Author's Note: Thanks so much to Lastew, who has been my sounding board and beta for this project. You are marvellous and I'm so lucky to have your support. And thanks to SeenaC and Skyfullofstars for their kind reviews and encouragement.

~Emma

The last time they had shared a hotel room – on a case involving a Welsh woollen mill and some stolen machinery – John had ended up returning to London a day early. Without Sherlock.

That was six months ago. Six months since John had told Sherlock that he fancied him. Six months since Sherlock had reminded John that he "didn't do relationships." Six months since John had first contemplated leaving Baker Street. But somehow, whenever he determined to pack up his bags and leave, unable to stand the distracting presence of his flatmate any longer, something always came up. A missing widow in Hyde Park. A poisoned newspaper heiress. Murderous Catalonian twins. One case after another had filled their time in the last few months, and between his job at the surgery, and helping Sherlock, and writing up their cases on what had become quite the popular little blog, John had no time to look for a new flat. And so he stayed on, wondering if he wasn't a pathetic fool after all, to stick by Sherlock even when there was no hope of Sherlock returning his feelings.

John had been fed morsels of hope from time to time. A certain striking glance from Sherlock, or a tender tone of voice unexpectedly directed at him, and John would spend the rest of the day wondering just what went on in his friend's busy brain. He noticed, as he had always noticed, any changes in Sherlock's night-time habits. When they had first started living together, Sherlock disappeared with alarming frequency in the wee sma's, never leaving word of where he was or what he was up to. John supposed that his flatmate went out prowling for sex (or drugs) on those night-time rambles, but he had never asked Sherlock outright, and was relieved that those absences had diminished in the last year. But then he had to remind himself that even if Sherlock wasn't getting sex elsewhere, he certainly wasn't asking John for it, either. This thought was usually enough to make John soberly consider his situation again. I'm a crippled doctor who hangs around waiting for any scrap of attention that this brilliant creature throws my way. I'm pathetic, and I need to move on.

He had just decided to do so, and was looking at listings for flat shares, when Sherlock had proposed this trip to New York. And now he was sharing a room again (and sharing a bed, if Sherlock ever got around to sleeping) with his maddeningly oblivious flatmate, the very one that he had decided he needed to get over. And soon. As in, yesterday. It was bloody awkward, this whole situation. Tomorrow John would insist on a change of rooms, or a change of hotels – let Sherlock deal with the cost! He was responsible for this bizarre setup, anyway.

Why can't you just say 'no' to him, John Watson? He thought to himself. Why do you always let him have his own way? He pulled the covers up over his head. Things couldn't continue like this for much longer or he'd be back to his weekly sessions with a psychiatrist.

This is what John imagines must go through Sherlock's head as he walks through midtown on his way to the United Nations:

Sighted: Single female, of Italian descent, works as a paralegal at a large firm, on midmorning break. Companion: associate at same firm, Russian immigrant, male, mid-thirties, in love with her, won't say a word about it. Temperature: cold, good thing I brought my cold and gloves. Forgot New York could be so cold in the winter. Must remind John to button up. Ah, Fifth Avenue. Gucci, Armani, I see they built a new Apple Store. Plaza Hotel: lunch meeting with Mycroft, five years ago. Must text Mycroft about visit. Of course my plan covers international texting; I wouldn't leave home without it. Shoes: do they need a shine? No, still looking quite buffed. What is the name of the British Ambassador's miniature greyhound? Snappy? Sandy? No, Snappy. Yes. I never forget a name or a face – even if it's a dog's. I am the world's only consulting detective, after all.

And this is what Sherlock inner monologue actually sounds like as he takes a more leisurely stroll across the southern end of Central Park:

One room or two? Was I right to go with one? The suite certainly seems large enough. And I meant it when I said that I'd kip out on the sofa. But John – will he think — will he know it wasn't a mistake? Oh! Cigarettes. Left pocket. Lighter? No, matches. This city is heavenly. Ahh, much better. I can think again. John usually doesn't catch on to this kind of thing. But don't I want him to know? Isn't that the point, to bring him here? How can he not know? Haven't I dropped enough hints? He can't be thinking of leaving Baker Street. Not now. What more do I possibly have to do to get him to see? I can't just walk in and kiss the wanker while he's asleep – or can I? What if he tosses me out? Mycroft would be so pleased. Lestrade, too. Don't think about Lestrade. Don't think about the way he stares at John when he thinks you're not looking. You're always looking. Fuck. Fuck. I'm fucked. Where am I? They changed the bridle path. There's the Plaza. Re-orient. Turn right. South to 53rd street. Might as well see what they're up to at the MoMA. Not due at U.N. till noon. Will John be awake by then? Should I send him a text? What would I normally do? THINK, Sherlock. Love. Muddles. Everything. Can't think straight. Shut up! Shut up! Fuck. Should I send him a text? Order him to meet me later for lunch? Why did I mention dinner earlier, anyway? I never talk about food. He'll know something's wrong. I can't do this. I can't think. John, don't wake up just yet. I need more time.

Luckily for Sherlock, John contacted him first.

Where are you? JW

Several minutes later, Sherlock answered.

You're awake. Good. Take a cab to the U.N. I'll meet you at the entrance. Bring passport. SH

On my way. JW

After a quick shower and change of clothes, John made his way downstairs and out to the street. He looked around. The hotel faced several tall buildings and traffic flowed by smoothly. Hoping that the wave to call a cab was universal, he put his hand up and was relieved when a yellow taxi pulled up within a few seconds.

Feeling very much like the tourist he was, John spent the short ride across town with his nose pressed to the window. His cabbie took a route that followed the side of what John assumed must be Central Park, before turning right and heading down Fifth Avenue, with its high-end flagship stores and waves of sidewalk shoppers. John suspected that the cabbie wasn't taking the most direct path to the U.N., but given that it was his first time in the city, he hardly cared. He suddenly felt lonely, wishing that he had Sherlock to point out the important landmarks and to tell him anecdotes of his time in the city.

Sherlock was waiting inside the entrance to the U.N., just past the security checkpoint. After John showed his passport and was scanned several times, he joined his friend.

"Come with me," Sherlock said. "The Ambassador is in another meeting right now so I thought I'd fill you in. Lunch?"

"You, eating again?" John laughed. "Yes, please."

"The Ambassador got us a reservation," Sherlock explained. "In the delegates' dining room. Come." He led John through several doors and passageways, seemingly at home in the large building, until they came to the dining room. "This is where they have balls and other events," Sherlock explained, waving his hand to the high ceilings. "But in the daytime, it's just an ordinary cafeteria."

"Look at that view, Sherlock," John said, heading over to the wall of windows at the far end of the room. Sherlock watched him from close behind, John's torso silhouetted against the bright light streaming in and off of the river. "What are we looking at now?" John asked.

"The East River. Beyond is Brooklyn and Queens, where we came from this morning."

"It's amazing," John said. Sherlock smiled.

"Shall we eat? It's a buffet."

While John picked his way through the tables of food, Sherlock found an empty table somewhat apart from the rest.

"They have Shanghai dumplings and shepherd's pie and shawarma," John commented as he returned with a tray piled high with food. "Quite the international smorgasbord. Sure you don't want anything?"

"I will have a dumpling," Sherlock announced, as if this were a giant concession. Fortunately, John had brought back an extra plate, which he proceeded to fill with a half-dozen soup dumplings for Sherlock.

"What's going on?" John asked, sitting down. "Tell me about the case."

Sherlock looked around carefully, as if he feared seeing someone in the dining room who might have something to do with what he was about to say. After a long appraisal, he seemed satisfied that they were safe to talk there.

"I told you that that there may be another terrorist attack – a bomb – at Times Square on New Year's Eve."

"Yes. How do you know that? And what does it have to do with the British ambassador?"

"There are a number of possible targets that night besides Times Square. All of the city's major sites are at risk, including the U.N."

"Isn't that always the case?" John asked. "I mean, it would be a real coup for a terrorist to take down another building in New York, especially on New Year's Eve. What makes it different this time? Why is the British Ambassador involved?"

"She's involved because, unfortunately, about ten years ago, when she was stationed in Colombia as the British Ambassador, a major U.N. arms shipment went missing en route to Bogotá."

"Don't tell me you suspect that the Ambassador had anything to do with that!"

"No, she didn't," Sherlock admitted. "At least, I don't think she did. But she had been pushing for more U.N. aid to help fight narcotraffickers in the region. Very controversial at the time, international involvement in the Andes."

"Yes, I recall. I do know something about international peacekeeping."

Sherlock smiled to himself. "Yes, John. Anything for Queen and country. I do remember. The point is, the U.N. shipment of arms went missing. Usually, a missing shipment of very lethal weapons will turn up within a few years on the black market. But no one had been able to track down this particular package — at least not until recently."

"And? What have they found?"

"Part of the shipment was sold last week, to an unknown buyer in the Mexican Riviera. The CIA and MI-6 suspect that it is another Columbian connection; the Columbians are operating out of Mexico now that the drug trade has shifted north."

"Sherlock, this doesn't really seem to be your speciality." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I mean, aren't international drug cartels and arms dealers the kind of thing that Mycroft usually takes care of?" Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair, refusing to make eye contact with John. They both knew that Mycroft was MI-6, but neither had ever voiced that truth aloud.

"I agreed to help him."

"You what?" John raised his voice in surprise. "I thought we were here so that you could avoid Mycroft this Christmas. And now you tell me that you're here to help him? Is he here, too?"

"John." Sherlock looked around anxiously, as if he feared seeing someone.

"I'm listening, Sherlock." John cocked his head and stared steadily at Sherlock.

"John—"

"I thought that we agreed that you wouldn't take on any more of the really dangerous cases."

"John—"

"And this sounds dangerous to me. This isn't your run-of-the-mill London murder. This is much bigger. Now we're talking about SIX? Shouldn't we leave them to do their own jobs? We don't have the back-up they do, we don't have the training. Why are we getting caught up in all this?" He was practically hissing the words at Sherlock.

"John…" Sherlock said meekly. "Will you listen to me?"

John looked sheepish. "Of course I will. Sorry."

"I agreed to take on this case as a favour to Mycroft." John nodded.

"A favour. I see." But John didn't see. He still had questions. "Why now?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "Because there's going to be another terrorist attack in New York in eleven days."

"That explains why the NYPD should be busting their arses off right now. But it doesn't explain why you have decided to help Mycroft. Now."

"Doesn't it?"

"No, Sherlock. Look," John sighed. "I know you well enough by now to know that you never help your brother unless there's something that you'll get in return. So forgive me – you did drag me into this, after all – if I'm curious as to why you're so eager to help him just now."

"I can't tell you," Sherlock said.

"I see. You can't tell me. Right. You're going to have to do better than that, Sherlock. If I've come all the way to New York just to humour you…."

"It's not like that, John," Sherlock said, almost pleading. "I wanted you to come with me. I thought you would enjoy this holiday." To himself, he thought, I did it for you. For us.

"If this is your idea of a Christmas present, Sherlock…" he said threateningly.

"There was something that Mycroft agreed to do for me, if I would help him with this one puzzle." Things were not going at all like Sherlock had planned. John wasn't supposed to get angry at him. John wasn't supposed to ask questions. John was supposed to take naps in the posh hotel and join Sherlock for meals and enjoy himself, exploring Soho and Tribeca and the Upper West Side, while Sherlock sat through boring meetings with Ambassador Barrett and Mycroft and the CIA reps. John was here to enjoy himself, and his reaction was wrong. All wrong. Why couldn't he see that Sherlock wanted him there just because he was John? It made Sherlock feel all atremble to know, this morning, that John was sleeping in their hotel room, warm and safe in their bed, while he was walking through the city. Why did John always want explanations? Why couldn't he see what Sherlock felt without Sherlock having to describe everything in such detail?

"So, let me see if I understand. You help Mycroft with this…puzzle…and meanwhile I do, what, exactly?"

Sherlock swallowed and improvised an answer. "I need you to check out a few sites around town," he said with more confidence than he felt.

"Right. While you are doing what, exactly?"

"There is another set of meetings this afternoon that I must attend. Meanwhile, I suggest you go here –" Sherlock took out a business card and handed it to John. "I sent them your measurements a few weeks ago and they have an initial mock-up ready for you to try on. They assured me that if you came in right away, they'd be able to finish the suit for you in just a few days. I told them you'd stop by this afternoon."

"I suppose I don't have any choice about this, do I?" John said glumly. "You're determined to make something out of the ugly duckling. I told you, I already have a perfectly serviceable suit."

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "Please, John."

"Alright! God forbid someone should think that you actually let me out of the house dressed in an old suit!"

"It's a present, John," Sherlock said softly. "Just go there. Try it on. If you don't like it, we'll get you something different."

"You don't have to buy me presents, Sherlock," he said. He didn't like the way that Sherlock could so easily get his hopes up, without even being aware that he was doing so. Normal flatmates didn't buy each other suits – not that Sherlock had ever been normal. He's probably just tired of being seen with someone who doesn't dress at his level, John thought. I'm not clever enough for him, I don't dress well enough for him. I understand. But still: can't he see what this looks like to me? How, if he felt the same way about me that I feel about him, I'd be overjoyed if he offered me expensive presents. But he's made it clear that he doesn't want a relationship. So
how can he be so heartless? Am I just a game to him? "Pity Poor John" or something?

Sherlock reached out to touch John's shoulder. John flinched away and Sherlock pulled his hand back, not wanting to let on how it made him feel to see John turn away from him. John took a deep breath and faced Sherlock again.

"Sorry, Sherlock. Don't know what came over me. Must be the jetlag. Thanks so much for the gift. I'm sure it will be perfect." He whistled. "So, when are we going to see each other again?" Damn, he thought, that didn't come out quite the way I wanted it to.

"Dinner at eight? Kashkaval's, on the west side, near our hotel. I'll text you the address," Sherlock said, standing. He straightened his jacket, brush off a crumb, and looked down at John. "I suggest taking a cab to the tailor's. There won't be much sun left when you get out of there and you'll want to take advantage of the daylight while you can."

"Dinner at eight, then," John said.

"Laters," said Sherlock.