sense of the scale of the place, as well as a photo of Korean peppers that I took at K-Town on Friday. Also, when I was writing this chapter and the next, with their references to Shakespeare, I was reminded of one of my favourite Sherlock fanfics, the "Eye of the Beholder" series written by daysofstorm, which is similarly Shakespearean in parts. I highly recommend her work if you have not read it before now.

Also, I was reminded of SeenaC's lovely "Night at the Symphony" as I was writing this. She has Sherlock say some marvellous things about the importance of dressing up to go to classical music events, and I couldn't agree with her more.

Ta.

Emma

Pax XXV

"Hurry up, John, we'll be late," Sherlock said in a tense voice.

"What time does it start again?"

"Six-thirty. But it's not about getting there on time. God, John, if we get there at 6:30 we'll be late. It's not like there are trailers to watch before the show."

"Then why do we have to be thirty minutes early?"

John rushed after Sherlock as the taller man took long strides up Columbus Avenue. Their hotel was a half dozen blocks from the Lincoln Center complex that hosted the Metropolitan Opera, and it was not even six o'clock, and yet Sherlock walked as if possessed.

"I hate to be late to a performance," he called back at John. "Only idiots are late for a performance. And if we're late, we have to wait until the first act is over to enter. Come, John, hurry!"

"Coming…" John muttered. He didn't mind, actually, chasing after Sherlock – God knows he had had enough experience doing the same across London – especially when they were going on a date, an actual date, to the opera, no less.

The two men crossed the wide avenue and approached the large plaza of Lincoln Center, flanked to the south by the American Ballet Company, to the north by Avery Fisher Hall, home to the New York Philharmonic. Directly in front of them, across the plaza to the west, was the Metropolitan Opera House. The entire front of the building was formed of tall windows under high arches, through which John could glimpse, on either side of the entrance, two enormous paintings. Sherlock paused by the fountain in the middle of the plaza, pointing to the building in front of them.

"Classic 1960s architecture," he began. "See those right angles, the tall ceilings, the arches that are redolent of classical Greece? Think Minoru Yamasaki."

"Who?"

"Yamasaki designed the World Trade Centers. But I'm thinking more of the building he created at Princeton, for their school of international affairs. It has the same kind of columns as these," he explained, gesturing. "But the Opera House was designed by someone else, Wallace Harrison, a contemporary of Yamasaki. I'm just using Yamasaki as a point of comparison. So many American public buildings in the sixties incorporated these kinds of stylized columns, and then there's the large travertine panels on the side of the building, which have always reminded me of the marble veneer at the van der Roes pavilion from the Barcelona World Fair…an earlier version of modernist architecture, to be sure, but the stylistic relationship is evident."

"You've lost me now," John admitted. "But perhaps you can tell me, what are those paintings?" John pointed upwards as they walked towards the entrance of the Opera House.

"Chagalls, I think," Sherlock said. "And they're murals, not paintings. But I'd have to see them more closely, to make sure. We'll find out once we're inside." He reached his long fingers into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a white envelope. Handing it to John, he said, "Our tickets. Central box, parterre level." John opened the envelope and pulled out the tickets. He laughed when he saw the price on them.

"Have you lost your mind?" he asked, pulling close to Sherlock. "These tickets cost as much as a weekend in Paris!"

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. "Or, maybe I should ask, would the weekend in Paris be a better selection, next time?"

He grabbed John by the elbow, steering him through the doors and into the lobby. "You are incorrigible," John whispered, as they joined the queue of patrons. John looked up; there were several levels of balconies that opened onto a central well, crowned at top by a stunning, starburst chandelier. The entire place was lined with plush red carpeting and walls painted to match.

"Come, John," Sherlock said imperiously, taking John by the elbow again. Perhaps tonight's the night when he will make sure everyone knows that I'm his date, thought John, though there's scarcely any reason to do that here, in New York, where we don't know a soul besides Mycroft. Mycroft! He is supposed to be here, too. I wonder where he'll be sitting, and what he'll say about us. Has Sherlock told him? I wouldn't be surprised if he hasn't said a word. Maybe that's why he won't let go of me—he wants Mycroft to see us like this, together. In case he didn't see us dancing at the U.N. Ball, that is.

"Sherlock?" John asked as they climbed the stairs leading to the parterre.

"Yes, love?" It didn't sound ridiculous or overdone with Sherlock used that word. Instead, it sounded quite scandalous, the way he drew it out into two syllables, as if love was on the verge of becoming lover.

John blushed despite himself. "You said that Mycroft would be here. Doesn't he have more important business, like preventing a terrorist attack tonight?"

"Not on," Sherlock said absent-mindedly. "Tickets, John." They had arrived at the door leading to their box, and a red-suited usher was waiting for John to present their tickets. She smiled at them, handing them a program each, and led them into the box.

A familiar figure rose from one of the chairs as they entered.

"Good evening, brother of mine," Mycroft purred.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked coldly, pulling back slightly from John. He didn't know Mycroft would be here, thought John. He forced his face into a smile and extended his hand to shake Mycroft's.

"Good evening, Mr Holmes," John said amiably, smiling at the older Holmes. Sherlock stood stiffly to the side, watching his brother and his lover exchanged the usual pleasantries.

"Good evening, Dr Watson. So good of you to join us for the performance."

"I was under the impression that you were joining us," John said frankly. "Sherlock?" He turned and looked at the detective, who was positively glowering.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked.

"Now, Sherlock, don't be unpleasant. It really doesn't suit your face to frown so much. Mummy would disapprove."

"Yes, she might, but she's not here, is she?" Sherlock hissed.

"Am I right to assume," Mycroft began, turning to John, "that things have reached a, shall we say, satisfactory conclusion between the two of you?"

"I'm sorry, what did you say just now?" John asked in as innocent voice as he could muster.

"Never mind," Mycroft said with a half-smile. "Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock grumbled. The two brothers exchanged looks.

"Did you receive the flowers that I sent you?"

"Oh, the white roses were from you?" John asked.

"Did you think it was amusing, sending white roses?" Sherlock asked.

"Wait, wait, wait," John said, interrupting him. "What does it matter what colour they were?"

"In the language of the flowers," Mycroft began in a haughty tone, "a white rose may signify many things. Innocence, new beginnings, a memorial for the dead, spiritual love, the undying loyalty of a love that lasts until death. I thought it fitting for the occasion."

"What occasion?" John asked, since Sherlock had his arms crossed in front of him and looked in no mood to continue the conversation.

Mycroft smiled at John smugly, as if to say, Silly little man.

"The anniversary of our mother's death, of course," Mycroft announced. John looked up at his lover, his eyes wide with revelation. He yearned to reach out and take Sherlock's hand, but they hadn't discussed what they would tell Mycroft, or when, and so he restrained himself. An opaque expression crossed Sherlock's face as John watched him.

I'm sorry, John, Sherlock thought, willing John to read his thoughts. I should have let you know, shouldn't I?

"Why are you in our box?" Sherlock repeated.

Mycroft looked at his watch. "Dear brother, it's nearly twenty minutes till curtain fall. I'm two boxes over. Finding my seat will not be an issue. And first I wanted to find you both and wish-" he began, looking at John, "The last thing I want to be is presumptuous, dear Doctor, but am I right to assume that we have some happy news to celebrate on this otherwise sorrowful day?"

Piss off, thought John, feeling the heat crawl up his neck as anger, white and hot, filled him. You have done more to fuck Sherlock up, to make him feel less than capable, unwanted, unloved—and I don't know the details, Mycroft, but I do know that some boundaries need to be drawn. Now.

"Are you referring to the relationship between Sherlock and me?" John asked in as light a tone as he could muster. "Because there's no need to beat around the bush. Just ask us what you wish to know. And then I'm going to have to ask you to leave our box. It appears that there are some other patrons trying to access their seats." He pointed to a couple that had entered the small box. They saw the dark expression on John's face and quickly excused themselves, the woman saying that she needed a drink of water before the performance.

"John—" Mycroft began.

"I have told you before that I want you to call me 'Doctor Watson'," John interrupted him. "And I would ask you not to be presumptuous here."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Of course," he said in a syrupy voice, "I'm so sorry to have offended you, Doctor Watson."

"Thank you. And while you're apologizing, you could do well to apologize to your brother."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and looked over to his brother, who had an almost identical expression on his face.

"And may I ask, for what should I apologize?" Mycroft's eyes went wide, as if protesting his innocence; joining them, his mouth slid open into an over-large smile.

"For being such a sodding git all the time," John said. "For showing up here without telling us beforehand. For all of your little insinuations about us. For sending the bouquet of red roses just to rile Sherlock, and while you're at it, for that bunch of white roses that you planted in our room today. I would bet that you did that just to remind Sherlock of your mother's death. To what purpose, I don't really know. Look, you may think it's none of my business, but it has become my business ever since I moved into Baker Street. And I have some advice to you, something they may not have taught you at spook school: if you stop trying to interfere in Sherlock's life, maybe, just maybe, if you are very lucky, and very patient, just maybe he would be the one to seek you out, from time to time. It doesn't do to badger and harass a person if you want that person to like you."

Mycroft opened his mouth as if to say something, but then shut it when John lifted a finger, gesturing for him to remain silent.

"And while I have your attention, may I just say, regarding Sherlock and me—"

"Stop, John," Sherlock said in a low voice, coming close to grab John's outstretched hand, pulling it to his side. "I want to say it."

Mycroft looked bemused, as if he had been waiting for this.

"You might want to wipe that smirk off your face," John suggested.

Mycroft did his best to rearrange his mouth into a neutral position, but his eyes still glimmered with something like pique.

"I'm all ears," the older Holmes said in as gracious a voice as he could muster.

"John—," began Sherlock in a voice that was rather too high for him. He started over, resuming his normal baritone. "John and I—that is—John…" Sherlock trailed off, looking down at where his fingers were interlocked with the doctor's. He pulled their joined hands up to his chest, clenching John's palm against his sternum. Then he began again, in a rapid, breathless voice: "Mycroft Holmes, I am very pleased to present you to Doctor John Watson, formerly Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, currently residing at 221B Baker Street, London, specialist in acute trauma and emergency medicine, expert in matters of anatomy, sharpshooting, and my heart." Sherlock pounded their hands on the centre of his ribcage, as if to emphasize his point. "This man has recently agreed to accept me as his lover and, as such, I expect you to afford him the courtesy due to someone of my close acquaintance. Now, Mycroft, please shake hands with John. John, this is Mycroft. None of this 'Mr Holmes' or "Dr Watson' business any longer." He released John's hand so that John could reach out and shake Mycroft's limp palm.

"A pleasure," Mycroft simpered. "Welcome to the family, John."

John nodded brusquely, removing his hand. "Thank you."

Mycroft looked down at his wrist. "My, look at the time! They will be lowering the lights soon. Be sure to watch the chandeliers, John. They are so enchanting when they rise into the ceiling. Good-bye, John, Sherlock. I bid you adieu." He tipped his head in a slight, old-fashioned bow, and made his way out of their box. In less than a minute John saw him emerge several boxes over. But he had other things on his mind, for Sherlock had found their seats, and had pushed John in one with a rough shove, and was now leaning over John, grasping John's face in his broad hands as he inclined his head to lay his half-opened mouth over John's. He kissed John slowly, tenderly, longingly, until the door to the box opened and the couple that they had seen earlier walked through.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered, drawing away from John, who looked at him with a stunned expression. He continued to stare at Sherlock, their eyes locked, until he noticed that the lights in the theatre were dimming, and he turned at last to face forward in his seat. Sherlock's right hand fell to grasp John's left. With his free hand, John pointed upwards to the ceiling.

"The lights!" he said gleefully. The chandeliers, riotous bursts of crystal, were indeed retreating into the top of the opera house, as Mycroft had promised. Sherlock nestled his face against John's shoulder, whispering again, "I love you." John nodded down to kiss the top of Sherlock's head.

"Thank you," he said. "For saying what you did to Mycroft. Maybe now he'll bugger off."

Sherlock laughed under his breath. "I doubt he'll do that. But at least he can stop with the insinuations."

"I don't think he'll ever stop being himself," John said, "a first-rate prig. Next thing you know, he'll be asking us when we're planning to tie the knot."

"Or have children," Sherlock said, a smile forming on his lips.

"Children, home, retirement, whatever. You know he'll never stop poking his fingers into your business. You might as well just get used to telling him what we're up to before he even has time to wonder."

"Shhh," Sherlock murmured. "They're tuning the orchestra now." He squeezed John's hand in reassurance. They would talk about Mycroft, and Mummy, and all those other important 'M' words, like money and music and marriage, murder and mayhem and marmalade, another time. Now the curtains were drawing apart, and the overture was beginning, and it was time to be transported to a brave new world.

Earlier that afternoon, John had spent some time reading the opera's program online, and once the performance began, he was grateful he had done some research ahead of time. What with the encounter with Mycroft before the first act, and the ferocity of Sherlock's kisses, he hadn't had a moment to glance at the playbill in his lap.

John was accustomed to the labyrinthine plots of most operas, and this one was no exception: it blended two different Shakespeare plays, A Midsummer Night's Dream and The Tempest, imagining what would have happened if the lovers from Dream were shipwrecked on Prospero's island. The whole idea sounded rather farfetched, but as Sherlock had explained to them as they were dressing, it was not uncommon in Baroque opera to combine different plots and different pieces by different composers, to create what was called a pasticcio, or pastiche. Privately, John had thought it all sounded like a fancy Italian dessert, but he kept that thought to himself.

"What they have done," Sherlock lectured as he pulled on his dress socks, "is take 300-year-old music and create an entirely new artistic creation. Isn't that wonderful? To think, they are resurrecting some pieces that have almost been forgotten – the Rameau dances from Les fêtes d'Hébé, for example. They're difficult to find on recording, much less in a live performance. This will be marvellous, John. What perfect timing we had, coming to New York when we did."

"Indeed," John had responded, not daring to ask who Rameau was. But Sherlock continued.

"And then there's the fact that the singing will be in English. It gives it a whole different meaning, knowing that most of the audience will be able to understand what's going on without consulting those dratted subtitles every second. Makes opera more contemporary too, reminds us that opera was meant to be understood, in its day, and not just subtitled like it is now. Do you remember, John, when we had to go to the opera with a libretto in hand in order to follow what was going on?"

"No, can't say I went to opera when I was young; too busy playing squash. But, tell me, what was it like having to use the libretto?" Sherlock was clearly eager to pontificate on libretti and subtitles and other operatic minutiae, and who was John to stop him?

"Before I knew German and Italian, it was absolutely essential to have a libretto when we went to the opera."

"Oh, so before you were five years old, you mean?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, absolutely serious. There were still moments when he failed to catch John's sarcasm. "I learned Italian when I was nine and German when I was twelve. Italian came more easily, of course, because of the Spanish."

"Of course," John said, playing along. He loved having a genius for a boyfriend, despite the occasional (or frequent) arrogance that came with the package. "And did you learn them from books, or from school?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Neither. We spent one summer in Italy with Mummy and Abu, so that Mummy could play in the Ravenna music festival."

"Your mother played? Professionally? What instrument?" John looked up from the table where he was sitting with Sherlock's laptop.

"She was a pianist. Not a professional, per se, but she did play when people invited her."

"So you're saying that your mother could have been a professional, but wasn't?"

Sherlock looked up at him. "Yes," he said softly.

"Any particular reason she gave up a concert career?"

"I wouldn't say that she 'gave it up,' exactly," Sherlock corrected him. "She just had other priorities. She would play at concerts as a favour, or when another performer couldn't make it. That year, we spent most of the summer in Umbria."

"I thought you summered in Spain," John commented. It made him smile to think that he was living – and sleeping with – someone who had "summered" in places as a child.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not that year. Mummy wanted us to get some exposure to Italy. We were both studying Latin in school, and Mycroft had an interest in Hannibal. So we went to Umbria." John laughed.

"Hannibal? That figures."

"He marched his armies through Umbria before taking Rome. The province is littered with old battle sites. Mycroft had a field day with it. Published an article about it, and all. Ancient Carthaginian Battle Strategies in the Second Punic Wars, something like that."

"And you, Sherlock? How did you spend the summer?"

"I told you. I learned Italian. And played the violin."

"In a summer? You learned Italian in just a summer?"

Sherlock looked up from where he was seat on the sofa. He shook his head, as if to say, You know better, John.

"Yes," he said, in a voice that was almost bashful.

John whistled. "I'm impressed, Sherlock. But then, I'm impressed by almost everything about you."

"Don't say that," Sherlock said. "You shouldn't say that kind of thing so often."

"Why not? Tell you that you are amazing and brilliant and absolutely gorgeous? Why not? It's all true. It's not like I'm going to wear out the words by using them."

"It's not that, it's just—" Sherlock paused. "I'm not used to someone saying that to me."

"As if I haven't been saying these kinds of things to you for the last two years. Honestly, Sherlock, you had better get used to it. Because I'm never going to stop telling you how extraordinary you are."

Two red marks appeared high on Sherlock's cheeks, and John would have teased his lover for blushing if he hadn't known that it would upset Sherlock even further.

"I'm a genius, John. By definition, that is extraordinary. But that's like saying that a zebra has stripes. It doesn't mean anything to be extraordinary when one is a genius."

John rose from the table and came to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa.

"You're extraordinary because you're you. And if that includes being a genius, I certainly don't why that wouldn't count for something. There are plenty of people who are geniuses and don't do anything with their genius. Oh, they might do little things, but you, Sherlock, you save lives with your talent."

Sherlock had scoffed, getting up from the sofa and striding across the room to reclaim his laptop.

"Do you want to learn more about the opera?" he asked John once he had sat down again.

"If that's a suggestion to change the subject," John grumbled, "I might as well prepare myself before the performance tonight."

Now that they were in the grand theatre of the Met, in the centre box of the first balcony, Sherlock congratulated himself for having procured the tickets months ahead of time. You didn't know if John would come, he reminded himself. He might not have. It was a gamble. A gamble that you won, Sherlock. Brilliant. No, not quite. Not brilliant at all. Brilliant would have been reciprocating John's offer of something more than friendship, that night in the Welsh lodge. But I'll settle for this opera, tonight, on this other enchanted island, a world away from Baker Street.

On stage, Ariel was warbling about her bondage to Prospero, throwing fairy dust here and there and working all sorts of theatrical magic with backlit digital screens and lighting tricks and bel canto at its best. It was all luscious splendor, this kind of opera, and Sherlock wished that he could get lost in the music as he usually was able to do at concerts. The singers were certainly first-class, though he rarely had to worry about that at the Metropolitan Opera. And the music was delightful, aria after blessed aria from the best operatic composers of the 17th and 18th centuries. But Sherlock was distracted by the pressure of John's knee against his own, and still agitated by the unexpected encounter with Mycroft in their box. And then there was the business of the date itself, the blasted final day of the year, and what that always meant to him (and to Mycroft, if he were honest), and why he didn't want to think about it any longer. He wished that it were January already, that the clock would strike midnight and whisk them away into a bright new year.

When the curtain fell on the first act, and John clapped his hands heartily in the direction of the stage, Sherlock regained some of his composure. And when John turned towards him, a wide smile on his face, Sherlock felt warmth travel through his body. John, he thought, John, you are enjoying this, enjoying this performance and the holiday and all the rest. I still don't understand why, but you are enjoying me, and that is why I'll go out and buy three flutes of champagne at the concession and toast to my mother's memory and to the new year and to new love. I'll toast to all of it, because you are at my side.

To John, he merely twitched his mouth and said, "Good?"

"Excellent," John shouted over the applause. "It's just one amazing aria after another. It's almost too good to be real. And did you see the costumes? Ariel was wearing an old diving suit! She – or should I say he? – looked like something out of Jules Verne."

"Wait till you see the mermaids."

"Mermaids? Do you know something I don't know?"

"Just from the photographs on their website. We are going to see some creatures of the deep in the second act, once Poseidon makes his appearance."

"Ah." John stood, straightening his suit jacket. He reached out to take Sherlock's elbow, guiding the taller man towards the door. "Where shall we go?"

Sherlock did not respond, but he directed them to the queue forming at the concessionary. "Mycroft will be here sooner or later," he whispered conspiratorially. "If you want to find him, just head towards the food."

"I thought you didn't want to see your brother," John whispered back.

"If you can't beat him, join him. Isn't that something you would say?"

"Probably. Speaking of which…" John nudged Sherlock because Mycroft was headed their way.

"That was lovely, wasn't it, gentlemen?" John was now flanked by both Holmes brothers and, not unusual for him, felt decidedly short and squat in their presence.

"Quite," Sherlock agreed. The queue moved quickly; the bartender was asking for their order, and before John knew what was going on, Sherlock handed him and Mycroft each a flute of champagne, keeping a third for himself. Then Sherlock led them to the edge of the balcony that overlooked the entryway and lobby.

"How did you like it, John?" Mycroft asked in what John assumed was his 'chummy' voice.

"I loved it," John said frankly. "It was a bit much, but—" he paused.

"But, after all, when is Baroque anything other than excessive?" Mycroft posed.

"Exactly," John agreed. "It was extravagant and altogether too fancy and was just like eating five bowls of trifle, and I loved it."

"So pleased to hear that," Mycroft murmured. He held up his glass to Sherlock, who joined them now. "A toast, little brother? From you?"

"A toast," confirmed Sherlock.

"To what or to whom, may I ask?"

Sherlock raised his glass and the other men raised theirs in turn.

"In memory of Violeta Mejía Santos de Portnoy Holmes!" he said in a full voice. "Mother, sister, daughter, friend – in her memory."

"To Violeta Holmes," John echoed, as Mycroft cried, "To Mummy!"

Sherlock smiled down at John, then looked towards Mycroft. "To family," he continued. "And friends, and the end of the old year, and the beginning of the new. To music, and murders—"

"What?" gasped John.

"To music, and murders that will be solved, and wounds that will be healed," he pointed his champagne flute at John, "and to peace that will be wrought," another tilt, to Mycroft this time, "and to familiar faces in foreign places."

"Here, here," John said, bringing the flute to his lips.

"So touching," Mycroft purred. "I didn't know you had it in you, brother-o-mine."

Sherlock clinked his glass against Mycroft's. "Once a year, My. Once a year. I promised."

"Yes, you did. I thought you had forgot." Sherlock shook his head, finishing his champagne in three rapid sips.

They heard a loud chime ringing, and saw the other patrons moving towards the boxes again. Sherlock put his hand at the base of John's spine, guiding him towards their seats.

"Watch for the mermaids, John," he said huskily. "And for Sycorax's duet with Caliban."

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you are talking about Sherlock, but I fully intend to enjoy every last minute of this."

"As well you should," Sherlock said in a low voice. "Because I want you in a good mood for the dinner and dancing that follows."

John threw his head back over his shoulder, giving Sherlock a sly grin.

"Are you saying I'm usually in a snit?"

"Not at all. Merely that—never mind. Here, you sit down first."

The lights were dimming, signalling for the audience to settle themselves and gather in the silence. Then the heavy red curtains rose on stage, and the enchanted island came to life again.