December 20, 2011
When John rose the next day, Sherlock was already awake and working on his laptop in the living room. There was no sign that he had slept, on the sofa or elsewhere.
"Morning," Sherlock said absentmindedly. "Breakfast's on the table." He waved one hand towards a large spread of coffee, bagels, cream cheese, and fruit.
"Are we still going to the museums today?" John asked, stretching his arms above his head as he yawned. Sherlock's eyes followed the narrow strip of skin that was exposed when John's t-shirt rode up his chest. John was looking thinner these days; Sherlock knew that he had been spending more time at the gym, but he hadn't realized just how strong John had become until he'd been pinned down by him the night before. It's nice to see John in fighting form again, Sherlock mused. He must feel more like his old self, more like the man he was before his injury.
"Yes. Soon as you eat and get dressed, we'll head out."
An hour later, the two men made their way on foot across Central Park, following the same footpath that Sherlock had taken yesterday and then continuing onwards until they reached the Egyptian obelisk that marked the back of the Metropolitan Museum. Horse-drawn carriages and cyclists jostled for space on the park's only road, but Sherlock led them on the quieter footpath that bordered the main thoroughfare. The air was frigid, and they walked quickly to keep warm. It was a beautiful day, nonetheless. The sun shone brightly above the bare branches of the park's trees. Snow hadn't fallen yet in New York, and the ground was hard and dry.
"I still can't believe we're here," John said, pausing to look at the back of the Museum. "In New York, I mean."
"I knew what you meant," Sherlock said. "Didn't you ever think of coming to America before?"
John shook his head. "It always seemed a bit boring to me," he admitted. "I was one of those kids who thought that travel only counted if the people there spoke a different language and did strange things, like eat monkey brains. America just seemed like another version of England. Not much to write home about, I always thought."
"And so you got yourself shipped off to Afghanistan," Sherlock noted.
"Yes, but I did a fair bit of travel before that, as an adult. I spent some time in Senegal after uni – that's where I learned most of my French – just bumming about. And I have seen most of Europe at this point, too. The only time I thought I might come to America was when one of the American soldiers I treated invited me to his parents' ranch in Montana. He kept going on and on about Big Sky Country and I thought I might visit him one day."
"What happened?" Sherlock asked. "Why didn't you?"
"He was shot again a few months before I was invalided," John said. "And he died. Then there didn't seem to be any point in visiting his family without him. It would have been too sad, for all of us."
Sherlock looked uncomfortable. He never knew what to say when John spoke about his fallen comrades-in-arms. Was he supposed to say he was sorry? Sorry was when you make a mistake, and Sherlock hadn't had anything to do with those losses. Was he supposed to give John a hug? That's what people did, sometimes, when others were upset. Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned to face John.
"Would you like a hug?" he asked.
John burst out laughing. "What in the world, Sherlock? I'm quite all right, I assure you." He wiped a tear from his eye. "That was several years ago. Sam was a good buddy, but we didn't know each other that well. I'm not in mourning or anything." He laughed again.
Sherlock stiffened. That gesture had not gone the way he had hoped. At least I asked first, Sherlock thought. I couldn't bear it if he pushed me away. But what was so funny about me offering to give him a hug? I thought that's what friends did for each other. It did not occur to Sherlock that it was not the gesture, but rather the person that it was coming from, that seemed out of place, and thus humorous, to John.
"Shall we go in?" Sherlock asked, pointing to the Museum.
"Lead the way," John said, shaking his head. Sherlock never stopped astonishing him.
The atrium just inside the Museum's entrance already held a large crowd of visitors. An enormous floral arrangement dominated the space, all pine boughs and holly, mistletoe and silver bells. Chamber music wafted down from an upper balcony; Sherlock recognized the sonorous strings of Corelli's Christmas Concerto and smiled.
"Where to, Sherlock?" John asked. "You're the one who knows your way around this city."
"Indeed," Sherlock said. "There are a few Rodins that I always visit when I come here. They're upstairs." He pointed to a wide stairway that led into the main wing of the museum.
"All right," John said, trying to recall if he knew anything about Rodin.
Sherlock bounded up the stairs two steps at a time, his coat flying out behind him. When he reached the top he looked down at John. "Come on," he said.
John trudged up the rest of the stairs. "What's the rush, Sherlock? The statues will still be here tomorrow."
"We don't have much time, John, if we're going to see the new Islamic wing. I have to get back to the U.N. by noon. Come on."
They entered the European wing side by side. "Now," Sherlock said, "They seem to have rearranged things. Ah! The Majas. Come John, look at this Goya! Not what you'd find in Spain, of course, and the Met doesn't have many of the Caprichos, but still. You take what you can get." John followed Sherlock obediently to a large oil painting of two young Spanish courtesans on a balcony. "This is a kind of memento mori. The two young women – representing life, lust, love – are in the foreground, while those two dark, mysterious figures linger in the shadows. A reminder of death's ever-constant presence in life."
"It's a bit eerie," John noted.
"Exactly." Sherlock turned and gave John a toothsome grin. "Do you want to see more? Let's try to find the Caprichos."
After asking a guard and wandering through a few more galleries, they found what Sherlock was looking for. Sherlock had to tow John by the arm to get there, because every few feet John's attention was arrested by yet another masterpiece that he knew he had seen somewhere before. But when Sherlock took John's hand to urge him along, he meekly allowed himself to be guided to Goya's sketches.
"I love the Caprichos," Sherlock said, seeming to forget that he still held John's hand. With the other, he gesticulated towards the first of the etchings. "Behold: "El sueño de la razón produce monstruos."
John pulled his hand back. "What does it mean, Sherlock?"
"The dream of reason produces monsters. Fantastic. The idea that, out of reason's twisted nightmare, monsters emerge."
"Right," John said. "I can think of a few dreams like that."
"You can?" Sherlock asked, surprised. He looked into John's blue eyes and waited for him to speak.
John was flustered. Sherlock was close to him – almost too close – and he wondered if Sherlock would again offer to hug him if he mentioned his own nightmares.
"Well, there's war. Countries always think they're entering war for logical reasons. But in the end – it's a strange kind of logic that says that you have to kill others in order to ensure the safety of your own people."
"Hmm," Sherlock said.
"Kind of like – kind of like how terrorists think that they are acting in God's name – well, the religious ones do – and that is its own horrific form of logic. Because what kind of God would countenance the killing of other people? So theirs is a logic that produces monsters, I think."
John, you are extraordinary, Sherlock thought. You are – you understand things. You don't know about art, of course you don't, but you understand it just the same. You understand it better than all of those pretentious tutors Mother used to bring around. And you cut to the heart of the matter – you say what you mean. Not like Mummy. Not like Mycroft. Do you know how rare your kind of honesty is? Do you know what that means to me? Can you understand how a child, surrounded by adults who told half-lies all day long – can you understand how much I value the truth? How I can't bear to let secrets lie hidden? They must be brought to the surface, all those dark monsters that reason produces. Bring them out into the daylight, so that they lose their power. Freud knew this. He knew about the twinkling allure of logic and the power that the unconscious – our dreams, our jokes, our slips of the tongue – had to undermine our rational selves. And I think you know this, too, or you would not have said all of this.
John continued. "And then there are the ordinary lies that people tell themselves. They think they have to live their lives one way, get married, have children, buy a flat, that kind of thing. That's another kind of logic that produces monsters – and I don't mean little children, I just mean it produces something monstrous when you don't let yourself have the things that you really want."
"What kind of life do you want, John?" Sherlock asked softly, intensely, passionately. John was taken aback by his vehemence.
"I have the life that I want to lead, Sherlock," he said slowly. "I haven't followed a logical course. Quite the opposite, really. Most people would think I'm crazy. Why go to medical school just to join the army? Why do I chase after crooks with you when I could be setting up my own medical practice in Manchester or Brighton? I'm not doing any of the things a man my age, with my education, is supposed to do. Hell, most of our acquaintances think I'm mad as a hatter to live with you, Sherlock." And I think I'm mad sometimes, too, John added silently to himself.
Sherlock didn't respond.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, is everything all right?
Sherlock shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. "I'm perfectly fine, John. I'm sorry I asked."
"You don't have to apologize. I didn't say anything that you didn't know already."
Sherlock grunted in assent. "Despite appearances to the contrary, John, I don't know everything about you."
"You could have fooled me," John said, almost ruefully. "Now, weren't we going to see those Rodins?"
"Adam and Eve from the Gates of Paradise!" Sherlock exclaimed, remembering why he had wanted to bring John to this exhibit. "But, John – "
"Yes?"
"Are you enjoying yourself?"
John wrinkled his nose in puzzlement. "Am I enjoying myself? What a strange question to ask, Sherlock." He meant, it was a strange question for Sherlock Holmes to be asking. Couldn't he deduce as much?
"It's not strange," Sherlock insisted. "I mean, are you enjoying yourself here with me?"
John blushed. "Sherlock, do you seriously think that I'd be here, in New York, letting you pull me around the gallery and getting a lesson in art history, if I weren't enjoying myself?"
"Then why do you want to leave Baker Street? Why do you want to stop working together?"
"When did I say anything about that, Sherlock?"
"You didn't. The real estate section was missing from the paper two mornings in a row. And I heard you asking Lestrade about flatshares in his neighborhood. So I concluded you were looking for somewhere new."
"Yes, Sherlock, I am looking." John sighed and put a hand to his forehead. He so did not want to be having this conversation right now.
"Why?" Sherlock asked archly.
"Look, Sherlock, I don't think this is the time or place to be discussing this."
"So you admit that you were looking for a new flat."
"Sherlock - I - I already told you. What more do you want me to say? Can't we leave this for later?"
"I want you to tell me the truth."
"In what sense?"
"Don't be so dull, John. I want to know: are you leaving or not?"
"Sherlock! I said, I do not want to talk about this right now. Can't we just enjoy our morning in the museum?"
"Promise me you won't leave without telling me first what is wrong. Something must be wrong."
John rubbed his head. "Sometimes, Sherlock, you are - insufferable. I told you I didn't want to talk about this right now. I'm looking, that's all. I haven't made up my mind. Didn't you hear anything I said? Or does everything have to be about you, all the time? You want things when you want them, but the world doesn't work like that. Please, try to conduct yourself like a grown man, and let me make my own decisions!"
Sherlock inhaled sharply and straightened his back. They were quite close now, staring hard at each other, and John raised his hand as if to wag a finger. Several museum-goers were staring at them now, at the tall dark detective and the shorter, bullish man who were engaged in a battle of wills in the middle of the European galleries. Sherlock opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, then thought better and shut it again.
"What do you want, John?" Sherlock asked, a hint of anger still in his voice.
"I want you to stop being so selfish, Sherlock. I want you to think about my feelings once in a while. I want you to remember that the entire world doesn't revolve you and your need for intellectual stimulation."
"I thought you enjoyed my company," Sherlock said coldly.
"I do, Sherlock. It's not about that. It's just - can't you just give things a rest? Stop thinking so much. Stop asking other people to entertain you. It's almost half-past eleven. Go do the consulting gig you came here to do, and we'll meet up later."
"What are you going to do, in the meanwhile?" Sherlock asked, curious despite himself.
"I'm sure I can find something to keep myself entertained," John replied. "This is New York, after all. Maybe I'll go see Hugh Jackman's show on Broadway."
"Who?"
"Never mind, Sherlock," John said. "I was just kidding. You know I don't like musical theatre, anyway." There was no point in trying to make Sherlock jealous of celebrities, when their names meant nothing to him. He laughed out loud and Sherlock smiled despite himself. The good thing about John, he mused, is that he doesn't stay angry for long.
Mycroft, on the other hand, was the sort to harbour a grudge for years, as Sherlock well knew. When he met up with his brother in the delegates' dining room mid-afternoon, after an exhausting round of meetings, Mycroft twirled his umbrella and glared stonily at Sherlock before speaking.
"You weren't to take matters into your own hands, Sherlock," he said.
Sherlock sat down next to him. "Meaning...?"
"Meaning you were supposed to let me speak to the NYPD first. I know the police commissioner can't tell one British voice from another, but did you really think I was going to let you get away with impersonating me again, Sherlock?"
"I don't think I ever get away with anything under your watch, Mycroft. But seeing as that you're the master at taking things in your own hands - next time make sure the roses are thornless, if you're going to bother sending us a bouquet. You wouldn't want me to prick my little finger and fall into a deep slumber just when you need my help."
"I'm sure John could mend any little scrape you have, Sherlock," Mycroft said smugly. "Or wake you up from a hundred-year slumber with a well-timed kiss. He's quite handy, isn't he?"
"Leave John out of this," Sherlock said threateningly.
"Trouble in paradise, Sherlock?"
Sherlock's phone buzzed with a text message.
When are you done with the meeting? JW
Sherlock, happy for an excuse to ignore Mycroft, quickly replied.
Not soon enough. SH
What do you mean? JW
I'm here with the last living tyrant of the free world. SH
Mycroft? JW
No, Pol Pot. SH
...
...
Sherlock? JW
? SH
I thought you said he wasn't in NYC. JW
He is. SH
Do you want an excuse to get out of your meeting? JW
Sherlock chuckled. Mycroft looked at him sharply.
"What does John have to say now?" he asked.
Tell him you have to come stop me or I'll buy more Aran jumpers. JW
I'm at some store called J Crew. It's all they have. JW
Or pajamas with embroidered doggies? JW
Fairisle vest? JW
Since when do you know so much about knitwear? SH
Nanny Watson. JW
Figures. SH
"John needs my assistance," Sherlock announced. "I think you can handle things from here on out, don't you?"
Where are you? SH
Rockefeller Center. Nice tree BTW. JW
Tree? SH
I'm not going to explain this to you. JW
On my way. SH
"I know you're running away, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "You run away from John to come here, you run away from me to go to him. But you can't run away forever."
"Thank you for those pithy words of wisdom," Sherlock said. "But I'm afraid that I really must be going. Oh, and by the by-" he paused. "Speaking of running away. The Ambassador's dog. You really should take her to the dog run near the east side of the Great Lawn if you're going to let her run loose." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You walked her this morning," Sherlock said. "And you thought you could let her off the leash. Unfortunately, a greyhound is a greyhound, no matter how small. Born to run. Hence, your late arrival at the lunch meeting, and the grass stains on your trousers."
"Well done, Sherlock. I feel so exposed, I can practically sense the wind blowing up my -"
"Shut it, Mycroft. I'll see you - when? Friday?"
"Last chance to save the world before the holiday weekend," Mycroft said. "And do be punctual next time. I hate having to explain that you're late because you and your boyfriend got into a tiff over a sculpture."
"It was an etching, Mycroft. An etching."
Author's Note: So, apparently Goya's Sueño is not on exhibition right now at the Met, but as it is part of their permanent collection, and as it's a bit of a favourite of mine, I thought I'd bring it out of the basement for the Baker Street Boys to ponder over.
Lastew - Mil gracias.
~Emma