Pax XVIII
Author's Note: Thanks for checking in and staying with me during this long week post-Reichenbach. I've appreciated your reviews and follows and favourites, and I'm more impressed than ever by this fandom and everything that they are putting together over there on tumblr. I finally saw The Enchanted Island last night and have posted some photos of the outside of the Met Opera house on my tumblr account (emmadelosnardos dot tumblr dot com). The Met Opera gala will be coming soon!
Oh – and a note about the timeline of this fic. I know I have got it all confused, between real life and the show. I've included mentions of Scandal in Belgravia and Hounds of Baskerville. But I can't write Reichenbach into this fic without seriously changing the nature of it. So, for now, I'll ignore everything about Reichenbach except the emotional tenor of that amazing episode. That, and the obvious love between our two protagonists. I want to keep that.
Emma
December 29th
"How about a walk in Central Park?" John said, once they had arisen and were both padding around the hotel suite in their dressing gowns and slippers.
"Boring," Sherlock declared from across the room. Once John had managed to shove him out of bed-Sherlock was surprisingly affectionate in the mornings—the detective had promptly ignored John while he checked his phone for messages.
"Aren't we ever going to leave Manhattan?"
Sherlock turned and raised an eyebrow at John.
"What could you possibly want to do that's not in Manhattan?"
"Well, we could – I don't know – walk across the Brooklyn Bridge or something?"
Sherlock snorted.
"What? And get run over by a cyclist?"
"I thought you were a cyclist, Sherlock."
"Too cold to ride. Icy too. Next idea, please!"
"There's good Chinese food in Queens, I hear. Flushing."
"Is that your suggestion for the day? Spend an hour on the 7 train to eat the same Cantonese food we could get on Baker Street?"
"Er—Indian food then? Jackson Heights?"
"Do be original, John. Immigrant groups not highly visible in London, please, if we're going to eat 'ethnic.' "
"Mexican?"
"Not this far from the Río Grande. All we'll find is insipid chalupas and watered-down salsa."
"You're a hard one to please, you know that?"
"I pride myself on it," Sherlock said with a smirk.
"So, do you have a better suggestion, then?"
"Museum first. Travel later."
"Another museum?" John sighed. "What's here that we can't see in London?"
"De Kooning."
"Fuck. You know I don't like modern art, Sherlock."
"But –-I— do." Sherlock drew out his words, his mouth pursing into a tight circle.
"Fine," John said, exasperated. "Why don't you go to the museum and I'll stay here and work on my blog. It would do us both some good to get out of each other's hair."
"What are you going to write?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.
John looked up from where he was sitting on the couch. The light from the room's wide windows caught his eyes and he squinted slightly.
"Thought I'd write up The Case of the Conniving Colombian," he said.
"The Ambassador isn't Colombian."
"No, but I like the alliteration. And it's my blog."
"But I get veto power," Sherlock said huffily.
"Since when?" John's voice was harsher than he had intended it to be. I should have known that our sex-induced truce would not last long, he reminded himself. "You do not have veto power. That's never been part of the agreement."
"What agreement?"
"You solve the cases, I write about them."
"I never asked you to do so. Hence, no agreement. Deal is off."
"How is the deal off if there was never an agreement to begin with?"
"I. Want. Veto. Pow—"
"Yes, I know you want veto power. But we're not the bloody U.N. Security Council here. You don't get veto power over my blog."
"I should hope we're not the Security Council!" Sherlock said. "Those bumbling idiots—"
"Yes, Sherlock. I know. You're smarter than all of them." John crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared Sherlock down. "Since when did you decide that you get to dictate what I say on my blog?"
"Since we started—uh—" Sherlock gesticulated wildly with his fingers. John gave him an intentionally blank stare. He knew where Sherlock was headed, but he didn't want to give him the satisfaction of his comprehension.
"Since we started—what? Since we started on our trip? Since Mycroft solved a case before you did?"
"It's not that, John." Sherlock dropped next to John on the sofa, lifting his feet onto John's lap. John reflexively pushed Sherlock's long limbs back onto the floor. Sherlock raised his feet again and John interrupted with,
"I am not going to have an argument with you with your feet on my lap."
"Is that what we're having? An argument?" Sherlock asked, staring down at his feet as if to say, My feet would be so much more comfortable nestled between your legs, John.
"Yes, an argument, Sherlock. Or, not really an argument. More like an ordinary squabble."
"No, I think this is different," Sherlock said. "This is a lover's quarrel."
"If you want to call it that, then fine."
"We are lovers. And we are quarrelling. Not debatable."
"Ha! If I debate this, does this mean that we'll have a quarrel about quarrelling?"
"That would prove my point."
"I don't know exactly what point you were trying to make, Sherlock. But I do want to know – why now?"
"Why what?"
"Don't play coy. Why now, Sherlock? Why do you want to have a say over what I write on my blog?"
"Because we weren't in a relationship before. I would have thought that was obvious to you, Three-Continents-Watson." He's jealous he's just jealous ignore him John ignore him ignore him.
"Sherlock. Do you want to talk about it?" John offered him his hand, which Sherlock pointedly ignored. "I can't know why you're upset if you won't tell me."
"I'm hardly upset, John," Sherlock sniffed.
"Sorry. Of course you're not upset," John said in a placating and obviously false voice. "But – what's so different now that we're in a relationship?"
"I would have thought that would be elementary."
"I have a few ideas, Sherlock, but I'd really much rather hear what you have to say first. Not deduce you, if you catch my drift."
"John." Sherlock said, grabbing his wrist suddenly in a manner that reminded John of how Sherlock had read his palm, that evening in the Hungarian Pastry Shop. He curled his fingers back around Sherlock's and held tightly.
"Sherlock."
"John, I—" Sherlock hesitated. "I know that I said that I didn't care what others thought." He grew silent.
"How others thought about what? About us?"
"Yes, about us. And I don't mind, it's not that. I don't mind if Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and all the rest—I don't care if they know about us."
"I'm hearing a 'but' somewhere here."
"I don't want you publishing on my blog that we're – that we're in a relationship. Even if the whole world believes that anyway."
"Yes, I think it's a bit late to deny it. Though God knows we've tried."
"You've denied it. I never denied it."
"You didn't correct them, though."
"No."
They sat in silence for half a minute, stroking each other's hands softly. John was struck again by how expressive Sherlock's fingers were. Even lying still, his left hand had assumed a position not unlike that which guided it over the violin strings, curved and possessive and strong. John felt a sudden whim to kiss Sherlock, to kiss him roughly and push him back against the cushions of the couch, and take him, yes take him, right there, before Sherlock had time to protest or return to his phone or plan another outing for the day. John wanted him; he wanted Sherlock, and he wanted him now, just when Sherlock was at his most vulnerable.
"You never denied it," John said in a whisper, his eyes wide.
"I never did," Sherlock admitted, beginning to kneed John's hand with his own.
"So why now? Why with the blog?"
"Because the blog is public."
"So were our lives before this, Sherlock. Before we started this together."
"It's not the same, and you know it," Sherlock said bitterly.
"Why the face?" John asked.
"What face?"
"You made a face just then. As if you resented something."
"I do." Sherlock closed his mouth into a tight line. "I resent not being able to share this—share you—and I don't mean that literally. I mean: I resent that we have to be private about things."
"I resent that too, Sherlock," John said.
"You do?" Sherlock looked at him, genuinely surprised.
"Yes, I do."
"Then why—why didn't you want to share a room with me? Why didn't you want me to buy you a suit?"
"I would have thought that was obvious," John said, parroting Sherlock's earlier words back at him.
"It's not. Not to me." John smiled at the thought that Sherlock couldn't understand something that was so obvious to him.
"We weren't lovers, then," he explained. "It's one thing to share a room with your lover, or to let him buy you expensive clothing. But it's quite a different story if you most definitely are not lovers, and if you really wish you were, but said party does not appear interested."
"So that's it," Sherlock murmured.
"In part. The other thing that was so hard—hard for me, I mean; I know it wasn't hard for you—was having to listen to everyone else's theories that we were involved."
"We were involved, John." Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin and took a deep breath.
"But not in that way."
Sherlock cocked his head and lower his fingers. "Do you know what you look like when you do that?"
"Do what?" John asked, puzzled.
"When you stick your tongue out. Just like that."
"I do not stick my tongue out."
"Yes, you do. When you're excited or when you're thinking about something difficult. Hence, something about this conversation is difficult for you."
"There you go again, changing the subject, Sherlock!"
It doesn't have to be so hard, John, Sherlock thought to himself. You don't have to think so much about this. You are my best friend and I want to shag you now, too; what else is there to discuss?
"Can I do anything to make it better?" Sherlock asked in a brusque voice, as if he were unused to asking such a question—which, indeed, he was.
John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Sherlock—I—sometimes—"
"What?" Sherlock asked, taking his hand again.
"Sometimes you are too much for me. This. All this."
Sherlock dropped John's hand as if it were flaming hot. "What is too much?" he asked carefully.
"This—I don't know what you want to call it—a quarrel? Is that what's going on?"
"Is that what? John, please speak clearly or I'll never understand you."
John dropped his head into his hands and groaned. "I have no idea what we're talking about now, Sherlock."
"Then maybe," Sherlock ventured, "it's time for you to stop talking." He looked suggestively at John and took his wrist again.
"Don't look at me, Sherlock! I'm not the one who started this discussion! All I wanted to do was stay here, in peace, and work on my blog."
"Is that what you really want?" Sherlock asked in a low voice.
Damn you, Sherlock, John thought. You are so very, very fuckable right now. Do you have any idea how much I want to take you back to bed with me, strip you of that ridiculously tight shirt, and spend the morning devouring that long, luscious body of yours?
"I am willing," Sherlock said, with a smirk. John looked up with a jerk.
"Jesus, Sherlock! How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Read my mind!"
"I didn't read your mind, John. I merely observed that your heart rate had climbed again. Elevated pulse, shallow breaths, sweaty palms. Either you're nervous, or you're aroused. Or, possibly, both. So, which is it, John?"
"Both," John gasped. "God, Sherlock, how do you do this to me?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.
"Come here, John." He patted the sofa cushion next to him as he drew John into his arms. It was awkward finding a comfortable position, side by side, in which to kiss. But John felt inspired and, before Sherlock knew what he intended, he had pulled away from detective's arms and straddled Sherlock's lap, still keeping some distance between their bodies as he knelt over him.
"I like looking down at you for a change," John joked. Sherlock stared up at him with an intense, unreadable stare.
And then they were kissing each other fiercely, rubbing their tongues against together, feeling each other's chapped lips, their stubbled jaws, their soft hair as each grabbed the other's head to pull even closer together.
"I love you," John said, pulling away briefly to look down at his lover – Yes, my lover, he thought. Sherlock, you are my lover, and by God, I am going to love you until you can't take it any more. I am going to pamper you and spoil you rotten – as if I haven't been doing that since the beginning – and I am going to discover what it is that you really want from me, all of your secret thoughts, your deepest desires….
But John did not say anything quite so maudlin. Instead, he looked fondly, desperately at Sherlock, and said,
"Should we stay here or go into the bedroom?"
"I told you we didn't need two beds," Sherlock said smugly.
John kissed him so that he would not be able to speak. He kissed Sherlock until his lips were swollen and red from the roughness of John's chin against them. He kissed Sherlock lips, first of all, and then he moved to Sherlock's cheeks, and the delightful curve of his cheekbones. He kissed each one tenderly, drifting upwards to Sherlock's eyes, which he pressed shut with his mouth.
"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."
John kissed Sherlock's temples, first the right, then the left – sensation above language, Sherlock thought. Right hemisphere, of course you would choose the right hemisphere, John. Here we are, right brain to right brain, pure sensation, preverbal logic (if there is any logic before language), speaking to each other without words. Yes, that's it. Right brain, your tongue on my right ear – what might I hear from that? The echolalia of love, the meaningless repetition of—
"Hmmmm," John hummed. "Hmmmm, Sher—"
They were beyond language now. Beyond each other's names, wrapped up in the heat and the pulse and the sound of their bodies, skin covering muscle covering bone. And blood, always the blood, coursing through each of them, following a rhythm that was beyond any that Sherlock could name. He felt his breath synchronize with John's, and then he felt as if he were falling—falling-falling, into the deep blue sea, falling and there was only John to catch him, only John to keep him breathing.
Wordlessly, they removed each other's clothing.
Wordlessly, they moved into the bedroom.
And still, without words – still and silent as Yeats' wild swans – still they stood and stared at each other.
John moved first.
He reached towards Sherlock and tugged at his lover's hips, feeling the soft skin overlying the shallow bones as he pressed his chest to Sherlock's and stood, caught in the silence of their bodies and caught in the pulse, that definite rhythm, that moved between them.
"How can I ever love you completely?" John whispered.
"Shhh," murmured Sherlock, willing the older man to remain silent. "Shhh."
They moved quietly, then, their hands running over chests and stomachs and collarbones – Always my shoulder, John thought, always the fragile clavicle. Always the pain, the brokenness. This is why we are here now, Sherlock. To feel and not say anything. To feel –
And then John could not think any longer, for Sherlock was moving backwards, pulling him towards the bed. They tumbled downwards together as Sherlock wrapped his long legs around John's waist. It nearly drove John mad to look down and see Sherlock, erect and expectant, exposed so utterly to his sight and to his touch.
He reached for his lover, then, and grasped Sherlock's penis in his sturdy hands. Sherlock's body shook and quivered under John's, causing John a moment of hesitation—only a moment—before he began to stroke him up and down, watching Sherlock's face to gauge his reaction.
John needn't have worried. Sherlock was as responsive as if he had never been touched before, shocked into submission by John's hands and his heat and his eyes, always John's eyes, those honest blue eyes that would not look away.
He wouldn't dare, Sherlock thought, and the very idea aroused him further. He wouldn't dare do that—
But then John was doing that, was doing exactly what Sherlock had anticipated and longed for but had not dared express. He had his left hand in Sherlock's mouth, letting Sherlock suck his fingers until they were wet, and then his hand was between Sherlock's legs again, and moving further down, until he had Sherlock arching against the bed and into his fingers when he found the tight, hidden hole.
John kept his gaze focused on Sherlock's face, even as Sherlock turned away from him. Too much, John, Sherlock thought. Too much—your hands are enough. I can't bear your eyes. Go away. Go away and let me feel. Demand nothing of me. Demand—
Suddenly John's right hand was on his cock again, his left hand smoothing circles over Sherlock's anus, and Sherlock didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. What is it, exactly, he wondered, about this form of touch? Why is this so forbidden, this kind of love? Who forbid this? Who ever said such a thing as this being wrong, immoral, unnatural? This is the most natural thing there is: your hands on me, inside me, pressing up and in and –
Sherlock had turned his head away, but John continued to examine his lover's face even as his deft hands worked Sherlock to a that tenuous spot between desire and its completion. Sherlock's eyes were tightly closed together, as if by shutting out the image of John's body above his, he might prolong the pleasure for a few minutes longer. John wondered what images were passing in front of Sherlock's eyes, and whether or not they were as beautiful as the sight in front of him: Sherlock trembling, Sherlock open to his touch, Sherlock coming undone in a decidedly undignified and irrational fashion…
The orgasm was long and slow. John felt it building in the quick spasms that clenched around his finger, and he saw its advent in the grimace that came over Sherlock's face, and in the elegant circles that Sherlock traced over his back, willing John to continue the sweet exercise of his hands.
Sherlock in ecstasy – however fleeting such ecstasy might be – made John heady with longing for more more more.
More of this, he thought. How can I ever get my fill of you? How can I make this last? How can we be closer than this? Knowing that I'm doing this to you, Sherlock. Sherlock. Look at me, he willed him, as Sherlock turned his head up and opened his eyes at last.
They both spoke at once.
"John."
"Sherlock."
"John. I spoke first. John. My god, what was that?" Sherlock was gasping for breath, searching for the right words to mark the moment, even as he pulled John even closer and kissed his rough lips.
"That was love, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked breathlessly.
He held John's head in his hands, and this time it was John who wanted to turn away from Sherlock's gaze, John who wanted to bury his head into Sherlock's chest and never, never look up again. This was love.