Author's Note: I was waiting to post all day but was travelling and didn't have access to Internet. Now I've reached my destination and am happy to get this out into the world!

Thanks for all of your comments so far, and for those who are following, rest assured that I'm going to post again tomorrow! I realize that I might not have them at Christmas day by the time those of us in the real world get there, but I'm going to do my best to keep posting till the new year (and the new series). So stay tuned!

Lastew was my beta and I have to say, it's much more fun to have help to plan out a longer story like this one! Thank you so much, L.

Any typos, Americanisms, etc., are my own.

~Emma

Pax V

Sherlock stared up at what had to be the largest, brightest Christmas tree he had ever seen.

"This is atrocious," he said. "Whose idea was this?"

John laughed. "Obviously, whoever thought it up didn't go to Eton," he joked. "It's a New York tradition. They say it's quite the honour if your state gets to donate the tree. This one is from Pennsylvania."

They were in the plaza at Rockefeller Center. It hadn't taken Sherlock long to walk there from the U.N., but it was difficult to find John amongst all of the people. The lights hurt his eyes and he thought he might be allergic to balsam.

"Some honour," Sherlock huffed. "And look at all these people." There were crowds of Christmas shoppers, school children, and even – in a small rink – ice skaters.

"Looks like they're getting into the Christmas spirit," John said, holding out a cup of coffee for Sherlock. "Unlike someone I know." Sherlock took the cup and sipped from it, looking out at the scene in front of them. It was the longest day of the year and the sun had already set; the Christmas lights were brilliant in the dark plaza.

"This is the perfect place for a bomb attack, John. There's no way the police would be able to clear the area in time. The crowds wouldn't fit through those alleyways." He pointed to a narrow passageway between two buildings. "Look – if a person put a bomb right…" he scanned the scene and waved his hand towards the old Time-Life Building. "…there! See? It would blow away those two buildings and crush everyone in sight."

"Lovely thought," John said. "Would you like a piece of gingerbread?" He held out a white paper bag and opened it so that Sherlock could see the army of gingerbread men inside.

"Ha! Perfect." Sherlock laughed. "Where did you get these?"

"I was down at a place called Union Square," John said. "They had an outdoor market set up and were selling them."

"Give me a few, John." John complied, with a puzzled look on his face. Sherlock headed for an open corner in the plaza, John trailing behind him. The detective pulled a piece of chalk out of his pocket and began to sketch out lines on the ground.

"Here we are," he explained, pointing. "This is Rockefeller Center. There's 50th St. here, 49th—" He drew out two long parallel lines and then crossed them perpendicularly with two more. "And here is 6th Avenue and 5th Avenue. We're here." He dropped two gingerbread men in the middle of the map. "And down here…." He drew another set of lines below the ones he had already done. "….is Grand Central Station." He worked quickly and sketched out a rough plan of the area around Rockefeller Center, naming landmarks as he went. "Across is the New York Public Library – pity to lose that – and here we have Bryant Park. More ice skaters, John. Give me another biscuit. Now, look here. If we go west one long block – do you know what is here?" He dropped another pair of gingerbread men on 42nd Street, between 6th and 7th Avenues."

"Um, Times Square?" John asked hesitantly.

"Exactly!" Sherlock said. "Now, imagine that someone puts bomb here, here, and here." He pointed to where the gingerbread men lay scattered, each one marking a key location. Sherlock brought his well-heeled foot down sharply on one of the gingerbread men. "Rockefeller Center!" he shouted. A few children and their mother turned to stare at him. Sherlock continued, grinding the biscuit into the pavement. "Grand Central!" he cried, jumping on another gingerbread soldier. The children came closer, mouths agape. "And finally – do you know what this one is, kids?" He turned towards them with a wicked grin.

"Matilda! Michael! Come away from that man," their mother said.

"Times Square!" Sherlock said, triumphantly. He made a fist and practically jumped with glee.

"I see," John said. "Are you going to do that with all of the biscuits? Or can I have one?"

Sherlock straightened up and brushed a few gingerbread crumbs off of his coat. "Of course not. These are all the important sites, anyway. Hey!" He called out to the family that was still watching them. "Would you like a gingerbread man?"

"Don't touched the cookies!" the woman said. "They might be poisoned!" She ushered her children away and John laughed.

"You're terrorizing those people," John said.

"What? Me? I'm saving them from terrorists!"

"That's not what it looks like to me." John grabbed the bag from Sherlock and took out a gingerbread man. He examined it carefully, turning it over in his hands. "I think this one resembles Moriarty, don't you?" He bit off the gingerbread head. "Problem solved!" He chewed with satisfaction, then held out another biscuit to Sherlock. "This one is named Mycroft," he said.

Sherlock shoved as much of the gingerbread man as he could into his ample mouth. The feet didn't quite fit in, making John laugh.

"If that's the way I can get you to eat, Sherlock, then I'll make sure that everything we eat looks like your brother."

Sherlock, with his mouth full, said, "Don't be ridiculous, John. They don't sell gingerbread men all year round. And besides, I ate dinner last night, didn't I?"

"You did. Care to try again tonight?" John's breath caught in his throat when Sherlock looked at him carefully. Even with crumbs around his mouth, he was still a very attractive man. "Sherlock– you have something – there – " John reached up and brushed the gingerbread from Sherlock's lower lip.

Sherlock coloured slightly. "Thank you, John," he said formally.

"Well, I can't have you looking like you just devoured an army of gingerbread men," John said. "Though that's actually not far from the truth. I think you're traumatized those children with all that stomping."

"I was just making a point," Sherlock said.

"What point? That New York is vulnerable to a bomb attack? I don't think anyone living here is oblivious to that fact."

They began to walk west, John following Sherlock's lead.

"Where are we going now?" John asked.

"K-Town."

"Thanks, that's very helpful. Is that another potential target?"

"Not likely. Unless the terrorists are Kim Jong-Il's minions or something."

"You do know that he just died, don't you, Sherlock?" Sherlock nodded. "Do you think there's a Korean connection here?"

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head and pulling his scarf more tightly around his neck. The air was colder now that the sun had set. John shivered and, almost without being conscious that he was doing so, pulled closer to Sherlock. The sidewalks were crowded with people, and Sherlock, more than once, put his hand on John's shoulder to steer him around a baby stroller or wheelchair. It didn't take them long to arrive at K-Town, the Korean neighbourhood in Midtown Manhattan. Neon lights advertised barbeque, beer, and karaoke.

"Right," John said. "K-Town. I get it. And K-TV, too?"

"I thought you didn't go in for musical theatre, John."

"Just because I don't like The Phantom of the Opera doesn't mean that I hate singing."

"So, dinner, then karaoke?"

"Karaoke's not much fun with just two of us, Sherlock."

"Why not? I think we usually manage well enough on our own." He grinned.

"Karaoke isn't crime-solving, Sherlock. You need more than two people to have a good time. That, and a lot of beer. Tell me, who else do you know in New York besides Mycroft and the ambassador?"

"Dominican thugs," Sherlock said. John whistled under his breath.

"Let's stick to activities for two, then," John said. "Barbeque and beer sound like excellent choices."

"There's something very important I need to know, then," Sherlock said.

"What's that?"

"How much heat can you take?"

They lingered over their meal for several hours, slowly transforming plate after plate of raw meat into edible morsels over the coals of their table-side brazier. Sherlock showed John how to wrap the cooked meat in large leaves of lettuce, adding raw chillies and sesame sauce to this improvised taco. John had never eaten Korean food before, and he was captivated by the pickles and other small plates that the waiters brought out with every course. There was a piquant freshness to everything, an intensity of flavour that reminded him of some of the dishes he had tried in Afghanistan. Outside of England, food just tasted better, somehow, as if the boring pub fare dulled his appetite in London.

"So, I asked you before," Sherlock began. "How much heat can you take?"

John looked at him blankly. "This food is quite good. It's spicy but not too spicy."

"Have you tried a chile yet?" Sherlock picked up a green sliver and waved it in front of John's face before popping it into his own mouth.

"Sherlock!" John cried, wincing.

Sherlock swallowed, then smiled. "It's quite mild, this one. But here's another plate -" He stretched his arm to select two red chiles, handing one to John. "Try this one," he prodded.

Simultaneously, they put the red chiles into their mouths. Sherlock chewed slowly and steadily, as if he were relishing the flavour on his tongue. John, on the other hand, swallowed it in one gulp and promptly began to sneeze. He reached for his water and chugged it down frantically.

"What the hell was that, Sherlock?"

"A Scotch Bonnet pepper."

"Fuck," John said. "I'm impressed." He waved to the waiter. "More water, please!"

Sherlock took another chile and chewed on it absently, watching John's face turn red. Sweat had begun to gather at the doctor's temples and he looked agitated.

"I asked you if you could take the heat," Sherlock said, reaching out to hold John's wrist to take his pulse. "100 bpm. Interesting. What's your normal heart rate?"

"Get your hands off of me, you wanker. I'm not some kind of experiment on vasoconstriction," John spat out. "Bring me some milk – ice cream – anything dairy!"

"Waiter," Sherlock said, "may we have a bowl of ice cream?" The waiter shook his head, explaining that they didn't serve dessert.

"Go get something, Sherlock." John ordered. "NOW!" The tone in his voice brokered no refusal. Sherlock stood and walked quickly out of the restaurant. He returned in less than five minutes with a small cone of soft-serve ice cream.

"Here," he said, holding it out to John. John took the cone eagerly, licking at the side where the ice cream was beginning to melt. Sherlock sat down and watched him carefully. John's face began to return to its normal shade and he didn't protest when Sherlock took his wrist again.

"90 bpm," he announced. "Going down." John glared at him but didn't pull his hand away. It was strangely soothing, the feel of Sherlock's touch on his wrist. Even after Sherlock had finished counting, he kept his fingers wrapped around John's pulse point, rubbing circles over the edge of his ulna. He pressed tightly again, taking the pulse again. "85. That must be closer to normal." John nodded. Sherlock still didn't remove his fingers. John's mouth was tingling in the aftershocks of the chile, but he was now aware of another sensation – the feel of Sherlock's breath across his cheek, as the other man leaned across his lap and stole a mouthful of ice cream. John's eyes widened as Sherlock's tongue licked at the cone, making quick gestures like a cat lapping up a bowl of cream.

Sherlock continue to rub his fingers over John's wrist as he pulled back to take his friend's pulse again. Sherlock's hip was snug against John's side and he still wouldn't let go – why won't he let go? God, Sherlock, do that thing with your tongue and the ice cream again. Stay right here, John willed him.

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured. "Your pulse is going up again." John felt the urge to say something sarcastic, but the look in Sherlock's face was guarded and John didn't know what to make of his friend's behaviour.

"Are you feeling better, John?" Sherlock asked, examining him intently. Is it all right that I'm touching you like this, John? Or are you going to jump up and run away? I think you might. You have that look in your eyes like This is not good, Sherlock. Not good at all. Why not, John? Why can't I sit here next to you like that? Don't tell me you don't like it. I see your dilated pupils, your heart-rate just went up to 100, and you've shifted your legs so I can't see what's happening under the table. But now you're frowning, John. Why are you frowning? Don't frown, John. I'll move away, like this, drop your wrist, let you go. Better now? There's seven inches between us. I can't feel your body anymore.

"Sherlock," John said breathily. "What are you doing?"

"I was trying to make you feel better. Did the ice cream help?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Thank you."

"I'm sorry I gave you the chile, John," Sherlock admitted. "I didn't know it would have that effect on you."

Sherlock, you don't need to give me a spicy pepper to have an effect on me, John thought ruefully. I'll pretty much get hot and bothered no matter what you do. Even if you're examining a corpse and fighting with Anderson over who has the right to touch the evidence, you somehow make it sexy. He wrinkled his brow. Not good, John. This is so not good.

"John?" Sherlock asked in a worried tone. "Shall we go back to the Hudson?"

"I think I'm OK now. But, um, yeah. Let's go."

There were no gifts, unwanted or otherwise, waiting for them that night. John, befuddled and aroused by Sherlock's actions in the restaurant, dropped into a restless sleep.

Sherlock stayed up a while longer, pacing the living room and stepping out to the terrace from time to time for a smoke. He had not slept for three nights, and though he often went as long without sleep when he had an exciting case to solve, the truth was that the U.N. consulting gig was one of tamest cases he had worked on in a while. Not that he was complaining - he was far from bored, what with John's company and his growing anxiety over their strange relationship.

Sherlock had thought that it would be easy to tell John what he wanted, but he was finding that John was surprisingly impervious to his hints. I practically sat on his lap in the restaurant and he didn't say a thing. But I know he liked it. So why didn't he respond to me? Am I missing something here? Need more information. He might be attracted to me, but he's still looking for another flatshare. Unacceptable. At the end of the day, sexual attraction means very little. It's not proof of any deeper affection - it's just proof that John is a very, very sexual male. Which makes it all that much harder to be sure about how he feels about me.

Sherlock listened to see if there were any noises coming from the bedroom. John's asleep now. Why can't I sleep? I wish I hadn't agreed to sleep on the sofa. I should have made up something about my back giving me problems. No, that wouldn't have worked; John's a doctor. But my back is sore. And my chest is tight. It wouldn't be a lie. Should I go in and ask him what I should do about it? No, no, no. John won't like it if I wake him up. Go smoke a cigarette. That will make it easier to think. Clear the mind. Sherlock templed his fingers under his chin and continued to pace around the room, looking for his matches.

"Sherlock?"

John blinked his eyes as he came out of the bedroom.

"Oh, hello, John," Sherlock said flatly. "I was just about to go smoke. Care to join me?"

"I don't smoke and you shouldn't either, Sherlock. Didn't you bring any patches?" John asked.

"The nicotinergic receptors respond more quickly to pulmonary delivery."

John sighed. There was no point in reminding Sherlock that he knew these things, too. "I got up to get a glass of water," he said by way of explanation. "I thought you would have gone to bed by now. How many days has it been since you slept?"

"Four," Sherlock said. "And, of course I haven't gone to bed by now."

"Is there a problem with the sofa?" John inquired.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked. Of course there's a bloody problem, John. You're in there and I'm out here. Do you think I like being exiled to the living room? Or maybe it would be more appropriate to say that I'm being "sexiled.' No sex for me. No sex for you. Now we're both happy, right? Wrong!

"Yes, problem, Sherlock. Are you uncomfortable out here?"

Sherlock plopped down heavily in a chair. What should I say? If I say something now, and ask to sleep in the bed, he'll know something's up. And what's wrong with that, Sherlock? We've been through this before: you need to tell John sometime. Why not now? He has that sleepy face on and he's slightly muddle-headed and probably a bit aroused, he seems like the kind of person who would get the urge in the middle of the night...And why else would he come out here, anyway, if it wasn't because he felt something, too?

"Just going over some case details in my head," he lied.

"You still haven't told me much about the case," John pointed out. "I'm beginning to think you didn't really need me here."

This is the opportunity, Sherlock! The detective urged himself. Tell him you need him. Tell him you want him. Tell him you -

"Sherlock?" John prodded. "You have seemed very distracted today. Is there something on your mind? Something I can help with? Has Mycroft been a bother?"

Sherlock frowned. "Not Mycroft," he said. "It's nothing, John. Really. I just need some time - time to think. Go back to bed. We'll talk in the morning."

"Are you still upset about me looking at flats?" John asked. "Because we probably need to have that conversation. Though I'd rather not start it at three in the morning." He smiled brightly, now more fully awake. Sherlock looked wretched; he clearly had been mulling over something that had discomfited him. But he shook his head in answer to John's question. He could not speak; he knew that if he spoke, he wouldn't be able to hold anything back.

Once the floodgates were open, he would tell John that he had made a terrible mistake, that there had not been a week since Wales when he did not regret what he had told him. It was a lie, saying that he didn't do relationships; just because he hadn't done relationships before didn't mean that he was forever barred from them. So why had he brushed John off, when John was already the most important relationship of his life? Sherlock knew that, once he began to speak, he would say all of this. What was it exactly that John had said in Wales? Sherlock wondered. He said that he thought that we might try being something more than friends. It all went by so quickly, that conversation, and I panicked, and said all the wrong things, I see that now. Hindsight and all that, Mycroft did always warn me about acting precipitously. And it was all a rush, his hurt face and those sad eyes, I can scarcely remember what he said in return, and before I knew it he was on a train back to London, and I thought he'd had left Baker Street when I got back, but there he was, just as if nothing had happened, but something did happen, and it was my fault, and now he's here and once I start to say this I won't be able to shut up, and then he'll run away again, but this time because I'm saying too much. Mother always said that I couldn't regulate my emotions, that I was like a faucet that had two settings: on and off. I've been off for so long and now I'm going to burst, yes, I'm really going to burst if I keep this in much longer. And then it will ruin everything.

He knew that once he began to speak, there would be no escape for John. He would tell him everything: how he longed for him, how John was always in his mind and could not be turned off. He would show all of the terrible, possessive side of himself to John, the monstrous jealousy that had driven away childhood pals and uni classmates and erstwhile lovers, the jealousy that had sprung up again when John had come to live at Baker Street two years ago but had not yet corroded their bond (though everyone else seemed to think it would, sooner or later, and had warned John off). Sherlock couldn't bear to think that he might drive John away, because the possibility of John leaving was worse than almost anything else that he could think of, and he certainly had a library of horrific events on which to draw for comparison. Nor could he stand to think that he might ruin John Watson, that wonderful, tender, warm-hearted person, with his jealousy and his all-consuming need to have him. He would rather give John up than destroy him and that, for Sherlock, was proof that he had finally learned to love someone.

But no one ever told me that love would be like this, Sherlock thought. This ghastly possession, this longing, this impossibility.

John came over to where Sherlock was seated, standing above him in a reversal of their usual positions. "I can't help you if you won't tell me what's wrong, Sherlock," he said softly, his hands crossed in front of his chest.

"I can't," Sherlock said. "I just can't. Please. Understand me, John. If there's anyone who deserves to know about this, it's you. But I just can't talk about it right now. Not tonight."

"Well." John frowned. "If it's too upsetting to talk about, maybe you can just sit next to me on the couch for a while? I won't make you talk, but sometimes it's nice to just have some company when you're going through a rough patch." He tugged on Sherlock's hands, urging him out of the chair and pulling him across the room to the sofa. They sat side by side. John looked down at their hands, still wrapped together, and sighed. Sherlock was so hot and cold - it was maddening. Just a few hours ago, at the restaurant, Sherlock had insinuated himself around John's body, treating him in a way that no ordinary flatmate would treat him - not that Sherlock was ever ordinary, John thought. But now he's definitely behaving strangely. Poor fellow. Must be all of this Christmas nonsense, and the consulting case, and Mycroft. And he really should have let us get a room with two beds. I don't know why he's being so stubborn about that. It's obvious that he's run himself ragged and just needs a solid night's rest.

"John?" Sherlock said, leaning his head back against the cushions of the sofa, refusing to look at his friend's face or at their joined fingers. His breathing was irregular and John wondered idly if he had ever seen Sherlock hyperventilate and, if so, what the detective looked like in a panic attack.

"Just breathe deeply," he instructed him. "Bring your knees up to your chest, like that." He lifted Sherlock's legs up and tucked his arms around his knees, so that Sherlock was hugging himself. "Now, put your head down into the crook of your arm," he instructed, "and keep breathing." John rubbed soft circles over Sherlock's back, feeling each vertebra through the thin fabric of Sherlock's dressing gown, trying to calm him down.

Once Sherlock's breathing had settled back to normal, John allowed him to lift his head. He took Sherlock's face in his hands and examined him carefully, noticing again how tired Sherlock looked. "I think we should get you to bed," John said carefully. "In the bed, I mean. I'll kip out here. You need a good night's sleep if you're going to make it to Christmas." He stood and pulled Sherlock to his feet, wrapping one arm around Sherlock's waist as he led him to the bedroom. Sherlock leaned on John as they walked, surprised at the depth of his own fatigue.

John rolled back the covers and gestured for Sherlock to lie down. Sherlock's body went limp as he settled onto the bed, curling up on one side while John spread the eiderdown over him. "Now, sleep," John said in a commanding voice. He was walking to the door when Sherlock spoke.

"I don't mind, John - if you don't mind - sharing the bed?" His voice was drowsy, and John was tempted to ignore him and return to the living room. But something in the fragility of his flatmate's figure, prostrate on the bed, reminded John of a unconsolable child.

"I don't mind, Sherlock," John said, turning back.

They each kept to their own sides, leaving a chaste stretch of bed between them. John fell asleep first and Sherlock quickly joined him, lulled to sleep by the rhythm of John's breaths.

It was past midday before the residents of the penthouse suite called for breakfast.