Pax XI & XII

When they got back to their suite, John had scarcely time to close the door before Sherlock gripped his shoulders and pushed him against wall. Sherlock had to bend his knees to be at level with John; all that touched were their foreheads and arms and then, before John knew was was happening, Sherlock was kissing him with a kind of urgency that he had not felt in the lazy love-making of that morning or in Sherlock's luxurious caresses the night before. Sherlock was breathing heavily, gasping for air in between kisses. His mouth flitted from John's mouth, to his eyebrows, to his cheeks and his nose, before settling again on John's mouth. John reached out to pull Sherlock closer, suddenly aware of the space that was gaping between them. He stood on his tiptoes and pulled Sherlock's head down towards him.

"A bit eager, are we?" John said in a low voice.

"Yes." Sherlock kept kissing him. "You did promise me that I'd get to take off that jumper of yours." Let's not talk, John, he thought. Please, let's not talk now. But John, it seemed, was a communicative sort of lover.

"Sherlock, you do realize that if we keep up like this, we're going to wear each other out?"

"Not important," Sherlock said. John pulled back from him slightly. "I have plenty of stamina," he added.

John laughed. "Of course, this from the man who doesn't need to sleep or eat. Of course you would have stamina. But – Sherlock – I'm not going anywhere."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed against John's mouth.

"I should feel flattered," John said. "There's a case on and the only thing that interests you is getting some with me this afternoon."

"Not true," Sherlock said, his gray eyes gazing into John's brighter blues. John raised an eyebrow.

"Not true that there's a case on, or not true that you're only interested in getting some?"

"Neither are true. The case – that's a simple matter, really. Mycroft could have cleared it up for himself. I would hardly call it a case. More of a consultation, really."

"Fits the job description, at least," John joked. "Consulting detective." He smiled at Sherlock but Sherlock's face was still serious.

"I am not only interested in 'getting some' from you, John."

"Nice to know it's not all about my fit bod, then," John said. Sherlock cocked his head and observed him.

"You joke because you are nervous," he said. "Something I said has made you nervous." He narrowed his eyes. "What was it?"

"I – I – Sherlock – " John stammered. "It's a bit normal to be nervous when your new - whatever you want us to call each other –"

"Paramour," Sherlock declared haughtily, pleased to have found the correct word. "You are my paramour."

"Good grief, you sound like a bad Victorian novel, Sherlock. I thought we established last night that we are lovers, for lack of a better term. But I am not your fucking paramour."

"Correct. We're not fucking," Sherlock said. "Yet." He drew out the final letter of the word, the tip of his tongue hitting his teeth with a soft exhale. John felt a shudder go through him as the 't' reverberated in the spacious room.

"Aren't we?" he asked. "What exactly did we do this morning, then?"

"I believe some would call it 'getting some'," Sherlock said primly.

"Not fucking, then?"

"No."

"So it's only fucking if I let you penetrate me, is that what you think?"

"I wouldn't presume to be the one to top," Sherlock said. "But yes, that's what I meant."

"I didn't think you would subscribe to all that heteronormative bullshit," John said. "That it's only sex if there's a cock poking into some hole between the legs." He laughed despite himself. In for a penny, in for a pound, John Watson, he thought. Might as well have this kind of conversation right now.

"You're joking again," Sherlock observed, drawing back from him. "You're nervous." He turned away from John and walked slowly to the sofa, lazily dropping down onto it as he looked back up at John. Sherlock patted the cushion next to him and John hesitantly joined him.

John didn't respond, just sat next to Sherlock, barely touching him.

"Is there something wrong?" Sherlock asked, observing him intently. His eyes scanned John's face, looking for clues. John was usually so readable, but this afternoon – something was different. "You aren't usually hesitant to tell me to piss off," Sherlock pointed out.

John sighed and ran a hand over his face. "I don't want you to piss off, Sherlock. Just – let me get my bearings, all right? This is all happening rather quickly for me." Sherlock's face assumed a chilly neutrality as he struggled to not look affected by John's words.

You idiot, Sherlock said to himself. You're too much for John. You'll always be too much for John. He won't be able to take it – the intensity, the wild nights, your longing for more, more, MORE.Your selfishness and your tendency to – what was it Victor said? – fly too close to the sun. No wonder you liked Joyce and his Daedalus... But John hasn't seen me when things are really bad. He thinks this is 'too fast' but I have never moved in this direction before, how can I know which speed to take? The question is, how slowly can I bear to go? Lento and largo: out of the question. We're past Andante, past just walking side by side, the simple gait of companions. Allegro? Clearly that's too fast. Back off, Sherlock. Allegretto, then. Beethoven's Seventh Symphony, Second Movement: a lilting stride, a forward-moving pulse - but contained, always contained. Is that how he wants me? Contained? Holding back, perhaps, until the melody, repeating itself, builds higher and higher, louder and louder, until it reaches that incredible orchestral climax and all hell breaks loose. Allegretto, then. Allegretto, for John. No slower than that, or I will lose all sense of the structure of the piece. No faster, or he will scamper away, the Scherzo from Schumann's First String Quartet. 1999. Magdalene College, Cambridge. What was the name of the second violinist? Was rubbish, kept starting each measure with an up-bow. Not important now.

"Sherlock?" John said. "Sherlock!" he repeated, when Sherlock did not heed him.

"Yes?" The detective turned to look at John. He wanted to reach out and touch him again, pull him close to him and promise that he would not move too quickly, but he thought that even that might be a bit much for John right now, John who clearly needed to say something to him.

"I am too much, John," Sherlock said, before John could get a word in. "I am too much for you. Is that right?"

John blinked, a bit startled at where they had ended up. One minute they were kissing against the wall – and what was so bad about that? – John thought – and the next minute he was telling Sherlock they were moving too fast. No wonder the bugger is confused, John said to himself. I've been wanting this for ages, and as soon as he is ready and willing, I tell him we're moving too fast. But we are. God, we are. He blushed when he remembered what they had done to each other that morning, how they had lain facing each other and had brought each other to orgasm with their hands. He remembered the look of shock on Sherlock's face, as if he were completely taken by surprise. Maybe he was surprised. At this, at us, at the intensity of it. It's almost too much –

"It's not you who is too much," John started. "It's – it's us. You and me. Together. It's as if whatever connection that we had before – no trivial bond, let me assure you of that – has just exploded." Sherlock frowned. "Not in a bad way, Sherlock. Like an exponential equation – each step forward in intimacy is three times more steps in intensity. Or something like that I don't know." He shook his head. "I'm not the one who thinks in numbers, Sherlock. You are." He smiled wryly and reached for Sherlock's hand.

Holding it in his lap, John brushed the soft pads of his fingers over Sherlock's left palm, running over the small scars on his wrists, noticing the rough calluses on his lover's fingers. He observed now, because of Sherlock. What had Sherlock said to him, once? "You see but you do not observe, John." When had John begun to observe, then? When did he notice, for example, that the hicky on Sherlock's neck was not a hicky at all, but a callus from holding his violin under his chin? When did he put two and two together and realize that it was not her strong constitution alone that allowed Mrs. Hudson to put up with heads in the fridge and CIA interrogations on a somewhat regular basis; she must have had special training (Cold War? Six?). And when had John began to observe, as everyone else around him seem to do, that he and Sherlock certainly meant more to each than most flatmates? He had told himself that it was not jealousy he felt when Sherlock met Irene Adler, it was not jealousy that those two spoke a language of their own, the same tongue that Mycroft spoke, and Moriarty perhaps, whereas he was just John Watson, doctor and occasional blogger. But if he was so insistent that he was not jealous of Irene, might that not mean something, too? Thus went the voice in his head. The more you deny it, the truer it is. Ella would have said the same thing, if he were still seeing her.

"I don't only think in numbers, John," Sherlock said softly.

"It's not that, Sherlock." John inhaled sharply. "It's just – you want everything, at once. Nothing is linear with you."

"Yes. I want you," Sherlock stated evenly.

"Well, in a relationship, it doesn't work that way. At least, not most of the time. You can't just go from being friends to – wham! – being soul-mates. It takes time. And even if we're close already, this – this relationship – is going to take some getting used to."

"And that's what you're doing now?" Sherlock asked, a bit anxiously. " 'Getting used' to us?"

"I suppose so, yes," John admitted.

"So, then – last night – did you not want that?" Sherlock sounded genuinely concerned.

"In this case, Sherlock, my body is moving faster than my brain."

"Not an uncommon occurrence in your case," Sherlock observed dryly.

"Shut it," John said, then quickly, "Sorry, Sherlock. Just – I don't need reminding right now that I'm supposed to be the beating heart, as if I didn't have a brain, too."

"Ah," Sherlock said, leaning back into the sofa cushions. John's hand was still stroking his fingers and it felt calming and arousing at once. "You think that we're a good match because I have a brain and you have a heart. Is that it? The mind/body division? So Cartesian. Really, John, you must have had some basic training in neuroscience. Mirror neurons, serotonin, right-brain right-brain connections."

"I don't think that we're good because you're the brain and I'm the heart," John said. "Quite the contrary, really. You have much more of heart than you like to let on. And I'm not as stupid as you make me out to be, either."

"Of course you aren't stupid, John."

"But nor am I 'moderately clever,' am I, Sherlock?" Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, holding it against the cushion.

"Ah, so that's what this is all about. You don't think I think you're smart enough for me."

"I know I'm not smart enough for you, Sherlock."

"And that worries you."

"Clearly." John folded his arms over his chest.

"It needn't," Sherlock said briskly. "You do know that I just said that to flatter her." He squinted at John. "Nice touch, though, listening through the door."

"It was in case you needed backup," John explained.

"What, to overpower an unarmed and naked woman?"

"Not just any woman, Sherlock. The woman."

"Oh, so this is all about Irene, is that it? John, you're going to have to be clearer with me. I don't know how we got from me kissing you, to you telling me that things were too intense, to all this nonsense about Ms. Adler."

John stood and began to pace across the room.

"I'm never going to be smart enough for you, Sherlock," he said heatedly. "I'm never going to be able to feed that hungry brain of yours. You're going to get bored with me. With us."

Sherlock stood and, almost scrambling, made his way towards John. He gripped the doctor's wrists with his fingers, pulling down on them to keep John's attention focused on him.

"Look at me," Sherlock commanded. "Look at me. Look at us. You are not just a piece of warm flesh, or a heart that beats, or whatever else you fear you might be to me. You are John. You are my friend. And, if what happened last night and this morning matter at all to you, then you will believe me when I say that I care about you. Only you, John."

John looked up, his gaze fixed on Sherlock's.

"She was killed," he said. "I lied to you. She was killed, and Mycroft wanted me to tell you that she was still alive, so that – so that –"

"So that I wouldn't die of a broken heart?" Sherlock asked scornfully. "He knew I wasn't in danger of that, John."

"But you do have a heart, Sherlock," John protested.

"Of course I have a heart!" Sherlock snapped, tugging down again on John's wrists, his hands tightening almost painfully around his pulse point. "Don't confuse me with my brother. And that's not what I meant, anyway. Mycroft knew I wasn't in danger of dying from a broken heart, because Irene is not dead."

"That's not what Mycroft said."

"I know that may not be what Mycroft said to you – now, let me imagine how the conversation went. Mycroft told you that Irene was dead, and then asked you to tell me that she had escaped to America instead? What, so that you would, I presume, protect me from my own grief? By telling me that she had escaped?"

"Yes," John admitted.

"John," Sherlock said slowly. "I have settled my score with Irene Adler. And there's no need for you to protect me from my feelings towards her." He pulled John close to him, wrapping him in his arms. "I'm here with you, aren't I? If Irene were in some witness protection programme here in America, and if I were in love with her or whatever foolish idea you've latched on to – do you think I would still be here with you?"

"I don't know," John admitted. "I can never tell, with you." He unwrapped himself from Sherlock's monkey grip and looked up at him, smiling despite himself. It was so nice, after all, to be the one in Sherlock's arms.

"And that's bothering you, too."

"Yes." John sighed.

"I had never pegged you as the jealous type, John." Sherlock laughed and kissed the top of John's head. "I thought I had enough of that trait for the two of us."

John pulled away slightly, moving his head around in an exaggerated gesture, as if he were looking for something. "Did I hear correctly? Did Sherlock Holmes just admit to being a teeny bit, what was it, jealous? Possessiveis more like it!" He giggled.

Sherlock ducked down a few inches to catch John's mouth in his own. The wet feel of Sherlock's lips against his caught John off guard for a moment. "I am incredibly possessive," Sherlock whispered. "And interested - in you. Only in you, John Watson." The taller man continued kissing him, intermittently pulling back to gaze at John's face. "And because I'm so possessive, John, and because I really cannot wait any more – where is my Christmas present?"

John gave a throaty laugh. "I knew you wouldn't let me forget that," he said.

"I was sorely tempted to look through your luggage when you were sleeping last night, John," Sherlock admitted. He gave a slight jump, clasping his hands together. "I've been going through all of the possibilities in my head. What would a man – who has been enamored of me for months if not years, uncertain if I return his affection – give me as a present? It would have to be something personal, meaningful – but not too personal, not too suggestive of his designs, lest I find him out…"

"Well, we all know what happened to Molly Hooper last year," John said dryly.

"But this is so good, John. A puzzle! What did you get me? You must have bought it for me before yesterday, because you haven't been out of my sight since the Guggenheim. So I have to be right in my assumption that it's nothing too personal. But I hope you didn't get me anything so trite as a pair of cufflinks."

"Not cufflinks," John admitted, taking a step towards the bedroom. "But I didn't buy anything for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock wrinkled his forehead, trailing after John.

"Sherlock! Stay out of here. I'll bring you your present," John scolded him. Sherlock obediently stayed in the living room, not daring to cross the threshold of the bedroom while John was fetching his gift.

The doctor returned with a small box, wrapped in green and red paper. He handed it to Sherlock. "This is one of your presents."

"There are more?" Sherlock asked.

"One more," John said. "It's not the kind of present I could wrap."

"Oh, an experience," Sherlock exclaimed. "Lovely. Though I'd take John Watson wrapped, too. Just a suggestion for next year." He winked at John who, despite himself, blushed.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and stared at the box. "Nothing unusual about the paper. Frugal Scot, you used the same paper from last year! Mrs. Hudson wrapped all her gifts in this paper. So you wrapped this back at Baker Street." John nodded and joined Sherlock on the sofa. "And now, let me see…." Sherlock tore off the paper and found a thick hinged case, which he opened carefully. A gold pocket watch lay nestled among blue satin folds. Sherlock picked it up by it chain, spinning the watch so that it caught the glow of the afternoon sunlight.

"This recently came into my possession," John explained. "I wondered if you might tell me something about its owner."

Sherlock gazed at the face of the watch, then slid his hand along the edge of the face, looking for the miniscule hinge that would allow him access to the watch's inner works.

"There are hardly any data," Sherlock complained. "The watch has been recently cleaned."

"You are right," John said. "It was cleaned before being sent to me. You can hardly expect that I would give you a tarnished old watch, now would you?" He grinned at Sherlock. "What can you tell me about it?"

"Of course I may be mistaken, but I would judge that the watch belonged to Harry, who inherited it from your father."

"Because of the H.W. on the back?"

"Yes. The W. suggests your own name. The date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: so it was made for a previous generation. Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years. It has, therefore, been in the hands of your sister, who, for some undecipherable reason, recently decided to gift it to you."

"Right, so far," John admitted. "Anything else?"

"Only that your father and Harry must have been alike in at least one regard," Sherlock said soberly. "He was very untidy and careless. When you observe the lower part of that watch-case, you notice that it is not only dented in two places, but it is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard objects, such as coins or keys, in the same pocket. A man who treats a £5000 watch so cavalierly must be a careless man. Rather like Harry and her phone."

"He was rather careless," John admitted. "But I had no idea the watch was worth so much."

"You didn't have it valued? I'm surprised, John. Feel the heft? It must be almost solid gold. Curiouser and curiouser."

"What else?"

"He was an alcoholic. Like Harry. Given how well you and your sister get along, and given your feelings about autotherapeutic narcotics usage, I am surprised if this item holds much sentimental value for you. But the look on your face says it does."

"Yes," John admitted. "He wasn't the first doctor to drink himself to an early death, you know. And he was a good man."

"You admired him. You became a doctor because of him."

"I loved him," John said. "He was a good man, and a good father. When I was young, before – before I went away to Uni. That's when the drinking got bad."

"And so, to restore some order to your life, you decided to join the army. Very predictable. And even though you were the only son, the one who followed in his footsteps, he still decided to give the watch to Harry."

"Because of her initials," John explained. "They had the same initials."

"But you could have easily added a 'J' in front of the 'H.W.' to form your own initials, and keep the watch for yourself. Yet you didn't. You decided to give me this watch. Very curious."

"What do you make of it, then?" John asked. "The fact that I gave it to you, that is."

"A watch is not quite so intimate as a piece of jewellery, of course, but a family heirloom – now, is that the kind of present that one gives a flat mate? I think not. I think – what was the other present you were going to give me, John?"

"I'd like you to finish deducing this one, first," John said, nodding to the watch.

"I think you were going to give me the other present, perhaps as the only present. But you brought this one along, too. Clearly an intimate gesture, to give another man your father's gold watch. You wouldn't have done this if – if we hadn't –" Sherlock began to stumble on his words.

"Yes, I would have," John said. "At least, that was one possible outcome. Giving you the watch. As something to remember me by, something to remember our friendship."

"Because you were planning to leave Baker Street," Sherlock said softly.

"Yes," John admitted.

"And now?"

"Not leaving now," John said.

"Do you still want me to keep the watch?" Sherlock asked. "Knowing that it is worth so much?"

"The watch is yours, Sherlock. It's not the kind of thing that I could see myself using. It seemed more your style. You know, with your coat and everything." Sherlock smiled, rubbing his fingers over the worn casing of the watch.

"Thank you, John," he said. "I'm glad that you gave this to me. And I'm even gladder that you aren't leaving Baker Street."

"Aren't you at all curious about why Harry gave it to me?"

"It's clear she had no idea of its value, otherwise she'd never have given it to you. Guilt, perhaps? Was she trying to make up for something?"

"Only for five Christmases without cards or phone calls, much less presents. She knew that I always coveted that watch."

"Let me guess," Sherlock interrupted. "Step 9: make direct amends to all persons that she has harmed."

"Yep," John admitted, stretching his arms up over his head and yawning. "Sorry, not enough sleep, I guess. What about that nap, Sherlock?"

"You nap," Sherlock said. "But first, I want to hear – what about the other present?"

"Oh, that. Ha!"

"Yes, that one. What is it?"

"A trip to the dissection warehouse at Columbia Medical School. The students begin the anatomy course in a few weeks and the medical corpses have all arrived. I know the instructor for the course – brother of an American doctor I served with in Afghanistan – and he offered to let us in, so you could take a look around, deduce their cause of death, that kind of thing."

"Are the causes of death documented?" Sherlock asked.

"That's the special thing," John said. "I thought you would like that. Yes, they're all from people who wanted to donate their bodies for medical education. And the cause of death is thoroughly documented in every case, as are demographic data and history of family illness."

"John," Sherlock said in a low voice. "You are amazing."

"I thought I was supposed to say that to you," John joked.

"No, you are. Now, go take your nap, Miss O'Hara."

"So you do know Gone With the Wind," John said.

"I have my methods," Sherlock said, with a grin. He went back to examining the watch as John made his way to the bedroom, shaking his head.

I went out on a limb here and incorporated some of A Scandal in Belgravia. I hope my timeline doesn't get messed up with Baskerville and Reichenbach air, but I couldn't resist relying on the new insights gleaned from this episode.

Also, I now have a tumblr account and am looking for people to follow! I'm at emmadelosnardos dot tumblr dot com . It's been pretty awesome, so far, following the waves of fan interest in the new episode.

Emma