Pax III
Sherlock was pleased to see that John arrived at Kashkaval that evening in what appeared to be a happy mood. Sherlock waved him over and John, shopping bags in hand, squeezed next to him at a miniscule table in the corner.
"Popular place, isn't it?" John asked.
"Hmm," Sherlock murmured, looking pointedly at John's bags. "Those aren't from the tailor's," he observed.
"No, they're not." John smiled. "Decided to do some shopping. You know, spend my pounds while they're still worth something."
"Yes, the American dollar is weak, that's true," Sherlock said. "Let me guess: you bought some jumpers, a new pair of jeans, and a pair of sneakers. Pumas?"
John grumbled. "I really can't keep any secretes from you, can I?" he asked. Sherlock thought otherwise but didn't mention it. "I think even you will approve of the jumpers, though. They're a cashmere blend."
"Is that so?" Sherlock asked, in a bored tone. "Am I going to get a fashion show when we get back to the hotel, then?"
John blushed. "I just said that because I know how much you like clothes."
Sherlock stared hard at him, trying to discern if there was a deeper meaning to John's words. It was strange that John had gone clothes shopping, after he made all of that fuss about the tailor's during lunch. He must have really enjoyed it, Sherlock thought. Of course, he knew that John had had a good time at Michael Andrews – he had called up the Jones Street store earlier that evening to inquire about the fitting – but it was one thing for John to behave nicely to the tailor, another thing altogether for him to voluntarily hit the streets and shop for himself. Sherlock looked forward to seeing what John had purchased; his suggestion of a fashion show wasn't entirely a joke.
"So, Sherlock," John began. "I've walked all around the 'lower east side,' as the tailor said the neighborhood was called. I made it to Little Italy, Tribeca, and the West Village. I think I may have seen Gisele. What's on for tomorrow?" John noticed how, with the table so small and the space so tight, his knees and Sherlock's knees were touching. He tried to move his legs away from Sherlock but there wasn't room and he almost upset the table in the process. Sherlock looked at him strangely, putting one hand on the table to steady it and the other on John's shoulder. John didn't flinch this time, but Sherlock quickly removed his hand, remembering how he had responded to him at lunch.
"Tomorrow I have to meet with several people from the NYPD in the late afternoon. Other than that, I thought we might take a stroll in Central Park, visit Museum Mile. Those kinds of things."
"Is the great Sherlock Holmes actually suggesting that we visit a museum for fun? And not just because we're staking out the place?"
"It would be a shame to miss the renovations at the gallery of Islamic Art at the Met," Sherlock commented. "And the Guggenheim has a Kandinsky exhibit right now. Perhaps we'll have to take a few days for the museums," he mused aloud. "There's also the Frick – my favourite museum in the city. Where should we begin?"
"You astound me, Sherlock," John said, laughing.
"I do?" Sherlock frowned.
"I never know you appreciated art so much."
"Really, John – I've never hidden the fact that my mother's family collected art. I had to learn something about it or she would have been ashamed to bring me to family dinners."
"Your family is quite something, Sherlock. You know that?"
"Thank you," Sherlock said primly, not sure if that was a compliment or not. "Shall we order? Their cheese plates are excellent, as is the wine list. If you don't mind…" He paused. "I could order for us?"
"That would be excellent, Sherlock," John said, relaxing a bit more into his ordinary, jovial self.
After half a bottle of wine, a hearty Mediterranean meal, and a sliver of baklava, John was feeling even more comfortable. The restaurant reminded him a bit of Angelo's, with the dim lighting and the small tables, and the smell of olive oil and garlic. Sherlock looked especially entrancing in the candlelight, his hair falling in his eyes as he cocked his head to listen to John. He could feel the eyes of other patrons on them as he told Sherlock about his mishaps at the tailor's, making Sherlock laugh so heartily that he almost lost his balance on the tiny stool. This time John grabbed Sherlock's shoulders to keep him from tipping over. His hands lingered over Sherlock's lapels as the other man's laughter died down and he collected himself.
"You all right?" John asked, releasing Sherlock. Sherlock looked uncomfortable, as if he had something caught in his throat.
"Quite," Sherlock said distractedly. He had liked the hot feel of John's hands on his chest but he didn't know how to keep them there. "Shall we get the check and head back?"
John assented. Once they had paid, they began to walk up Ninth Avenue, towards the Hudson Hotel. John looked eagerly about them as they went, watching the other pedestrians and wondering what it would be like to live in New York instead of in London. The cold air on his face felt refreshing after the hot restaurant. John was full of wine and good food, and he almost forgot that they had yet to take care of the bed problem.
Sherlock whistled to himself as they climbed the escalator to the lobby, leading John to the elevator without a glance at reception.
"Sherlock…" John began hesitantly. "Don't you think we should get a cot or something for you to sleep on tonight? Then we can change rooms tomorrow."
"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said abruptly. "I told you, the sofa is more than adequate for my purposes."
"Why didn't someone tell me I was going to share a room with a vampire? You never sleep at night, do you?" John said under his breath. The side of Sherlock's mouth twitched as the elevator doors opened on their floor.
Sherlock immediately went to the living room, turned on his computer, and began to review some documents that the ambassador had sent him. John announced that he was going to sleep and walked into the bedroom.
"Sherlock!" he shouted through the door a few seconds later. "There must have been some mistake! Come look at this!"
Sherlock looked up, as if only mildly interested, then turned back to the computer.
"What mistake, John?"
"Someone left a bouquet of roses here," he shouted. "There's a card, too."
Sherlock jumped up and ran into the bedroom. He snatched the card from John's hands before the other man could open it.
"I wonder if it's complimentary, that kind of thing," John said.
"I don't think so," Sherlock said. "Hotels don't usually send two dozen red roses to their guests."
"Even in the penthouse? This suite must cost a fortune. It's the least they can do. Other than providing two beds, that is." He was aware that Sherlock had moved to sit next to him on the bed. The detective had a puzzled look as he examined the envelope. Leave it to Sherlock to want to know everything about the sender before he even opens the card, John thought.
Satisfied that he had deduced as much as he could from the outside, Sherlock slid a long finger under the flap of the envelope and ripped it open, holding the card away from John as he read it.
"Mycroft," Sherlock breathed. "That bastard." John reached to grab the card from him but Sherlock held it high above his head.
"It's mine," he announced. John giggled and leaned across Sherlock, stretching his arm to bat at the card. But Sherlock rolled quickly to the other side of the bed, where he lay on his back as John fell face-first on the eiderdown. John laughed even harder, then sat up again and redoubled his efforts to get the card from Sherlock. He crawled over and secured the detective's arms, flipping Sherlock and roughly pinning him facedown on the bed.
It had been a long time since Sherlock and John had engaged in any roughhousing. There was a period, when they first started to live together, when it was common for them to practice handholds and bear-hugs and neck locks on each other. Sherlock had recognized that he could learn something from a trained fighter like John, and he decided that John was the perfect person to carry out stealth attacks on 221B. Thus passed a couple of months when John hid in the hallway and the alley every so often, waiting for Sherlock to come by so that he could tackle him or strangle him or pull him to the ground. It had been great fun, as far as John was concerned, until Sherlock learned to beat him at his own game. And then Sherlock had turned the tables and began to wait for him in all of the dark corners between Tesco and their flat. John had called a truce after Sherlock knocked him and two cartons of eggs to the ground; he couldn't bear the idea of so much wasted food. Nor did he relish the thought of another shoulder injury.
The way that John had Sherlock pinned underneath him, now, reminded him of those early days when he was not yet self-conscious around Sherlock, when it didn't mean anything if one of them walked around the flat without a shirt on, or if Sherlock leaned a little too closely over his head to look at the computer where John was working on his blog, or if one of them left the shower with only a short towel around his hips. There had been such ease in each other's company back then, and John wondered when they had lost that. Was it during the trip to Wales? He thought it might have begun even earlier. Who had started it? Who had pulled back first?
"John," Sherlock panted. "Don't read it. It's not for you."
John ignored Sherlock's pleas and sat down more firmly on his friend's back, opening the card with his free hand. Sherlock made a weak show of protest, pushing up against John's legs, but John kept his hands pinned tightly together while Sherlock grunted in pain.
John's eyes quickly scanned the card. I believe congratulations are in order, it read. Cheers to the happy couple. John shook his head.
"Why wouldn't you show this to me, Sherlock?" he asked, confused. "It's just one of Mycroft's jokes." John sat up, letting the other man go. Sherlock stood and straightened his shirt, hastily tucking it back into his trousers. It had come loose when he was pinned under John.
"Sherlock?" John asked again. Sherlock had a strange expression on his face, one that John couldn't read. The speed with which he pulled away from John, the frantic way he fixed his clothes, his refusal to answer John's question – it all suggested that the idea of them being a couple had made Sherlock uncomfortable, even if it was just an old joke of Mycroft's.
"Some joke," Sherlock muttered. "He's always thought that…"
"I know, I know," John said. "But if it doesn't bother me, why should it bother you?" Sherlock must have hidden the note because he didn't want John to start thinking along those lines again, John reasoned.
"It doesn't bother me," Sherlock said snappishly. "I just hate the idea that he knows where we are."
"Who are you kidding, Sherlock? You know that man has us under every kind of surveillance there is. I wouldn't be surprised if the suite was bugged before we even got here, or if the hotel had no idea about this 'special delivery.' "
Sherlock smiled, relaxing slightly. John is not upset, he thought. John's not upset. John's not upset.
"I think I'll go get ready for bed," Sherlock said awkwardly.
"Let me know when the bathroom's free," John said. "And sleep well. If you sleep at all."
Author's note: I think I am being overly ambitious here to think that I can publish a chapter a day until the new year, but I will do the best that I can, given all my other responsibilities (familial and academic) in the coming week. And it means a lot to me to read your comments and to know that this story is keeping someone else entertained as well! So keep them coming! And there are more revelations to come for these two...plus a few trips to museums.
P.S. Lastew, where would I be without you on this story?
~Emma