Pax VI

John did not see much of Sherlock for the next couple of days. After they rolled out of bed and ate their late breakfast, Sherlock headed out for another meeting with Mycroft and the Ambassador.

John was no closer to knowing what kind of work Sherlock was doing, but he worried that the Moriarty connection was what had made Sherlock so anxious the night they had eaten in K-Town. Since then, Sherlock had avoided talking to John about the case – in fact, it looked like he was avoiding John altogether. They continued to share the one large bed, but apart from a few minutes before they went to sleep, John didn't see much of Sherlock.

On December 23, John spent the day prowling Manhattan on foot. He had already seen much of Greenwich Village, which contrary to its bohemian reputation was now one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the city, filled with upscale boutiques and flagship stores of major brands. But he liked the cobblestone streets, the old brick townhouses, and the few scattered Italian markets that remained despite gentrification. He stopped for a cappuccino at Rocco's bakery, then walked up Seventh Avenue, through the neighborhood called Chelsea, where new condos had replaced many of the older tenements.

Seventh Avenue was lined with sex shops and bars that catered to the neighborhood's vibrant gay community. John couldn't help but wonder what Sherlock would have made of Chelsea. Would he, like John, resent being placed in a category, being automatically assigned to a community, a neighborhood, because of the way he loved? John did occasionally go to gay bars in London, but he liked women, too, and it was always a bit strange to him to find so many of the other men in those places acting in an identical assertive, hypersexual, and flamboyant style, as if they were all graduates of the same finishing school. He couldn't quite describe what it was that he didn't like about it, except that a lot of it seemed like an act to him, one that didn't interest him. He had seen male friends come out of the closet, only to entirely change their manner of dressing, speaking, and socializing within a few short months, in order to blend in with gay London. John wasn't the kind of person to modify his behaviour based on the kind of partner he was looking for; he'd always been the same person, no matter whom he was with. To act other than his self – the unpretentious, sturdy, reliable doctor – was distasteful to him, and not worth the effort. Either the other person would like that John, or they wouldn't, and he wasn't interested in being with someone who expected him to act in a certain way.

John supposed that one reason he had always got along so well with Sherlock was because Sherlock did not ask him to be anyone other than who he was. To be sure, Sherlock would have liked John to be a tad more intelligent, and a better dresser to boot, but at the heart of things, Sherlock accepted him as he was. It ashamed John to realize that he was not nearly as tolerant of Sherlock as Sherlock was of him; he loved Sherlock, but he also wanted him to change. Is loving him my way of asking him to change? John asked himself. Love is a demand, after all – the demand to put aside one's own egotism in order to serve as the other's witness. And maybe that demand is too much for Sherlock – he is a genius, after all, and he's used to being so far above everyone else in intelligence that the concept of finding a match in another person must seem farfetched to him. And who am I, exactly, to want to be his partner? I may be a doctor, I may have served in the army, but at the end of the day I'm a pretty ordinary individual. Sherlock is spectacular. But he doesn't know how to love. And I don't know if I can keep living with him, loving him the way I do, with no prospect of change.

Thinking these thoughts, John was surprised when his phone buzzed with a text from Sherlock.

Where are you? SH

Chelsea. 7th Ave & w 18th st. Where are you? JW

Newark Airport, NJ. Waiting for suspect to pass through security. SH

Then what? JW

Late night, be back late. Gug tmrw? SH

Gug? JW

Guggenheim. Kandinsky, remember? SH

Address? JW

5th Ave. & E. 89th. SH

It's Christmas Eve tmrw. JW

Yes. SH

Do you want to do something to celebrate? JW

Lessons and Carols, St. John's Cathedral, 4pm. SH

When should we meet for museum?

Lobby of Gug, noon. See you then. SH

December 24, 2011

When John rose the next morning, there was no sign of Sherlock in the suite, and John did not remember him crawling into bed the night before. He checked his phone for messages.

Go pick up your suit. SH

Is it ready? JW

Yes. SH

Where were you last night? JW

Hotel in Jersey. SH

Back now? JW

At U.N. Go get suit, See you at noon at museum. SH

Later. JW

"Did you pick up the suit?"

"Hello to you, too, Sherlock. Nice to see you and all that."

"Hello, John. Did you pick up the suit?"

"Yes, I did. Dropped it back at the hotel. Why?" They waited together in line for entrance tickets.

"Michael Andrews is closed tomorrow, and tomorrow we're going to dinner at the U.N. The annual Christmas ball. Thought you might like to have something to wear for the occasion."

"Thanks."

"How did it fit?"

"The suit? Oh, fine," John said. The truth was, he thought he had never looked so resplendent. Those tailors really did know how to dress a man! But John was annoyed with Sherlock for having disappeared without telling him where he was going, and he didn't want to admit that he had rather enjoyed the whole experience at the tailor's that morning. The staff had fawned over him, making him try on dress shirt after dress shirt, trading in various brilliantly coloured ties until John's head couldn't keep track of all of the combinations. And then, decisively, they chose the shirts and ties for him, assuring him that a certain colour blue in the tie would match the shade in his eyes. They refused to let him tip them, insisting that everything had been paid for already. It was the most extravagant gift that John had ever received, and he didn't know how to reconcile the thoughtfulness and cost of the gift with Sherlock's recent neglect of his company.

Once they bought their tickets, Sherlock led John across the atrium. "It's better to start at the top and work our ways downwards," he explained. "That way it's not so tiring as it would be if we started at the bottom." John looked upwards, at the interior of the great white seashell that was the Guggenheim. The balconies spiralled above him and he could see a few children peering over an edge and waving at him. He waved back before following Sherlock into the elevator.

John felt slightly dizzy as they made their way down the sloping floors of the galleries; it was as if he were walking on a ship, not on the solid ground of a museum gallery. But he enjoyed the exhibition, taking his time with each painting before moving on. Sherlock, it seemed, had a shorter attention span, and had gone striding ahead. John could see him across the open atrium, a tall figure in a long dark coat. He watched his friend descend a level, then come to the railing and peer up and down. He wondered what Sherlock was doing, if he was looking for anything in particular or just examining the construction of the building. Knowing Sherlock, he probably found the architecture just as interesting as the exhibit.

John caught Sherlock's eyes as he turned around to come walk back up. In a few minutes, Sherlock was at his side again, watching John intently as John looked at another painting.

"Why are you leaving, John?" Sherlock asked quietly. John looked at him, a bit shocked.

"Do you really want to talk about that now?" John asked.

"You keep telling me that we'll talk about it later, but every time it comes up, you say it's the wrong time."

John sighed. "I suppose right now is as good as any other time. What do you want to know?"

"I just don't understand, John," Sherlock began. "You said that you like living with me, that we have fun together – and I know that the rent is a good deal, for that part of London, you can't deny that it would be hard to find a better arrangement – so I can't figure out why you'd want to leave." Sherlock tugged nervously at the knot in his scarf.

"Do you really have to ask me, Sherlock?" John raised his voice. "You can't figure it out by yourself?"

"My powers of deduction have their limits, John," Sherlock said humbly. "Besides, I think you've told me before that it's more respectful to ask someone, rather than to deduce everything out of them."

"True." John grew silent, looking at the ground before raising his eyes to look at Sherlock.

"I do like living with you, Sherlock. You're right about that."

"Go on," Sherlock prodded, his eyes fixed on John.

"Remember what I told you in Wales?"

Sherlock looked confused for an instant. "Yes, I remember. What about it?"

John took a deep breath. "Sherlock, I like you too much to keep living with you."

"But that doesn't make any sense. I thought you'd stay because you like me."

"No, you git, that's exactly why I'm not going to stay." John raised his voice. "You know that I fancy you – quite a lot, actually, if you must know everything about me – and it's bloody awkward living with you, Sherlock, when you don't feel the same way!"

"How do you know that I don't feel the same?" Sherlock asked, his voice also heated.

"Because you already told me you weren't interested. First, that night at Angelo's when you said that you were married to your work. Then, in Wales, when you told me that you 'don't do relationships'."

"That doesn't mean that I can't change my mind, John."

"Don't give me that horseshit, Sherlock. I saw your face when you opened Mycroft's card the other night. The idea of a relationship with me disgusts you."

"You really think that I find you disgusting?" Sherlock asked. "John – you're so mistaken!"

"Am I? Then why didn't you say something to me before now? Before I decided to leave?"

"Because I—" Sherlock began.

"How do I know this isn't just some giant ploy to get me to stick around Baker Street longer? Pretend that you care about me so I won't leave you? The timing seems awfully convenient to me." John raised his voice even louder, and now all of the people near them in the gallery were staring at them.

"I thought you knew me better than that, John," Sherlock said, just as loudly. "I may be a sociopath but—"

John interrupted him. "YOU ARE NOT A SOCIOPATH!" Now, people several floors below came over to the balcony and looked upwards, trying to find the source of the shouting voice. John continued, somewhat more softly, "Stop saying that about yourself, Sherlock. There's no way you are a sociopath. You don't understand emotions well enough to manipulate other people like a sociopath does. You're just – so frustrating! There is so much potential in you, Sherlock, if you could ever let someone love you."

"I think I could let you love me, John. I'm sure I could," Sherlock says, almost desperately. "I could learn to do a relationship with you. You know I could. I just need to learn how it's done."

"Yes, I'm sure you have the intelligence for it, but love doesn't work like that, Sherlock. You can't just learn the steps to a relationship and expect it to all work out."

"But if you showed me, John. If you showed me how, I am sure that I could learn."

"Forget it, Sherlock. Don't even go there. You're deluding yourself if you think that you can learn how to love."

"Well, how does anyone do anything for the first time, John?" Sherlock spat at him. "You learn. I know I'm a genius, but that doesn't mean that I know how to do everything without any practice. And besides," he took a deep breath, "I already know how to love you, John. It's the relationship part that I'm having trouble with."

John shook his head. "You can't expect me to believe that, just when I'm about to leave Baker Street, when I've already embarrassed myself twice by making a move on you – you can't tell me now that you love me and just expect me to believe it."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, blinking.

"You'll have to show me, Sherlock. You'll have to show me that you're serious about this, that you aren't just saying those things because you want me to stay at Baker Street."

"And how do I do that?" Sherlock asked, with a hint of desperation his voice.

"I can't tell you, Sherlock. The genius will just have to figure out for himself."

A woman's voice interrupted: "Ah, give him a break!" An older woman, one of the other museum goers, looked directly at John. "The guy's obviously crazy about you. And it's almost Christmas. Get into the spirit!"

Both Sherlock and John looked sceptically at her. Was she actually serious? "Get into the spirit"? Who said that kind of thing?

"Err," John began. "Thank you for that advice, but—" he looked at his watch; it was getting late. "It really is time that we should be going. Come on, Sherlock." John began to walk rapidly down the galleries, with Sherlock in close pursuit. Strangers stared at them as John broke into a light trot, dodging groups of families and museum guards. Sherlock reached the bottom a few seconds after John did, but John dashed across the atrium and out of the exit before Sherlock had a moment to orient himself.

When Sherlock met John outside a few minutes later, he had already received a lecture from two museum guards about the inappropriateness of their behaviour – "No running in the museum, etc., etc." – and had apologized in the poshest voice he had, which seemed to calm them down.

"What was that about, John?" Sherlock asked. "Did you just run away from me?"

"Ha!" John said, catching his breath. "I guess I did. But it was fun, wasn't it?"

"Very," Sherlock said. "Now, we have some time before the service. Why don't we walk across the park? The Cathedral is on the west side, near Columbia University. We might even have time to walk through the campus, which you might like."

John assented and they made their way across Central Park, strolling along the reservoir and up the bridle path until they came to West 110th St. The Episcopal cathedral was not far away.

The sun was just setting as John and Sherlock entered the cathedral. The western light streamed through the rose windows and illuminated the building's enormous nave. Sherlock dropped a few dollars into the collection box before leading John down the long aisle to the choral stalls.

"We can sit here?" John asked. "Isn't this where the choir sits?"

"They sit on the other side," Sherlock explained. "But these are the best seats in the house. And if you look up…" he pointed, "you can watch the organist at work."

"I feel as if we were in Cambridge," John said.

"They don't call it the Church of England here, of course, but it's as close to the real thing as you can get in the land of Puritans. They haven't done away with the pomp and circumstance here, not by a long shot."

The Service of Lessons and Carols was familiar to both of them, but the accents of the readers, and the diverse faces of the crowd, were different than what they would find in England, and thus the entire service had something of the uncanny about it. It was familiar, and yet strange – but stirring and elegant, nonetheless. The choir was really quite good, John noticed, and Sherlock was right, it was fun to watch the organist run his hands over his two-storey keyboard.

When the worshippers filed out of the church at the service's close, Sherlock suggested that they grab a bite to eat at a Hungarian pastry shop nearby.

The streets were dark and cold, but the shop cozy. They both ordered coffee and hamentashen, small triangle pastries filled with fig preserves. Sherlock explained that they were a Jewish food, commonly eaten during Purim, the day of atonement.

They said little to each other, both pensive and withdrawn after the worship service. But when they left the pastry shop, they began a round of light banter again, Sherlock telling John about his time in the Newark Airport, and John recounting his explorations of the city in Sherlock's city. They stopped at an intersection, preparing to cross, when John looked at noticed that Sherlock, once again, had managed to leave a few pastry crumbs around his mouth.

"I guess I need to feed you more often," John joked, reaching up to brush away the crumbsfrom Sherlock's lower lip. Sherlock caught his hand and held it, examining it closely but not letting it go. "Seems like you need practice using a napkin," John joked nervously. Sherlock smiled.

"Is that an invitation to dinner?" he asked slyly. Sherlock continued to look at John's hand, absorbed in its contemplation.

John's breath caught in his throat from Sherlock's light touch. "What can you deduce about me?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound light.

"Your hand was trembling," Sherlock said.

"Yes, sometimes the tremor comes back," John said.

"I said trembling, not a tremor, John. This isn't related to your PTSD. At least, I hope not." Sherlock reached down to grab John's hand again. John moved to pull it away but Sherlock held it fast, turning it over to trace the heartline on John's palm. John shivered slightly, despite himself.

"Are you reading my fortune, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at his hand and then looked up at John. "Yes," he said, smilingly. "I predict that tonight, you are going to eat Chinese food. And then you'll go home with someone tall, dark, and handsome."

I wish he wouldn't say those things if he doesn't mean them, John thought. It makes it even harder for me. Sherlock, you're killing me here. But John played along.

"Do I know this person?"

"You do," Sherlock said.

"Have we gone home together before, then?"

"Many times. In fact, almost every night." Sherlock caressed John's hands, sliding his fingers next to his so that their hands were interlocking. John rubbed his thumb across Sherlock's knuckles in return. He didn't know where his flatmate was going with this, but he was very curious to find out what it would lead to.

"So what makes tonight so different?"

"That," Sherlock said slowly, deeply, "depends entirely on you."

"Entirely on me?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock but hardly daring to stare him in the eye. Sherlock had no such compunctions; his gaze was firmly locked on John.

"Not entirely," Sherlock whispered. He bent his face towards John, and before John could turn away with the intensity of it all, Sherlock kissed him. Sherlock's lips were soft and surprisingly warm, given the cold winter air. He kissed John gently, just pressing their mouths together, waiting for John to respond.

John pulled back and looked at him. "What are you doing, Sherlock?" he asked, shakily.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Sherlock leaned forward, seeking John's face with his lips. "I'm kissing you." John turned away quickly and Sherlock's mouth met his temple instead, which, given how John felt about his ears being nibbled, was enough to make John gasp out loud.

"You might ask me first," John said, pulling his hand out of Sherlock's and twisting away. He couldn't explain why he felt so angry, and so aroused, all at once.

Perhaps it was because this was what he had always wanted, but it wasn't the way he wanted it. He wanted Sherlock, but not as a kind of game, and not for just one night. And as far as he knew, Sherlock had never had a boyfriend, and John still couldn't believe that Sherlock had initiated the touching, and the kissing, and the hugging (for now Sherlock had come closer again, bringing John into his arms), because he was looking for anything resembling a relationship, and the idea that he was being manipulated made John feel ill. He tried to wriggle away but Sherlock was taller and surprisingly strong for such a slender man. He held John closely to him, whispering,

"Where else do you need to be right now?"

Calm down, John told himself. Think! Sherlock has had rough couple of days of it with Mycroft, he's upset that I'm leaving, and he probably just wants to get off, relieve some tension, and – oh! That does feel good. Sherlock was rubbing his fingers over John's neck and shoulders, massaging them even as he kept John pinned close to him. Despite his better judgment, John nestled his head into Sherlock's shoulder.

He had hugged Sherlock before, but this wasn't a wrestling match, this wasn't the end of a case, and this wasn't a drunken misstep that was going to get him into trouble. Sherlock was just standing there, as tranquil as John had ever seen him, his heart pressed tightly against John's, encircling John in his arms. And for a minute, or maybe longer, John let himself be held. He smelled Sherlock's scent, that unique odour of wool and peppermint and musky cologne. He felt Sherlock's fingers on his neck, playing with the ends of his hair before they moved up and teased his scalp. He pressed his body against Sherlock's and felt the warmth that gathered in the space where the two of them met.

John wanted to turn and run. He wanted to lift his face to Sherlock's to be kissed again. He wanted to say the words that could not be unsaid – the words he had not dared to say in Wales –he wanted –

"John." Sherlock's voice was deep and husky. "May I kiss you again?"

John had had enough of running away for the day. And Sherlock was asking this time, as John had wanted. He let himself be kissed, damn the consequences. They kissed on the sidewalk until they both grew cold; they kissed through the catcalls and stares from onlookers; they kissed even as Sherlock's phone buzzed with a message from Mycroft. They kissed until John began to, just a little, suspend his disbelief that this was happening to him, that Sherlock was actually kissing him, and not only was he a good kisser, but John could tell that Sherlock was enjoying himself, very much, from the low sighs and jagged breaths he emitted from time to time. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and pulled the other man closer to him, as close as they could be with their thick coats and hats and scarves. It was close enough for now, John reflected. There will be time for more later. And so he leaned into Sherlock and into the miracle of this kiss, that had started out so gently and hesitantly, and now blossomed into an open, passionate meeting of lips and tongue and teeth. And, really, it was extraordinary, and so very, very good.

Author's Note: Whew! We got them to the first kiss at last! Please forgive any typos, mistakes, etc. I'm writing this very quickly and wanted to make sure that you got a Christmas Eve gift. Now, if you'd like to return the favor, reviews and comments would be greatly appreciated! And don't worry, there's still Christmas Day to come, and John's present to Sherlock, and more kisses and time together.

Best,

Emma