Author's note: This chapter is dedicated to Khorazir, for the amazing drawings that she created of Sherlock and John dancing at the United Nations ball. You can find her work, including this series, at khorazir dot tumblr dot com. I have been an admirer of her fanart for a long time and was flattered that she chose my story to illustrate. Also, because Khorazir and I share a love of bicycling, and because she has drawn some lovely images of Sherlock and John in (spandex) riding shorts, this chapter will partially fulfill my promise to her to write a cycling fic.

Abrazos,

Emma

Pax XVI

When they got out of the subway at 190th Street, the sun was hanging low over the other side of the river, about to descend over the cliffs of the Palisades.

"Haven't been here in a while," Sherlock commented. "I wonder if the gardens…." His voice trailed off as he looked around the traffic roundabout where they had emerged. John looked around as well, involuntarily shivering and wrapping his arms around his chest to keep warm. Their breaths were visible in the frigid air, small puffs of cloud in front of their faces. Sherlock took John by the hand and began to walk across the roundabout, coming to the entry to the museum's grounds. John hardly had time to notice that Sherlock had taken his hand in public – Outdoors, John corrected himself, The first time outdoors. After all, we practically didn't let go of each other at the dance – before Sherlock pulled him through the gate and into the heather garden.

"It's supposed to resemble an English moor," Sherlock explained. "Probably the only part of the garden that's worth seeing in winter. The rest is dormant. But over there –" he gestured expansively "—are rose beds, you can just see them covered up, and beyond they plant irises and lilies in the spring. Daffodils and narcissi, of course, and first of all, the crocuses, in March."

"It must be lovely," John responded, looking across the garden and down, over the Hudson River, dark gray and still. To their south he could see the large towers of the George Washington Bridge. They were at the highest spot in Manhattan, and the view was unimpeded by skyscrapers or streetlights. John D. Rockefeller's pet project, the Cloisters, towered over the river. It was a medieval artifact in a modern city.

"Are we going to go inside the museum?" John asked.

"Do you really want to see illuminated manuscripts and gargoyles?" Sherlock asked. "There are far better collections in Europe. And the building is a mishmash of architectural styles. Still, I find it charming in the summer, when the courtyard gardens are in bloom. I've always had a bit of interest in medieval kitchen gardens, and the herbs they used to grow there."

"Edible or poisonous?" John joked, thinking of the poisonous manuscripts in Eco's book.

"Medicinal," mostly, Sherlock admitted. "Yarrow and tansy, and wormwood, monk's hood, the like. Some were poisonous in large doses, like digitalis, but served healing functions when administered properly." Sherlock turned and grinned down at John, casually taking the other man's wrist in his gloved hands.

"It sounds like you have made quite the study of them, then." John looked up at Sherlock and took a sharp breath. He's beautiful, John thought, and even more ethereal in this slant of light. Sherlock's face was lit with the golden light of the setting sun, and his eyes were bluer than usual.

Sherlock squeezed John's wrist more tightly. "There is a very thin line between that which kills and that which heals. Botulinum, botulism, Botox, remember?"

"Basics of pharmacology," John noted. "It's all about the dosage."

"Exactly," said Sherlock.

"You're a bit poisonous yourself, you know that?" Sherlock looked mildly puzzled, and yet strangely pleased. "Not in a bad way. Sherlock, hemlock – your name even sounds like a poison. And in large doses you can be quite the pain. But taken in the right dose, one might even say – you do good."

"I do not do good," Sherlock said huffily. "And I am not the doctor, here."

"Not with me, not usually," John conceded. "But I like to think of you as something rare and refined, like a delicate flower. You need special care to blossom."

"I'm hardly an orchid, John," Sherlock scoffed. "But leave it to you to mix metaphors to avoid offending me. You needn't have worried, anyway." Sherlock began to walk along the narrow garden path, John pulled close to his side. "I rather like the idea of being a poison. Now, the question is: which poison?"

"Why not hemlock? It has a rather storied history. I like the idea of you being linked to Socrates in some way."

"Other than in my methods?"

John hit his forehead with his palm. "Did I set you up for a pun without realizing it?"

"You did," Sherlock said. "For which I entirely forgive you the mixed metaphors earlier." You are adorable, John. No. Not adorable. Fuck it Sherlock not adorable. Not adorable. That's a word that John would use to talk about Mrs. Hudson's flower pots. That's the kind of word someone like Sarah Sawyers would use. Not adorable. Then – what? What word to describe this darling little man – NO! Not again! Not darling, not adorable, not sweetheart or –

"Luv," Sherlock began, before he realized what he was saying, "let me show you the paths down below. The views are spectacular." John shot a sharp glance at Sherlock. They might both pretend that Sherlock hadn't said anything out of the ordinary, but that would just be pretending.

"Thanks for that," John said lowly, so low that he thought that Sherlock might not have heard it. But then Sherlock's fingers squeezed John's wrist, their pressure an affirmation.

"I used to come up here to think," Sherlock said, changing the topic. "It's a good place to be alone. And to walk."

"You haven't told me much about your time in New York." They were reaching a stone wall. Sherlock leaned back against it and then, in one smooth gesture, lifted himself up to sit on it. John quickly followed suit, albeit less gracefully. They turned themselves around so that their legs dangled over the western side, facing the river and the sun, which was now so close to the horizon that it would be gone in just a few minutes.

"I didn't spent that much time here," Sherlock explained. "Just enough time to make some inroads into the Dominican community, to find out who was running drugs across the G.W."

"The G.W.?"

"George Washington Bridge. They called it the G.W. for short."

"And who was responsible? How did you find out? Is that why you know Spanish?"

Sherlock laughed. "No, John. That's not how I know Spanish. We were sent to Andalucía nearly every summer, growing up."

"Unusual choice for your parents? Spain?"

"They didn't come along," Sherlock responded. "Soon as school was out, we'd go to visit Abu—Nanny—in Seville." That would explain the hair, John thought. Those dark curls – I would have thought Black Irish, but they could just as easily be Moorish.

"Never told me that," John said. "In fact, you never tell me much about your family. I haven't met any of them except for Mycroft. And was that your cousin who died? You were going to tell me more about her, Sherlock."

Sherlock stiffened and drew in a breath. "What do you want to hear first, John? About my time in New York? Or about my cousin with multiple sclerosis? Or about my Spanish abuela whose family was killed by Franco?"

John sighed. "Take your pick."

"I infiltrated the Dominican mafia because of my friendship with Don Leo, the owner of a bicycle shop."

John looked puzzled.

"Almost all of the bike mechanics in New York are Dominican," Sherlock said.

"I still don't understand."

"When I found that out, I thought, 'Perfect! I speak Spanish and I can certainly ride a bicycle!' But it wasn't as easy as that."

"I should hope not," John said, still confused. What does riding a bike have to do with Dominican drugrunners?

"Do you know that the most popular route that cyclists take to get out of the city is the bike path going over the G.W. Bridge?" John shook his head. "I realized it when I spent a Saturday morning patrolling the bridge in a cop car. If you think New Scotland Yard is pathetic, you should try a drug bust with the NYPD. Idiots, all of them."

"Don't tell me they can't speak English properly, too," John joked.

"Of course not. Do you want to hear about Don Leo?"

"Yes. Who is this Don Leo? Sounds like a mafia member if I ever heard of one."

"Don is a sign of respect in Spanish, John. His full name is Leonardo Illanes. Forty-something, from Santo Domingo, runs a local bike shop that employs a number of pro cyclists from the Dominican Republic as mechanics. They ride for their teams in the D.R. in the winter, come to New York in the summer and ride for some teams here. I heard that Don Leo was well connected, so I went to him to buy a road bike. And then he taught me how to ride it, too." Sherlock brought out a pack of cigarettes from a chest pocket. John raised an eyebrow but did not protest.

The first drag of the cigarette was heavenly to Sherlock; at once he was transported to that summer when, despite his nearly daily bicycle riding, he had passed many nights smoking, at any one of New York's numerable outdoor cafés. I'll bring John back here in August, Sherlock thought briefly. I'll bring him back and we'll share a plate of linguine at Max's, sitting out on the patio and drinking sangiovese until midnight. It will be hot, and humid, the kind of New York night that makes me want to unbutton my shirt and wander around in sandals, a bohemian in the city. Not like London, not like Los Angeles: the sensuality of New York in the summer. Only Rio compares. Rio! Ah, Leblon…

"We should come back here in the summer," Sherlock continued. "It's a different city. Not cold like this. It's – humid. And hot. Even at night, it's hot. In fact, nighttime is the best time of day, when it's summer in New York." Sherlock had a wistful look on his face. "Don Leo sold me the bike, quite a nice racing bike, a Giant TCR series, mavic wheels, carbon frame, the works. I thought that I might as well look the part if I was going to cross the bridge on my bike every day."

"Just how well did you 'look the part'?" John asked, as images of Sherlock in tight black shorts and a red racing jersey passed through his head. He imagined what it would be like to ride behind Sherlock, to watch his lover jump up from the saddle as he climbed a hill, his tight rear shaking and bobbing in the air until he reached the summit and, muscles burning, was forced to sit down again.

Sherlock looked at him oddly. "I wore what they wore. Shorts, Jersey, helmet. Carried spare tubes and water bottles in my cages. Learned the lingo. I know the name of every bicycle part in English and in Spanish, thanks to Don Leo and the mechanics. They set me up with the bicycle, taught me how to ride, and then told me who to look out for."

"Amazing." John laughed. "You infiltrated the drug gang while on your bike? Wearing tights?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Lycra is the most comfortable thing to wear on a bicycle. Chafing is a serious issue. Not to mention crotch rot."

"Is that the technical term for it, then?" John laughed. "I just can't imagine you like that, dressing like some Giro rider. You must have been quite vulnerable, chasing after crooks on a bicycle."

"I wasn't 'chasing after' anybody," Sherlock said. "If anything, they were chasing after me."

"You were that fast, eh?" John's eyes were dark, his pupils large in the dying light. Why can't we always be like this? Laughing together over cases, just like this. No boredom, no impossible mysteries, no drugs, no tantrums. Just Sherlock, like this. Making me laugh.

"I have been told that I am a natural on a bicycle," Sherlock said haughtily.

"So they said you're a good ride, then?" John chuckled. "I could have told you that." Sherlock blew air between his lips, sputtering. Two can play at this, he thought.

"I have been told that it's a pleasure to ride behind me," Sherlock said in a rough voice. "I keep a straight line, I don't coast, and my cadence is smooth. Very smooth. 95 rpm, smooth and steady and—"

"That's enough!" John said. "No need to give me a heart attack here. I can imagine it perfectly well. You and your long legs. I bet they're like a pair of pistons, pumping up and down and up and down and –"

"Why don't you come for a ride with me sometime, John?" Sherlock asked in a suggestive voice. "I'll take you to places you've never been."

"Like to New Jersey?"

"For a start," Sherlock said.

"How long?" John asked abruptly.

"How long what?"

"How long will we ride for?" John tried to keep a straight face.

"Depends on how much endurance you have, Doctor Watson. Are you an endurance athlete? Or more of a sprinter? With your height, I'd peg you for a hill climber. Or a sprinter, if you spent more time lifting weights."

"I'll climb anything you want me to climb," John said. "Or go down anything you want me to go down on."

"I have a few ideas," Sherlock murmured. "I'm more of a long-distance man myself, though I can pull out a sprint from time to time. If there's enough of an incentive."

"I think I can manage that," John said. God, I want you right here, right now, Sherlock. I've had you six, seven, eight times? And I want to do it again. I want to go back to our hotel, and suck you off while you're standing against the wall, and make you tremble like you do every time your orgasm catches you standing up. I want to make you breathless. And then I want to give you a massage, a long, slow rub, show you with my hands just how much I love you and love this long body of yours. Has anyone ever done that to you? Spoil you, I mean. I want to spoil you. Is there something wrong with that, Sherlock? Is there something wrong with me, being in love with the prickliest prick I know, and wanting more than anything to adore him, to positively pamper him? And then, I want to lay you down, on that wide bed of ours – and, later, on your bed at Baker Street, in your surprisingly tidy and Spartan room – and luxuriate in you. I will rest my head on your chest and we will lay that way for hours, like we did yesterday, only it won't be a holiday, it won't be this in-between, fantastical time on an enchanted island. It will be home, and you'll be there with me.

"John?" Sherlock asked. "John?"

John shook himself out of his stupor. "Sorry, Sherlock. Just got lost in my thoughts. Say, have you noticed a drop in the temperature?"

"The sun set, John. And the wind picked up. Typical for this part of Manhattan, those strong cross-winds."

Sherlock would have told John more about the atmospheric conditions in the Northeast of the United States, if John had not leaned over and grabbed his face in his hands, pressing his tightly budded lips over Sherlock's. It is colder now, John was right, Sherlock thought. And then: His lips – they are warm, so warm against the cold air. I love your warmth, John. Yes, the warmth of your lips and that tongue of yours – please, open your mouth, part your lips, let me in to kiss you. Don't keep me out. Yes. Yes, like that. Open. I'm touching you, my tongue is touching yours, and it's hot and wet and sweet, ever so sweet. You are sweetness, John, and rightness and goodness, and I can't describe this any other way, though you would laugh at me, because you still think I don't have a heart. But I do have a heart, of course I do, and it's my heart that's making me think these ridiculous thoughts, making me feel that they are not so ridiculous after all. You make me sentimental, John. Sentiment: what a strange word. Sentiment and sense and sensuality and sensibility, all children of the Latin sentire. An example of a word evolving to mean one thing and its opposite at once; Austen knew this, thus the clever title of her novel. How else could sense and sensibility be connected, if not because they derive from the same root? Or because the one requires the other – we cannot choose good, or even know what goodness is, unless there is evil in the world. Oh Milton, always Milton, it's always the blind poet who sees most clearly, always the genius who misses the obvious. You have been blind, Sherlock. Blind blind blind! Reason does not exist without its other half; el sueño de la razón produce monstruos, etc. etc. etc. John. John. John. What have you done to me, these past two years? What is happening to me, with you? What monstrous thing might I have become, if not for you?

"Shall we go back, Sherlock?" John asked between kisses. He sensed Sherlock's distraction. But Sherlock pulled him even closer, and then slid the both of them off of the wall, breaking the kiss for only a moment before pressing John against the stone so that he could bear down more fiercely on John's mouth, John's lips, John's dear tongue. He felt a hunger, an actual pain in his chest that came from loving John and wanting John so very, very much. He wanted him even as he had him there, in his arms; he felt as if his desire and longing for this other person was boundless, was unquenchable. Surely there would be a day when he would not think about John, not think about the small, unassuming man who had become his friend and his world and his lover; surely that day would come. In his rational mind he knew that love faded over time. He knew how people could change, how love withered and jealousy bloomed and former lovers came to hate another, even came to kill each other at times. He had more examples of those cases than he knew what to do with. And there were few precedents, in his life or in others', of the kind of longing that Sherlock was feeling now. He wanted to know more about it, he wanted to bring his reason to bear on this sentiment, and yet he feared it, too. John might know, he thought. John might know what to do.

John, it seemed, knew exactly what to do.

"I want to take you back to the hotel," he said in a low, teasing voice, "and find out how good a rider you are."