Pax XV

Author's note: Kudos to Murdoke for spotting the Baskerville references in the last chapter. There are four intentional ones and perhaps some additional ones that I'm not aware of. Let me know if you spotted them!

I'm trying to maintain a more regular writing schedule this week. Lots of love to Terrier, Murdoke, Skyfullofstars, Dark Knightress, Zarra Rous, Tsukinoblossom, raven612, Baow, Daysofstorm, haveacreamteaonme, bluegirl, syncsister, Soapiefan, Lexeetee, Thisisforyou, wooooo, nebulousblender, ladyunebarton, and others of you who have left me such encouraging comments. Extra special thanks to Lastew and Tsukinoblossom for their insight and advice during the drafting of this and other chapters.

A disclosure at last: I don't own these characters, they belong to ACD and the BBC, etc. All mistakes are my own as I am prioritizing speed over accuracy.

Emma

December 27th

"That was fucking fantastic."

"Hmm? It was good, wasn't it?"

"Quite," John agreed. "And now, Sherlock, I really have to leave this hotel room. D'ya know, I don't think I've spent two entire days in bed, having sex, since – well –"

"Since the spring that Harry came out to your parents and you spent the Easter holiday at Uni instead of going home?"

"Now I am convinced that you have psychic powers, Sherlock."

"It wasn't hard to deduce, John. I've had – shall we say – a certain interest in your sexual history."

"I don't think I could have overlooked that, Sherlock."

"So you didn't overlook a comment left on your blog by one Elise Cutter?"

"Elise C-C-Cutter?" John stammered. "Elise Cutter?"

"She calls herself Elise Cutter-Smith nowadays, but I reckon she's the same one, isn't she?"

"She never left me a message on my blog, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. They lay facing each other on the bed. John's head was propped on one hand while his other explored the curve of Sherlock's shoulder.

"You didn't delete it, did you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked away.

"Forget I mentioned it, John," he said. "I shouldn't have said a thing – you told me it was gauche to speak of ex-lovers."

"Then why did you bring it up?" Now Sherlock had pulled away from John and was standing at the foot of the bed, naked and flaccid, looking down at John's angry face.

"I shouldn't have said a thing. I was showing off," Sherlock admitted.

"You jolly well were showing off. As if I didn't know you were an expert hacker. I just didn't think you would censor the comments on my blog. Was there anything else that I was supposed to read but never did?"

Sherlock cocked his head. "No," he lied. It was a convincing lie, and John lay back down with a sigh.

"So now you're the one who needed to know all about my sexual history, is that it, Sherlock? Any particular reason why?"

"I needed to know whom I was dealing with," Sherlock said primly as he rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a pair of clean pants.

"Nice try, Sherlock," John said. "But I'm really not in any state to criticize your sexual interest in me. Not after that fantastic shag."

"It was rather excellent, wasn't it? How would you rate it on position, John? Between the legs – I'd give it an 8.4. There's friction and tightness but the tendency to get oneself caught between the other's legs if he squeezes too tightly is a decided disadvantage. Let's reconsider that rating. How about a 7.0 for position. And then on technique…"

"I am not rating our sex life, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up from buttoning his shirt and blinked twice before answering.

"Sorry," he said roughly. "I just thought that, for the sake of future comparison, we could—" John cut him off.

"No. No. No." He paused for emphasis. "No."

"I thought that you liked to talk about this." Sherlock waved a hand at John and then at himself.

"About us? Yes, I do like to talk about us. But grading ourselves on our technique is not necessarily going to enhance our relationship."

"I don't see why not, John. Why should we make the same mistakes over and over if we can learn now, at the beginning, what each of us likes?"

"Sherlock," John said. "There is nothing that we have done together that was a mistake. Except, perhaps, staying in the basement of the Frick while the terrorists made away with the paintings, which still haven't been recovered, unless you know something I don't know."

"They must have found out that we were on to them that night," Sherlock said. "Her apartment was empty the entire night. No one came by. But that doesn't mean that the paintings weren't there."

"What are you saying, Sherlock?" John was confused. There's no way that Sherlock could ignore a hot case for two days just to laze about with me, drinking wine and reading and having this kind of sex. No damn way.

Sherlock's face took on a disgruntled expression. "The paintings were there, John. But no one came to retrieve them. And the Ambassador claims that they were planted there."

"And were they?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly. That would be quite the coincidence. They were certainly there on purpose."

"When did you find this out, and why didn't you tell me earlier?" Sherlock now had another drawer open; he pulled out a pair of dark pants and threw them to John.

"In answer to your first question: I found this out yesterday morning. In answer to your second: you never asked me what happened. You were too busy getting shagged: in the shower, on the rug, in bed…"

"So now I have to ask in order for you to tell me about case information?" John asked, deliberately ignoring Sherlock's provocative comment. "Where's the old Sherlock Holmes, the one who couldn't wait to let everyone know when he had solved a case?"

"I didn't want you to distract you."

"That is ridiculous," John blurted out, sitting up and pulling on his pants. He had a sudden thought.

"You didn't solve this case, did you, Sherlock? It was Mycroft this time. Am I right?"

"I told you before, John, I wasn't here to solve cases, I was merely here to consult."

John laughed. "Mycroft solved it."

"He did not."

"Yes, he did. That's the only possibility."

"Not the only possibility," Sherlock hedged. "Maybe no one solved it."

"If the case were still hot, then you wouldn't be here right now."

"I wouldn't?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"While I'd be flattered if you put a case aside to spend time with me, Sherlock, I know that's just not you. You wouldn't have taken this time off to eat and sleep and drink and– ." Sherlock cut him off.

"And fuck, John. Fuck. That's what we did these last two days." He grinned widely.

"You wanker," John said with affection. "You just won't get over reminding me, will you?"

"No."

"So I had better just admit for once and for all that you are a fantastic fucker?"

"A fucking fantastic fucker, John."

"You're distracting me again. Case, Sherlock. What happened with the case?" John had been wondering but part of him had held out the hope that, indeed, Sherlock had been so distracted by the sex and the cuddling and the sweet sleep that he had forgot about the case.

"They recovered the paintings from the Ambassador's town home and returned them to the Frick. It was an open and shut case. Boring."

Ah, so that's why you've been staying inside these past two days with me. I should have known it wasn't my fabulous personality and fit bod; you were bored. When will I ever learn?

"I'd still like to know the details, Sherlock. Please, can't you just pretend I'm your partner somewhere that's not here in bed?" John grinned at his own pun.

John's upset, Sherlock thought. What did I say wrong? I didn't say that he was boring. I said that the case was boring. We all saw it coming: the Colombian connection was just too obvious to miss. And this was one time I was glad to have Mycroft intervene. A man does have his limits in terms of how far he is willing to go in the name of solving a case. And sex with a woman is one of those areas…

"Moriarty had blackmailed Ambassador Barrett. We're still not sure about all the details there, but we know it had something to do with her husband's business. He's been dead for seven years but the Ambassador still has considerable assets in Colombia. Those assets could be stripped if the Colombian government found any ties to terrorist organizations. Ever since Uribe they have increased the pressure on businesses who fund terrorists. In Irrázurri's case, we're certain that those ties do exist, if not to Moriarty's group, then to some puppet caudillo that he controls."

"I'm following so far," John said. "So – why the big dénouement at the U.N. ball?"

"Effect," Sherlock said tersely, drawing out the final consonants.

"For effect?" John asked incredulously.

"You know that there's nothing that Mycroft likes more than causing a scene. It was a power play to show the government back home who is in charge here, who is really taking care of British interests abroad. Not the diplomatic corps, apparently."

"So – all this – was for show, then? Is there really a terrorist threat? Or was all of this some elaborate scheme to show the Home Office that Six does a better job at ensuring world peace than the United Nations?"

"I don't think it was intended as a statement on the United Nations as an organisation, John. Just on the selection of ambassadors who haven't come up through the ranks as career officers."

"But wasn't Mrs. Barrett – Mrs. Irrázurri – a career diplomat? She did serve in Colombia, after all. And Bosnia too, am I right?"

Sherlock had walked into the bathroom as John said these last few questions. When he returned, his chin was covered with white shaving lotion and a razor was in his right hand.

"Are you going to shave without a mirror?" John asked.

"Of course not," Sherlock said, going over to the sliding doors of the closet, which were hung with large mirrors. "I'm going to shave while I continue the story. You were the one who complained about my prickly lips last night."

"Sorry if I'm not so fond of carpet burn on my nether parts," John retorted. "But if you can talk and shave at the same time, then I admit it, I'm impressed."

"Then why don't you talk, John? Tell me what happened, as best as you can make out."

John sighed. Do we have to play this game, Sherlock? Am I going to be your apprentice forever? But as much as John might grumble, he had to admit that he enjoyed telling Sherlock what he knew, if only to see the look of surprise on Sherlock's face when the doctor noticed some minute detail that Sherlock imagined must have passed him by.

"Let's start with the Moriarty connection in Colombia, then. At some point in the late nineties or early noughts, Jim Moriarty, who was connected through family with Sinn Fein, cut his teeth in the Colombia shipping trade."

"Go on." Sherlock had finished shaving his left cheek and had moved on to the hairs on his long neck.

"Uhh, he specialized in intercepting arms shipments from the U.S. that were bound for the anti-guerrilla campaign waged by the Colombian government. Damn it, Sherlock, it's just like what is happening in Afghanistan! Weapons that are meant to stop terrorists are being confiscated by guerrilla groups and sold on the black market. And the local government is no good at keeping track of the arms. Or the officials make so little money that they're easily bought off. Am I right?"

"You have the general idea," Sherlock said. "See, I knew you'd like this case more if you thought it through by yourself."

"You just don't want to cut yourself shaving, Sherlock. And you like telling me when I'm wrong. So go ahead: tell me where I went wrong."

"In Afghanistan, weapons are coming from more sources. You have the breakdown of the Soviet Union and the theft of stores of chemical weapons from the region around Chechnya. Singularly nasty things those Soviet had stored away there in the Caucuses: the sulfur mustards, napalm, that sort of thing. Long outlawed by the G8, but when they were produced – 1970s? 1908s? – the Soviet Union wasn't letting weapon inspectors inside their borders. Cold War and all that. And then you have the Taliban groups that operate between Afghanistan and Pakistan, shuttling guns over the border, many of which are of U.S. manufacture, I might add."

"Yes, well, you would know about Pakistan, wouldn't you?"

Sherlock ignored his comment. "Go on," he said. "I won't interrupt you again. Suffice it to say: Afghanistan is a lot messier than Colombia. Though heavens knows the international community can't stop throwing money at either country."

"Monetary sinkholes," John stately flatly. "The story of my life: defending British economic interests abroad."

"That's not what I was implying, John," Sherlock said, letting his arm fall to one side. "Just because I'm not fond of England's interventionist policies doesn't mean I think your time in the army was a waste. You became quite the sharpshooter. And your reflexes are still excellent." Sherlock turned to walk back to the bathroom. When he came out, a damp towel was wrapped around his neck. He patted at his chin as John rolled his eyes.

"This is a pointless exercise, Sherlock."

"You told me that I like correcting you. I do. So keep talking and I'll keep telling you where you get it wrong."

"I don't want to play this game right now, Sherlock," John said. He had found his trousers by now and was in the midst of pulling a blue striped shirt over his head. "Lunch?"

Sherlock blinked as if confused. "Lunch?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Lunch. The second meal of the day. Déjeuner, almuerzo, almoço, whatever you want to call it. L-U-N-C-H. Or we could go in for what is apparently quite the New York thing: brunch."

"I detest silly compound words, John."

"You won't detest brunch at Balthazar's, Sherlock."

"Balthazar's?" Sherlock wrinkled his brow.

"Great bistro down in the Village. My friend at the medical school recommended it for a romantic outing."

"You're asking your army buddies for dating advice? Now, that's the most interesting thing you've told me all day. Don't tell me you told him what kind of person you were bringing to your romantic brunch."

"I told him I was bringing you, Sherlock."

"Your 'colleague'?" Sherlock asked, a hint of resentment in his voice.

"You're never going to get over the fact that I used to refer to myself as your colleague and not as your friend, are you?" John asked.

"Never," Sherlock said. "Though I supposed that one day I'll look back and be astonished that you didn't call me your 'boyfriend' from the very first. Especially when everyone else insisted that we were a couple."

"Everyone but you, Sherlock."

"I never denied it," Sherlock said defensively.

"No, you didn't," John admitted. "And that, at least, gave me some hope." He paused. "As tempted as I am to continue this conversation – which I really should be taking advantage of, as long as you seem willing to use your mouth for talking – I am getting quite hungry. And I think you will like Balthazar's. Yes, yes, even you, Sherlock."

An hour later, they were sitting in the mirror halls of McNally's fashionable bistro, eating chicken paillard and arguing over the thickness of the perfect pommes frites. After two days of wine and sex, even Sherlock had worked up an appetite.

"How do you feel about castles, John?" Sherlock asked towards the end of the meal.

"Castles?" John asked doubtfully.

"Not a real castle. Not in this country. But – how about a monastery on a hill? It's not so different, really. At least, the Americans don't think there's much difference. We're in the country that built Las Vegas and Disney World, after all. But the Cloisters are worth the long tube ride. And it has great views of the Palisades and the river. If we take a train now," Sherlock said, looking at his watch, "We just might make it before the sun starts to set."

"Uh, where are we going, Sherlock?"

"To the Tube," Sherlock said, rising from the table and snatching the bill as he went. At least he pays for both of us now, John thought to himself. Even if little else has changed.

"Are you coming, John?" John blinked and shook his head to clear it. What am I thinking? Of course things have changed with him. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was actually suggesting a date.

"Is this a date, Sherlock?" John whispered as he caught up with Sherlock at the maître d's podium.

Sherlock leaned his head back and, winking, looked at John. "It's whatever you want it to be."