Pax XIII
"Is this alright?" John asked, pulling at his bow tie. He saw his reflection in the mirror and, again, he was stunned anew by how a well-cut suit could do so much to his figure.
Sherlock looked over and scanned John from head to toe.
"You do know how to wear a uniform," Sherlock commented.
"Is this a uniform?" John asked.
"Of sorts. It says something about you."
"What does it say, to you, Sherlock?"
"It says that whoever picked out the suit has exceptional taste." Sherlock smirked.
"I'm afraid haven't thanked you properly," John admitted. His gaze caught Sherlock's and the detective felt a stirring in his chest. John looked dashing, and dignified, and still just like himself, yet somehow more so. It's not the suit, John Watson, Sherlock thought. It's you. You are what makes it magnificent. Because you know how to wear it. The dark gray was the right choice, with your fair colouring and your eyes. Next time we'll go for a subtle taupe, plaid perhaps. Nothing too ostentatious.
"Do you like it?" Sherlock asked.
"Do I like it, Sherlock?" John asked, amazed. "Can't you tell? This is the most thoughtful gift I have ever received."
"You didn't grow up in the Holmes household, clearly," Sherlock said. "It was clothes every Christmas for us. Even if I would have preferred a chemistry kit or a blowtorch."
John giggled. "Well, this is certainly turning out to be a Holmesian Christmas for me, all things considered. And, Sherlock – you shouldn't complain about getting clothes for Christmas, if your parents gave you tailored suits. Mine bought us wool socks and Wellingtons." Sherlock huffed."And you don't look half bad, yourself, Sherlock. You look pretty spectacular, actually," John said.
He had wanted to say that to Sherlock for a long time, but it had never seemed appropriate to comment on his flatmate's fashion sense before. Yet, with Sherlock towering above him in a dark blue jacket and shirt and matching trousers, his tie a perfect silver Windsor, he couldn't help but feel a little bit awed. What would it be like, John wondered, to enter the ball with Sherlock? Or – and this thought frightened him a bit – to dance with him?
"In Argentina, the tango developed as a dance between two men," Sherlock said, as if he were aware of where John's thoughts were headed. "Dock workers and porters, and the like. There weren't any women so they danced with each other. It was only later, when prostitutes began to work at the port, that they began to dance with women."
"We're not in Buenos Aires," John said.
"No," Sherlock retorted. "We're in New York." He brushed a speck of lint off of John's shoulders, turning him around to face the mirror. "A very gay New York, these days, I might add." They looked at each other in the mirror.
"And don't tell me you're not gay, John. I already know that." Sherlock sighed and put his hands on John's shoulders, leaning down to kiss his fair head. "But, please, can you try to not let this bother you so much?"
"It doesn't bother me, Sherlock," John said quickly, looking back at him through the mirror. He wanted to turn around and kiss Sherlock, he wanted to grab his friend and muss up his hair and unknot the tie and wrinkle his shirt and – but there was a ball to attend. And Mycroft. Always, always Mycroft.
"You're lying, John."
"Sherlock, you don't need to point out to me every time I'm lying," John protested. "Sometimes a lie is just someone's way of saying 'I don't want to talk about it now, thank you very much!' "
"Then why don't you just say that? Just tell me –" Sherlock was kissing his hair again, and then moving his mouth down to John's ear, and now John was seriously having second thoughts about the ball, and about ever leaving the hotel room…"—Just tell me what you want me to do. Or—" running his tongue along John's ear "—not do."
"Sherlock," John growled. "You will go downstairs, and call for a cab, and I will join you in five minutes. Or we will not go at all." Sherlock straightened himself and pulled away from John. He quickly gathered his coat and gloves before dashing out of the suite.
John joined him at the reception area five minutes later.
A large chandelier lit the United Nations' ballroom with a soft yellow light; various wreathes and garlands added colour to the scene. As Sherlock had described, most of the tables and chairs had been removed from the hall, leaving a broad open space for guests to mingle and, if they wished, to dance. Mycroft had waited for them at the entryway to the ballroom, talking earnestly to the Ambassador until he caught sight of Sherlock and John making their way down the corridor. Without missing a beat, he excused himself from the Ambassador's side long enough to sidle up to Sherlock and, in the ingratiating style that Sherlock abhorred, greeted them.
"So good to see you, Sherlock, and your caro mio," Mycroft simpered as they entered the delegates' dining room. It was just the kind of comment Mycroft usually said, but this time John didn't bother to correct him, a fact that he was sure did not pass by Mycroft unnoticed.
"Is he here?" Sherlock asked. If his brother was all artifice, all pretence, then Sherlock would be blunt.
"Not that I can tell," Mycroft said, looking at John as if to say, Are you sure you should be talking about this in front of him?
"I wouldn't expect him to turn up as himself," Sherlock said. "How many disguises does Moriarty have by now? Do you think he could pass as a Czech diplomat? Or a Brazilian ambassador? What will it be for him, tonight, I wonder?"
"One never knows," Mycroft said with a bored air.
"Is everything set?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft nodded, then turned to John, holding out his hand in greeting. "So good of you to come, Dr. Watson. I see that some of Sherlock's taste has rubbed off on you. Michael Andrews, then? Well done, well done." He nodded smugly. John smiled as brightly as he could and murmured his greetings. He wasn't sure what to expect from a Christmas ball at the United Nations. A few couples were already dancing, practicing twirls and steps on the floor. Sherlock scanned the gathering, narrowing his eyes as he recognized first one person, then another.
"Go help yourself to some food, John," he said, gesturing at the buffet tables lining the walls. "I expect you might be hungry." They were standing a foot apart, no closer than they would have in ordinary circumstances. Sherlock began to stroll towards the wall of windows and John followed him, keeping the same careful distance between them.
"What are you expecting to find, Sherlock?" John asked. They had reached the windows and were now staring out at the black night and the scattered points of lights that marked the bank of the river. Across from them, a large Coca-Cola sign glowed red.
"I'm not sure what we'll find," Sherlock replied. "Just – don't go too far. I need you to watch my back." He stood tall and silent, and John imagined how Sherlock would have appeared to anyone looking in from outside, his long, dark silhouette outlined against the lights and garlands of the ballroom.
"Left the gun back at Baker Street, I'm afraid," John joked under his breath.
"There are more guards here than there should be," Sherlock said in a low voice. "But that's because –"
John cut him off. "—Some of them aren't guards." He smiled grimly.
"No. Some of them are CIA."
"Are they allowed to enter the U.N.? I thought this was international territory."
Sherlock nodded. "They still have some jurisdiction here," he confirmed.
They stood gazing at the East River for a moment.
"Well, I guess I'll get something to eat, Sherlock," John said at last. "Come find me, will you?" Sherlock nodded, continuing to look out the window. He watched John's image reflected there, as John turned away and walked towards the buffet. Then Sherlock saw another figure approach him. Through the looking glass a woman's form emerged, joining him in his contemplation.
"It's a beautiful view," she said in a London accent.
"Yes," he agreed. "How are you tonight, Ambassador?" He did not turn to look at her, but kept his hands linked behind his back as he stared out at the river.
"I am well, Mr. Holmes. And you?"
"I imagine that you are quite anxious, despite appearances," Sherlock commented. "You hide your anxiety well. One might even think that you don't ever feel fear."
The red-haired woman turned towards him. "Why should I be nervous?" she asked him. He dovetailed so that they stood at an angle to one another, speaking to each other's reflection in the glass.
"Why don't you tell me, Ambassador? Perhaps because, at this very moment, in your townhouse on 51st Street, a man working for James Moriarty is about to complete a transaction that began earlier today."
"I fail to catch your meaning, Mr. Holmes. There is no one at my home at present. I live alone, you see."
"Except when my brother is visiting," Sherlock noted.
"Your brother, yes," she murmured. "He's here tonight, too. In case you haven't noticed."
"Ms. Barrett," Sherlock began. "There is nothing that escapes my notice. Or, should I call you Mrs. Irrázurri?" He turned fully towards her. "Would you care to dance?" he asked solemnly. She looked up at him and tried to compose her face. "Yes, I am asking you to dance, Ambassador. That is generally considered the appropriate response when a lovely woman seeks out one' company at a ball, is it not? Come." He took her elbow and pulled her away from the window, leading her towards the dance floor.
Across the room, Sherlock caught sight of John, his back to the crowd, filling a large plate with roast duck and sundries. Mycroft was next to him, apparently trying to engage John in conversation. He would talk to John later. For now, he needed his full attention focused on the Ambassador.
Sherlock put one arm around the ambassador's slender waist as his other arm gently guided her hand into the pose. The orchestra was playing an insipid Strauss waltz, the kind of music that Sherlock usually detested, but it was easy enough to dance to and he didn't need any additional distractions at the moment. He held his partner firmly, but not tightly; she could have easily pulled free of him. That was what he wanted, for her to feel bound to him, and yet utterly free, for he knew that she would not leave him until the dance had ended, and with Strauss's tendency to repeat his codas ad infinitum, he had at least seven minutes to speak to her.
"There's no particular reason you should feel fear, Ms. Barrett, not if you listen to what I am about to tell you." Sherlock said, continuing the conversation he had just started. "Don't you think you're punching above your weight, here? This isn't Bogotá – or was it Medellín that you're more familiar with?"
"Of course, my husband was from Medellín," the ambassador snapped.
"Your husband, Franco Irrázurri Mirto, son of fascist exiles from Spain who established themselves in Medellín during the Spanish Civil War." She raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I've done my research," Sherlock continued. "Did you think we wouldn't? By training, your husband was an attorney, by occupation a – what would we call your dear esposo? A gun-runner? Smuggler? Narcotraficante?"
"How dare you," she said heatedly, pulling back from him, but he gripped her wrist firmly.
"Don't make a scene," Sherlock warned her. "There will be back-up on you in an instant."
"I know all the guards here," she said.
"These won't be your people," he warned her. "And these days, narcos are better known as terrorists. No matter the colour of their skin." The music continued, the lilting one-two-three of the Viennese waltz, and Sherlock looked over to the table where John and Mycroft were now seated. He began to lead Ambassador Barrett in a convoluted path towards the table, avoiding other couples and changing his direction so often that the ambassador didn't have the chance to see where they were going.
They made for a stunning couple: Sherlock with his tall elegance, the ambassador with the grace of an older woman who was still beautiful. She wore a dark green dress, cut on the bias, and matching emerald earrings. From Colombia, no doubt, Sherlock thought. Her hair was swept back into a low pompadour, adorned with a peacock feather. A touch overdone, he thought. Though it will make quite the impression when she is handcuffed and dragged out later tonight.
"You came to find me, Ambassador," Sherlock said. "What did you want to say to me? A message, perhaps? A distraction?"
"Please," she began. "Does your brother know?"
"Mycroft?" Sherlock snorted. "Do you really believe that anything gets past him? A little too convenient, this Colombian connection."
"Just because I may have had a connection to James Moriarty in the past – a quite legal connection, I will have you know – that is no reason for you to think that I have continued that association."
"Circumstantial evidence, is that what you think we have?" Sherlock laughed. "We have much more than that."
"Then prove it to me, before you throw these accusations in my face. You and your brother are here at my behest, need I remind you?"
"Which is why I suggest that you listen very carefully to what I am going to say. You will cooperate fully with Mycroft and with the law. You know that the Homeland Security Act is not among the more, shall we say, lenient bills passed by the American legislature."
"I have diplomatic immunity," she said.
"And I am sure that you intend to fully exploit that immunity," he answered. "Which is why I am going to remind you that, if Moriarty's deal goes badly tonight – if, for example, someone were to apprehend his agent at your townhouse, recovering the paintings and thereby confirming the link between Moriarty and Al-Qaeda – you know that the law would not be the greatest of your concerns."
"Are you threatening me?" she asked.
"Not at all," Sherlock said, steering her gently towards Mycroft. "Merely reminding you that diplomatic immunity will not protect you from an assassin. And you do know something of assassins, and of fear, don't you, Mrs. Irrázurri? And just how long have you been taking Atavan?"
"I never took my husband's name," she protested. "It's not custom in Colombia."
"You're trying to distract me. That does not work. I know that your husband was assassinated by a leftist cartel in Colombia. After that, you moved back to England, continued your service to Her Majesty's foreign office, were reassigned a number of times – to the Republic of Ireland, conveniently enough, and then to Bosnia – and finally you ended up here. Quite the position, ambassador the United Nations for Great Britain. And it will cause a great scandal if it gets out that you have been collaborating with terrorists. I don't think that even your extensive collection of benzodiazepines will allow you to keep such a calm face when all of this is revealed. Especially if Moriarty sends someone after you."
"How are you going to protect me?" she asked.
"It's simple. Tell Mycroft and his American cousins what you know about Moriarty, and maybe they'll let you quietly resign. But, otherwise…" Sherlock's voice trailed off as the dance also came to an end. They had glided up beside John and Mycroft, who immediately grasped the Ambassador's hand and entreated her to share a dance with him. Her eyes, brighter even than her jewels, looked beseechingly at Sherlock as Mycroft led her away. Crocodile's tears, he thought. Then, hearing another voice, he turned.
"Would you care to dance?" John was asking him. Sherlock blinked, a little taken aback.
"I thought – I thought – " he stumbled, thrown off guard despite himself.
"If what Mycroft told me is correct," John said, smiling up at him, "in just a few minutes, the British Ambassador will be led out of here – not exactly in handcuffs, but it will cause a scene."
"A distraction, you mean," Sherlock clarified, coming just a bit closer.
"Yes, a distraction, Sherlock," John answered, taking Sherlock's left hand in his right.
"Am I to lead, then?" Sherlock asked. John laughed.
"Yes, you clod! You have at least six inches on me, of course you are going to lead. I've resigned myself to that, with you."
"I hope I don't always have to lead," Sherlock whispered as he drew John towards him. "I'm sure there are quite a few ways that you could lead me." He grinned down at John, who tried to stammer out a response. But then the music began again, and Sherlock was pulling him out onto the floor, and there was nothing to be said, because of the music, and the company, and the fact that he was there, actually dancing with Sherlock, of all people – and in front of others, no less – well, that was almost too much for John to think about. So he did not think. He moved, instead. He danced with Sherlock even as the Ambassador was escorted out of the room, even as midnight approached and Christmas was over. John danced the waltz, the cha-cha, and the tango (yes, the tango, and it was a genuine Argentine tango, subtle and close, none of that rose-between-your-teeth nonsense), and he kept on dancing until the strobe lights came on and the Christmas lights went down – and who knew that funk was on the playlist at the U.N.? And Lady Gaga? And who would have expected Sherlock to shake his hips like the best of them? Or take off his jacket and tie sometime shortly after 1:00?
Sherlock and John did not get back to the hotel until it was very, very late.