Pax XVII

They waited far too long for the train to arrive to take them back downtown to Columbus Circle. Sherlock paced the subway platform, checking his watch every thirty seconds as if he could will the train to arrive faster. There was no mobile signal in New York's subway system, otherwise John was convinced that Sherlock would have spent the time catching up on his text messages; anything to ignore John, it seemed, and the obvious tension that had developed between the two of them at the Cloisters.

Before they left Fort Tryon Park, Sherlock suggested they take a walk around the outside of the museum. He wanted to show John the exterior of the building and point out to him how, from across the river, this was the most prominent structure in northern Manhattan. John had nodded and made appreciative sounds, but neither of them was paying much attention to their surroundings. John had released Sherlock's hand, content to follow behind the taller man for a brief while. He enjoyed watching Sherlock's confident stride, noticing how the Belstaff showed off the set of his shoulders and the height of his figure. God, this is my life, John thought. This man is my best friend, and my partner, and there is no one whom I'd rather be with, right now, high above the river in the brightest city of the world.

Catching up with Sherlock, John took his hand again and pulled the detective close to his side. "Thank you for bringing me here, Sherlock," he said.

"I thought you would like it, John. The Cloisters have always been a favourite of mine."

"I don't just mean this," John said, gesturing to the museum building. "I mean – all of this. This trip. New York. The hotel. The ball. The suit. Thank you." His last words were low and soft, and they sparked an ache in Sherlock's chest.

"Of course, John," he said brusquely, not wanting to betray how pleased he was that John had followed him to New York, that John had accepted him, Sherlock, and all of the difficulties that must necessarily follow from a relationship with the detective. Quite suddenly, Sherlock felt that he did not want John to speak. He did not want to have another conversation about them; it made him feel too inexperienced, too childish, to have these conversations with John about what they meant to one another, not knowing what he was supposed to say. He had no knowledge of that area, the things of the heart. Let us return to the hotel, then, and to the mute pleasures of our bodies, Sherlock thought.

And so they had made their way back to the subway, unprepared for the long, tense wait that would follow. When at last they boarded the A train, Sherlock was ready to kick the seats of the train in frustration. The only thing that kept him calm in the crowded car was the pressure of John's knee against his own as they sat next to one another. John stared around them, examining the other passengers on the train. Even though he was used to the diversity of London's commuters, New York beat even London in the brilliance and variety of its inhabitants. When they boarded the train near Fort Tryon Park, they were the only White men in a car of mostly Dominican housewives. John felt painfully out of place, but Sherlock appeared oblivious to the incongruity. When the train stopped at 168th Street, the station that served the Columbia medical school and Presbyterian Hospital, the doors were swarmed with medical personnel in scrubs and clogs, young men and women of every shade. John took note of the station, remembering that he and Sherlock would return there in a few days to visit the anatomy labs.

They had to push past other riders to reach the doors at Columbus Circle. It was rush hour, almost dinner time, but neither John nor Sherlock were hungry, exactly. They walked quickly and silently to the Hudson Hotel, not looking at one another until they reached the door of their suite, which Sherlock opened swiftly with his electronic key.

Once they were inside, John had scarcely a moment to remove his hat and coat before Sherlock was pushing him against the wall, pinning his hands to his sides. The detective's kisses were hard and violent, catching John off guard but arousing him more quickly than he had thought was possible at his age. A pair of bloody teenagers, that's what we are, he thought, and that was quite possibly his last coherent thought before Sherlock's tongue was in his mouth and John realised that he wanted Sherlock now and now was not fast enough. He tried to move but Sherlock held fast to his arms even as he continued to kiss John with unrestrained fury. John felt their mouths collide together, almost painfully; he felt the salty taste of Sherlock's mouth, the rough skin on the younger's man upper lip, the chapped surface of Sherlock's lips.

He wanted Sherlock, God, how John wanted him. But he didn't know what he imagined wanting Sherlock to mean. It had been easier with women; John didn't like to admit that, even to himself. But it was always easier when there was the possibility of mutual fulfilment, of the physical joining together that was expected, always expected, when he went to bed with a woman. It didn't matter if she really preferred his face between her legs, or if she occasionally gave him a hand job; they both knew that, at the end of the night, it was the moment when she opened her legs for him and he entered her that was what counted. At least, that was how things had always been, for him. And it made him a bit embarrassed, and frustrated, that he kept viewing those acts, and not these days and nights with Sherlock, as sex sex. It bothered him, because Sherlock had become terribly important to him, was perhaps the most important person to have ever entered John's life, and he wanted to share more of himself with Sherlock.

Sherlock had pushed away John's cardigan and unbuttoned the top of John's shirt. He spread his long fingers through the hair on John's chest, sucking frantically on the shorter man's neck as he twisted one nipple between his fingers. John gasped; his knees buckled and he wanted Sherlock to continue and to stop, all at once. He thought he wouldn't be able to stay upright much longer, and so he pushed back against Sherlock, firmly and decisively enough to shake the detective out of his lascivious haze.

"John?" Sherlock asked, a bit confused. The expression on his face was difficult to read: there was lust there, oh yes, but the lust was mixed with something else. Hesitation? Worry? "John?" Sherlock repeated.

"Sorry. Just—can't remain standing, Sherlock. Let's go to the bedroom." Sherlock followed John, tugging at the knot in his own tie and opening his belt, shedding his clothes as quickly as possible. They left a line of crumpled garments between the living room and the bedroom, their socks and shirts mixing together on the floor.

John reached the bed first, rolling quickly onto his back as Sherlock pounced on top of him. They were both fully naked. The heat of their bodies coming together, the rub of their chests and hips and legs against each other, was almost too much for Sherlock to bear. I want you, John, he thought. I want to know you in all ways. I want to make you mine. I want—

"Stop thinking, Sherlock," John commanded, when he sensed Sherlock's kisses becoming less frantic. "Kiss me. Kiss—"

Instead, Sherlock flipped John over onto his stomach and knelt solidly on the doctor's lower back. When John felt Sherlock drop towards him and graze his balls against the tops of John's buttocks, he let out a deep and contented sigh. No, he can't be, John thought. He can't be, not yet, not now. He doesn't know—

But Sherlock had bent his head forward, and was now dropping light, teasing kisses over the back of John's neck even as he pressed his torso along the length of John's back. Shifting his position, Sherlock was able to slide his penis along the fissure between John's buttocks, prompting another groan from the man beneath him. It wasn't so much the sensation itself – though that was truly electric – that aroused John, as the image that he had in his head of Sherlock tight against him, his penis aroused and insistent against his arse. John tried to turn his head around to watch what was happening, but Sherlock's hands caught him and pushed him flat against the mattress.

"Shhh," Sherlock hushed him. "Be still. Relax. I want – I want to try something."

"Sherlock," John began to protest, "I haven't—we haven't—done anything like this before."

Sherlock unexpectedly sat up, then grabbed John's shoulder and rolled the doctor over so that he was now kneeling gently on the other man's groin, their cocks rubbing against each other. Sherlock spit onto his palm, then reached down between them and grabbed John in his hand. John let out an unrecognizable sound, his words gurgling in his throat as Sherlock's hand worked up and down his shaft. They had already done this to each other, pleased each other with their hands and their mouths, but it was all so new to John, this lovemaking with Sherlock, that every encounter felt like the first time: shocking and marvellous and incredibly sweet. That sweetness, for example, when Sherlock's thumb passed over the groove at the tip of his prick, gliding over the drop of pre-cum that had leaked out; the gesture made John want to come then and there, and he felt the arousal building deep in his groin.

"Stop, Sherlock," he panted, fearful that if the younger man continued his ministrations for much longer, he would come much more quickly than he had intended.

"I'm sorry if you didn't like what I was doing before," Sherlock said, leaning close to John's ear.

"What?" John asked, a bit confused. "It wasn't that I didn't like it, it's just that I thought I'd come all over us right now if you kept that up with your hands."

"That's not what I meant," Sherlock corrected him, smiling into John's neck. "Though maybe I will make you come all over us." John laughed. "No, what I was doing before," Sherlock continued. "The back way," he said, rather euphemistically for the detective. "There was something about it that you didn't like. You were scared. I could feel your pulse increase, and at first I thought it was arousal. But then you began to pull away from me, and I understood."

"Do you understand, Sherlock?" John asked, willing his lover to take his time to talk things through.

"I think I do," Sherlock said, holding John tightly in his arms. "I'm a five and you're a two." John wrinkled his forehead, looking puzzled.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Sherlock. I though we weren't going to rate our sex life."

"I'm not rating us. I'm just referring to an existing measure, the Kinsey Scale of Sexual Response. Are you familiar with it?"

"Yes," John sighed. "Why do I think this isn't going to help us get on with things?"

"Let me finish, John. For most of my life, I have been almost exclusively attracted to men. Almost, I say; there have been women here and there—"

"—If you're going to start talking about Irene Adler…" John said with a warning tone. Sherlock pulled back from him an inch to look into his eyes.

"Not her, John. Never her." He narrowed his eyes as he scrutinised John's face. "You're still jealous of her. You needn't be. I'm here with you. And I want you. Absolutely. Every. Last. Part. Of. You. Do you hear me, John?"

"Yes," John whispered breathlessly.

"I want you and I'm trying to learn what you want from me. And what you will take."

"Well, not a prick in my arse, if that's what you were wondering," John exclaimed with a note of irritation in his voice. Wrong words, he immediately scolded himself upon viewing the hurt on Sherlock's face. Fuck it all, John, this is Sherlockyou're in bed with here. You can't just expect him to understand where you're coming from if you don't tell him.

John tried to take his words back. "Sherlock—" he began, even as Sherlock began to pull away from him. "Sherlock! I didn't mean it like that. Sherlock—"

"I should have known you would be like this, John. You and your worship of – what should I call it? Heteronormativity? That's the academic term nowadays. You're like those Victorian men who let another man suck them off but then went home to sleep with the missus and never thought twice about it. It's taking it in the arse that makes you less of a man, isn't that right? And as long as you're here with your pansy-wansy lover, you are always going to be top, is that how it is going to be?"

John pushed Sherlock off of him. "You wanker!" He shouted. "That is not the way to talk to me if you're trying to convince me to try anal sex!" His voice was so loud that he was surprised by it.

"But it's true, isn't it, John?" Sherlock sneered at him. "Real men don't take it up theirs."

John clenched his fists and hit them against the bed. He felt the anger rise in him and had to remind himself to take deep breaths, to calm down. He doesn't mean it he doesn't mean it don't listen to him when he's like this, he thought. To Sherlock he said, "I feel quite the opposite, really, if you want to know."

"Hmmm," Sherlock said non-committally, shifting so that he could look at John's face. "John?" he asked, his voice now gentle, as he reached out to touch John's cheek. "I'm sorry, John."

John took Sherlock's hand in his own, placing it over his chest. "Sherlock – it's not that I think that real men don't bottom. That's ridiculous and you know it." He paused. "What I mean is this: that it takes a lot of courage to let another person do that to you, in that way. And I've never had that kind of courage before. Nor have I had this with another man: the lovemaking, I mean. Jerking off together, yes. Casual encounters, yes. Even a boyfriend here and there. But nothing like what you and I have.

"We haven't talked about it, not directly, but we are in a relationship, Sherlock, and I love you and have been in love with you for ages. You know that; I told you that in Wales, and everybody else has been assuming it ever since we met. But that doesn't mean that I am ready to do everything with you, sexually speaking. It doesn't have anything to do with not wanting to be seen as gay or wanting to be the dominant one here. It's just – it scares me, Sherlock. The whole idea of opening up in that way scares me. I'm afraid of the pain, and I'm afraid of the mess. Yes, I'm a doctor, and yes, I do know that the rectum can expand quite a bit; it's not as if I haven't done a rectal exam before! But it's not the same thing to know that rationally and to know that in my body. As soon as I feel your hands drifting towards that part of me, I tense up. That's what's going on. And though it may be a very normal part of sex for you—I don't know what you've done with other men—I have to let you know that for me, this is a very, very big step. And I've tried before, and it hasn't gone well. Not for me, and not for the other person involved."

"John," Sherlock breathed, leaning down to kiss him. He punctuated his kisses with John's name. "John. John. John."

"Sherlock?"

"I spoke too quickly, John. You were right."

"Ha! That's a new one. What was I right about?"

"That we need to talk more about these things."

"You can't deduce everything about me, you know," John pointed out. "You knew from my reaction that it made me nervous to feel you in that area, behind me like that—but you didn't ask me why. You just assumed that you knew, based on whatever prior evidence you have gathered from me and other men. But I'm not just anyone, Sherlock; I'm your lover and you have to ask me what I want. Do you understand? You ask me first, and then we'll figure things out. And I'll ask you, too."

"I want you inside me, John," Sherlock said, trying to reassure him. "I have known that for—for a while, anyway. You can have me first, if that makes things better." He smiled and looked away from John, suddenly shy.

"Sherlock," John said with a sigh. "That's very nice and all, but you can't just offer yourself up to me like that and expect that everything will be better. It doesn't work that way in a relationship." He saw how Sherlock's jaw went tense and realised that, once again, he had spoken too hastily. "Sherlock, I love you for that. I love you for your generosity. I love you for wanting this with me. But I also want you to understand that I am not the same person as you are."

"Of course you aren't, John," Sherlock said snappishly. "That would be a disaster."

"Just give me some time, Sherlock," John began patiently.

Sherlock interrupted him. "What did you think I was going to do? Take you unwillingly? I was just testing the waters."

"No, of course I didn't think you would do anything like that. Don't twist what I'm saying, Sherlock. We are starting to understand each other." He paused to think. "Sherlock, when you started to have sex—sex with men, I mean—"

"Receptive anal intercourse is the correct term, I believe," Sherlock said formally.

"Fuck off," John said with a chuckle. "I'm trying to be serious."

"So am I."

"Yes, well, I'm trying to be serious here, but not scientific. They're not the same thing. I just wanted to know, Sherlock—what does it feel like, to be touched like that?"

"Where? In the anus?" Sherlock asked. John frowned. "Just so I'm clear that we're talking about the same thing."

"For God's sake, of course I'm talking about in the anus, you arsehole!"

"You use a lot of euphemisms, you know."

"Don't try to distract me, Sherlock. What does it feel like?" John noticed that he was still half-hard, and he felt himself becoming more aroused at the thought of Sherlock discussing his sexual history with him.

"That's a ridiculous question, John. Basic epistemology: you can never know for certain what another person's experience is like. Words can never convey the reality of another."

"Bullshit. If that's true, then there's no point in our even having language. Sherlock, I know you don't like talking about emotions. That's fine. Just tell me what the sensation is like. Tell me about when you let someone do it to you for the first time."

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes."

"It was with Victor Trevor. He was a graduate student in chemistry at Cambridge. We worked together in the same lab for a year."

"I thought you said that you had never had a relationship before."

"I don't count it as a relationship, unless you count getting high and being fucked on nights when Victor's girlfriend was out of town as a 'relationship.' "

"So—" John considered his words carefully. Sherlock was treated like that, once. He took it for Victor. Oh, Freud, you would have fun with this! Victorian men, Victor Trevor…men who view queer men as their sexual punching bags, men who won't open themselves up for fear of being called a fairy. That is what Sherlock was afraid of. He thought that I might be that way, too.

"It was a long time ago, John," Sherlock said slowly. "It was what I wanted, at the time."

"And later?"

"Sex has never been good for me, up till now." John was overcome with pity for Sherlock, for his inexperience and for the years he had spent without knowing what it was like to be loved by a sexual partner. He pulled Sherlock close for a kiss.

"You precious, precious man."

"John. Do you want me to tell you the rest?"

"Does it involve Victor?"

"Only his penis." John laughed.

"Go ahead, then. Tell me about receptive anal intercourse."

"It feels very odd, at first, any kind of pressure there. At least, it did for me. It is painful if your partner doesn't go easy with you from the beginning. You have to really want it, John, for it to feel good at all. And I've found that it takes a while to build up to that kind of desire, to train your body to seek out that kind of touch, instead of avoiding it. We are supposed to avoid it, after all. It's so ingrained, our fear that by relaxing our sphincter, we'll let everything out." Sherlock laughed ruefully.

"So, how do you get from avoiding that, to wanting it?"

Sherlock smiled. "John, may I turn you over again?"

"Tell me what you are going to do."

"I am going to show you. I won't put anything inside you, John. I just want you to feel how sensitive it is, that whole area around your anus. You like it when I touch the cheeks of your buttocks, you like it when I lick your perineum—"

"God, Sherlock," John said, willingly turning over and exposing his arse to Sherlock's careful gaze. "Get going with it, will you?"

"My, quite eager now, aren't we, doctor?"

"This had better not feel like a prostate exam, Sherlock. No playing at doctor."

"You're the only doctor here," Sherlock affirmed. "But I need some equipment. Wait a moment."

"Way to kill the mood. Equipment!" John muttered, feeling ridiculous as he lay face-down on the bed, naked and waiting for Sherlock to return with the lube.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked, as he began to lightly stroke the tops of John's buttocks with the pads of his fingers. John pressed his face into the mattress, holding his breath when Sherlock's fingers drifted lower, grazing over the broad gluteus muscles before tracing the join at the top of John's legs.

"Sherlock," John said. "It's so sensitive there." He exhaled deeply, feeling himself relax. He trusted Sherlock, and this made him happier than he had any right to be. He won't do anything without asking me. This is hard for him. He's used to rushing in to things. He doesn't understand my hesitance, but he respects it. He won't hurt me. He won't.

"I know it's sensitive," Sherlock said. "Your hair is standing on end." He continued to gently run his fingers over John's rear, his hands moving in tandem as he caressed those hard curves, finding his way around John's side, then below the cheeks again, up to the small of his back and then, when John's muscles had loosened and Sherlock could hear his lover's breathing slow down, he drew one finger along the centre groove. John's entire body shook and he let out a small exclamation of surprise at the unexpected pleasure that Sherlock's hands were giving him. Sherlock's fingers skipped over the tight bud of John's anus, brushing down to graze his perineum and then, spreading John's legs more widely, to rest under his balls.

"Sherlock," John gasped.

"Yes, love?" Sherlock asked. "How is this? How does this feel?"

As if I don't have to shy away from you, from any part of your touch, on any part of my body. "As if I don't have to worry," he gulped out.

"You don't," Sherlock reassured him. "You don't. And there's more, John. I'm going to get the lube out and coat you so that there isn't any unnecessary friction." John could hear Sherlock opening and squeezing the tube, and then he heard the sound of Sherlock's palms rubbing together. He's warming it for me, John realised. He doesn't want to shock me with the cold. This gesture of Sherlock's, so unexpectedly considerate, moved John to sit up slightly so that he could turn his head back and look at Sherlock.

Sherlock knelt back on his heels, his half-erect cock cuddled between his legs. He was staring at his hands, but looked up when John turned around.

"Thank you," John said.

"Is this good?"

"Very good." John fell back to the mattress. His body felt heavy, so heavy, as if a magnet were holding him down. It's the exhaustion of everything, John thought. The holiday, the case, the sex – I'm exhausted. Sherlock, you can do with me what you will, you do know that, don't you? I could not and would not lift a finger now to stop you. There you go, your wet fingers between my buttocks again, ah you bad, bad man, skipping over that area again. You want me to beg, is that it? You want me to wonder what it's like, to be touched there, by you. You want me to anticipate it, long for it. Congratulations, Sherlock. I'm there. I want it. I want your fingers to graze me right there, right where you just passed over me, you git. Come on!

"Come on!" John gasped. "Do you want me to change my mind?"

"No," Sherlock said as he lowered his mouth to the small of John's back and kissed him softly. "Shhh," he said when John began to wriggle away from him. "Just my fingers, that's all. The kiss goes no further. Just let me kiss you here, like this." Sherlock dropped slow kisses over John's lower back, at the dimple where his spinal chord descended towards the coccyx. At the same time, his fingers continued to rub up and down the cleft in John's arse, coming closer to, but still avoiding that tender bud of tissue.

"I want it Sherlock," John said. "You can—" Before he could speak, Sherlock had rubbed one finger along the outside of his anus, barely skimming over the surface before descending to his balls and then upwards, once again, to John's entrance. On his second pass over it, Sherlock pressed down lightly against the opening, provoking a deep groan from John.

"This is as far as we'll go today," Sherlock told him. "I just want you to feel this." He drew circles over and around John's anus, and Sherlock found himself becoming erect again at the sight and sensation of his lover trembling underneath him.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. "Let me—let me touch myself!"

Sherlock moved backwards so that John could come onto all fours, making space for one arm to come down and grasp his own cock. Sherlock rose up on his knees, sliding his cock against the slick groove that John presented to him.

"Just like this, John. I won't go any further. Just let me touch you like this, my love. Fuck fuck fuck. Love." Sherlock's control slipped just a bit when his cock touched the wet crevice between John's legs. He rubbed his erection along the length of the it, then pressed himself flat against John, taking care to not put too much of his weight on the smaller man. John was panting heavily now as he touched himself, crying out Sherlock's name and, Sherlock noticed, crying a few tears as well. Sherlock took his own cock between his fingers and used it to rub against John's opening. That small gesture awoke something in John, who pumped himself furiously and then spent himself in long ribbons of cum over the sheets. He quickly rolled over, away from the soiled sheets, and pulled Sherlock down on top of him, kissing the younger man's mouth with an urgency that had hitherto been lacking from the staid doctor. In the aftershocks of his orgasm, John wanted to eat Sherlock's delicious mouth, he wanted to devour his lover's tongue and teeth and his eyes and his long, smooth cock. Oh, yes, Sherlock, give me that cock of yours and I'll make you sing. Just as suddenly as he had bolted before, John now slipped Sherlock over, so that Sherlock was lying on his back, looking up at John in bewilderment. Before he knew what was happening, John's mouth was on his penis, the doctor's hands were spread across his chest, and John worked him rapidly to a deep orgasm, tugging on Sherlock's nipples all the while. Sherlock came with a loud growl, followed by an indecipherable string of words that made John laugh when he came up for air. John joined his lover at the head of the bed, propping his head up on one hand so that he could gaze at Sherlock's eyes. The detective's lashes fluttered erratically as John stared at him, filled with love.

"I will never get tired of telling you that you are amazing," John said matter-of-factly. "And brilliant. And damn sexy to boot."

Sherlock could not speak. For the first time, he had been rendered speechless by sex. I want a cigarette, he thought. I want a cigarette but I want this more. I need—no, I want—no, I need John. Here, beside me, while I come down from this. This high, this rush, whatever chemical reaction is occurring inside me. Love. That's what it is. Love. Love. Love. What a word! Love. John. Love. Yes. Yes. Yes. John. Love. John. John.

"John?" Sherlock asked as he tried to calm his breathing.

"Sherlock."

"I love you."

"I know you do." John lay down and drew a hand over his own face. "God almighty. Sherlock. What was that just now?"

"Lo-ve." Sherlock pronounced the word as if it had two syllables, his teeth drawing over his lips with the dying vibrato of the 'v'.

"I'll take it," John said. "Any time." What has happened to Sherlock? What happened to the wanker I fell in love with, the one who everyone thought was a freak? No, John. You never thought he was a freak. You wanted to punch the living daylights out of him sometimes, but you never, never saw him as anything less than brilliant and gorgeous and oh oh oh so loveable. This man!

"What has happened to us, Sherlock?" John laughed.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked back, his eyes wrinkling in pleasure.

"What has happened to us? I'm not the man I was two years ago, when we first met. Hell, I doubt that I can say that I'm the man I was two months ago. And I don't think you are, either. What happened to us this week?"

"Alchemy." Sherlock smiled slyly.

"Alchemy? Is that what we're practicing?"

"The endogenous opioids released by the body when one falls in love are more powerful than cocaine," Sherlock commented. "I'd call that a bit alchemical."

"Alchemical or chemical?"

"Is there a difference? Same root word. Arabic, you know. Medieval Arabic. The Arab world preserved science while Europe descended into the Middle Ages. Alchemy, chemistry, alquimia, química—same root. The thing and its opposite expressed in the same form."

"Now I know that you aren't the real Sherlock Holmes. Alchemy! What about logic and reason?"

"El sueño de la razón produce monstruos."

"Huh?"

"Logic is dangerous, John. Logic would have me entirely for herself; with logic, I would never do anything like this. Logic says that entanglements are dangerous; there is always the possibility of loss."

"Is that what kept you from having a relationship before?"

"I never fell in love before. I never thought that I could do so."

"And now?"

"I am in love with you, John Watson."

"You don't know how happy it makes me to hear that."

"I have an idea. I can't know for sure, John—of course I can never know for certain what really goes on in your head, the problem of other minds, and so on and so forth—but if you feel at any way the same as I do when you tell me that you love me, then I think I can confidently say that I have some idea of how you feel right now."

"I love you, Sherlock."

"I love you, John."

"And what now, Sherlock? Where do we go from here?"

"To dinner, I would suggest. You must be hungry from now."

"I am perfectly satiated." John chuckled.

"Sated, satiated, satisfied. I am all of the above. Because of you, John. I could feed on air for a week and never feel hunger."

"That's pretty much your normal state when you're on a case, Sherlock. But you do need to eat once in a while."

"I booked a table at Per Se for eight o'clock."

"Per Se?"

"Thomas Keller's New York restaurant. It's on the top floor of the Columbus Circle shopping centre."

"Is this one of those places that is a really big deal in the food world, Sherlock?"

"Yes. You should wear your new suit."

John let out a half-hearted groan. "I knew you were a changeling. The real Sherlock Holmes doesn't pamper people like this."

"You're right. I don't pamper people, John. But you aren't people. And we do have a reservation in a little less than an hour. It's only a block away, but it won't do to be late. And we both have to shower."

"Ah, yes, the mandatory Holmes primping."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I do not primp."

"You do. And I love you for it."

Sherlock opened one eye suspiciously. "You do?"

"I do. Who wants an ugly boyfriend, after all?"

Sherlock sat up to look more closely at John. "Are you saying that I'm your boyfriend?"

"What else does it mean when two people are in a relationship? I'm not calling you my paramour in public, and will only use 'lover' behind closed doors. You are my boyfriend, Sherlock, as well as my flatmate and my best friend and my lover. Oh, and a darn good shag as well. But my boyfriend, definitely boyfriend. Is that a title that you can get used to?"

"Can we tell Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? And Anderson?" Sherlock sounded positively gleeful.

John sighed. "I'll leave it up to you, Sherlock. Not that it will be a surprise to any interested party."

"Still, I'd like to get a look at Anderson's face when I kiss—"

"No, Sherlock. No PDA."

"PDA?"

"Public Displays of Affection."

"The old heteronormativity rears its ugly head again."

"No, Sherlock. Just respect and decency. One does not go around snogging one's lover in the workplace. Especially when, more likely that not, that workplace is a crime scene or a morgue."

"I see your point," Sherlock said. "But that doesn't mean that I can't kiss you going in to New Scotland Yard or coming out."

"Always one to find the exception to the rule, aren't you, Sherlock?"

"Absolutely."

"I suppose that I should be pleased."

"You are the exception to the rule, John." John raised an eyebrow at him. "To the rule that I don't have friends, much less boyfriends. The rule that says I am supposed to be a glass virgin, a deduction machine."

"Who made up those rules, anyway? They sound like rubbish to me."

"They are, John. Utter rubbish."

"As it's almost the New Year, I would say: out with the old, and in with the new!"

"Hear, hear!" Sherlock raised his hand in an imaginary toast.

Nota bene: Thanks for this chapter go to Khorazir, again for her imaginative illustrations, and to the very open-minded and sex-positive Tsukinoblossom. She is one awesome blossom, that one!