Author's Note: I am finishing this chapter after a conversation with one of my closest friends, who learned this week that her ex-husband is dying of a rapidly progressing cancer. She has not had the opportunity to say good-bye to him and may not have it, either. So death is very much on my mind, and loss and endings, and if a bit of that mood seeps into this part of the fic, that is why. (As if I didn't already have them in the Gross Anatomy classroom looking at sixty cadavers!)

"If you tell me one more thing about that 'extraordinary male soprano,' I swear, Sherlock, I will give my seat away to Mycroft."

"You wouldn't," Sherlock said in return. "Besides which, he's already coming."

John's eyes widened. "Why am I not surprised that someone with the name of Holmes is going to show up on one of my dates?"

"He'll be in a different box, John. Now, returning to the topic of the male soprano—"

"Him again?"

"I didn't peg you as the jealous type, John."

"Who said I was jealous? I'm just tired of hearing you hypothesize about the poor man's puberty. Have some respect, for gods sake."

"You're the one who started it," Sherlock said, "and don't tell me it was an innocent question. It's the first thing people think when they hear 'male soprano': they want to know, is it true about the castrati? Was it really done? Does anyone do it now? And for most men, the very idea strikes terror into their hearts – and considerably lower down, too, I might add. No, dear Doctor, I take no responsibility for the direction that this conversation has taken."

It was a bright, cold day, the last day of the year, and Holmes and Watson were sitting on a park bench in Brooklyn, drinking rich, frothy cappuccini, and arguing. Not much has changed, John thought ruefully. But then again, you knew that he wouldn't change, just because you started this. Sherlock is Sherlock. He's practically an institution. What was it he told me before we moved in to Baker Street? Oh, yes.

'How do you feel about the violin?' And I thought, nice instrument, what's the problem? Didn't know he'd be banging on it with the wrong side of the bow more often than not, nor that he'd work on that bloody Schoenberg stuff at two in the morning.

'Sometimes I don't talk for days on end.' Hmm. Yeah, thought was OK, too. Thought, oh, he must be a quiet guy. Didn't imagine that when he didn't talk, he might be playing the violin instead. Upside down and backwards.

'Potential flatmates should know the worse about each other.' And he thought that those things were the worst. Didn't think to mention the head in the fridge, or the former cocaine habit, or the odd hours he keeps, or the fact that he intended me to be his assistant. Come to think of it, he didn't mention any of the best things about him, either. Like how absolutely brilliant he is. Or the way he looks when he's smiling, really smiling, just for me. That first time, walking away from the police cars where I found him wrapped in that shock blanket. He turned to me and suggested Chinese food and I knew, right then, when he gave me one of his real smiles, that it was a rare sight, that kind of smile from him, and that it was meant for me, and that he was both grateful and astonished that I had saved his life. As if, had I not been there to save it, it might not have been worth saving. And that's when it all began, for me. Not when Mycroft thought it did, when I refused to accept his money during our first encounter. Not even at Angelo's, either – interest and fascination aren't the same as falling in love. It wasn't even until I shot the bullet and saved his life that I realized how very, very much I would miss him, this man I barely knew, if he died.

"What are you thinking, John?" Sherlock interrupted him.

"You haven't learned to read my thoughts yet? My, my, you must be getting slow on the uptake."

"John."

The doctor sighed. "I'm thinking about us, Sherlock. What else did you think would be on my mind?"

"Oh, perhaps you were thinking about the history of public parks in America. This one was another project by Frederick Law Olstead, who designed Central Park. You'll notice some similarities in their design: both have large meadows, circular drives—"

"Is that what you were thinking about?"

"Obviously, John."

"And you thought I might be thinking the same thing?"

"Of course I didn't think you'd be thinking of exactly the same thing, John. I'm not a mind reader, despite what you may believe. I just gave you that example so that you would see how ridiculous it is for you to imagine that I can read your mind, any more than you can read mine."

Except I'm lying, John, Sherlock thought. And you might not take that into account. Which is fine, because I don't want you to know how little I really care about Prospect Park, and how very much I care about you, and how much I think about you. Quite distracting, you are, John Watson.

John was laughing now, almost spilling his coffee on the ground as he let his head loll backwards.

"Funny?"

"You are, Sherlock. You're funny. Don't tell me you were thinking about something as mundane as Prospect Park. It's the last day of the year, we've been lovers for a little over a week, and tonight we're going to make a showing at the fucking opera. Surely there's something besides landscaping that you are mulling over."

"There have been a number of prominent crimes in the New York City park system," Sherlock continued. "Including the infamous case of the Central Park jogger. The accused were imprisoned and later exonerated when DNA evidence determined that they could not possibly be connected to the case. The fascinating part of all this, you might ask? Two of the young men who were accused actually confessed to the crime! A crime which they did not commit. Later, when they were released because of the DNA evidence, they said that they had memories of themselves committing the rape. So their confessions were false. Not purposely false, mind you, but false because their memories lied to them. Just like our memories can lie to us, or to anyone." Sherlock took a sip of his drink.

"Do you know why I let you tell me all that?" John asked at last, leaning back. His body conveyed confidence, ease, as he spread his legs wide and rested his arms along the back of the bench.

"What's that?" Sherlock twitched.

John nodded. "Why I let you go on about something that's completely irrelevant? It was because I knew you'd get to the meaty part sooner or later. False memory. Are you worried about losing something, Sherlock?"

"Why would I be worried?" Sherlock asked scornfully. "I'm sitting on a bench, watching joggers and cyclists go by, and I'm here with you."

"For now." Sherlock's head gave a jerk. "For now, Sherlock. Is that what you're thinking?"

"Oh, I see where you're going with this, John," Sherlock snapped testily. "It's the last day of the year but that doesn't mean that I'm getting all sentimental about endings. The date is completely arbitrary. According to the Chinese lunar calendar, for example, the new year won't arrive until—"

"What's wrong with being sentimental about things coming to an end?"

Sherlock scoffed and stood, looking for a bin to toss his cup. "Come, John. Let's walk."

"I'll walk if we can talk at the same time," John protested, but stood anyway. "Otherwise this is just you trying to change the subject. As usual. What's wrong with thinking about these things on the last day of the year?"

"What things?" Sherlock frowned. You are not dull at all, he thought. Why did I ever fear you might be dull?

There were times when John's brain worked faster than Sherlock's, filling in the gaps in the conversation and rushing ahead when Sherlock was still stuck on the colour of a person's tie and how long ago that person had cut his hair. Now was one of those times: John seemed to be two steps ahead of Sherlock in this conversation, discerning Sherlock's preoccupations before Sherlock was even aware of them.

How long has it been like this, with him? Sherlock wondered. How long has he known what I am thinking, before even I do? He felt suddenly bare, but not in the way that he felt when Mycroft discerned something about him that he would rather he hadn't. (Like when he sent the flowers to their room, and all of the other insinuations he had ever made about John, not to mention when Mycroft had known when he was using, and when he wasn't practicing the violin, and why.) I felt this way with Abu, Sherlock thought. This other, who knows what I am feeling, but doesn't want to do anything about it. Who just notices, and sees me, and maybe wants to know more, but doesn't want to fundamentally change me. Not like Mycroft.

"We were talking about endings, Sherlock, and memories. Auld Lang Syne and all that. It's New Year's Eve."

"How observant you are. "

"Shut it or tell me honestly, what is wrong with me thinking about you, or you thinking about me, and telling the other?"

"Are you saying that you were thinking of me, just then?" Sherlock kicked idly at a stone in the path.

"Yes, you idiot! I was sitting there, thinking about what a beautiful day it is, what a beautiful year it has been, living and working with you, and I was thinking back to when we first met, and trying to remember my first impressions. I was thinking about all these things because it is the end of the year, and we are beginning something new together, and I was wondering exactly how these changes are going to play out once we get back to Baker Street."

"Why don't you tell me, then?" Sherlock said, a cold note in his voice. "I haven't done all this -" he gestured vaguely at both of them "-before. You know that. So tell me what is troubling you."

"Nothing is troubling me. I just want to know where we stand, if you - if you had any second thoughts, that is."

Sherlock stopped, spun, and looked down at John. He narrowed his eyes and examined the other man's face carefully. He let out a loud chuckle.

"You are worried, aren't you, John? Unbelievable. You're actually worried about us." Sherlock clapped his hands together, about to bring them into their usual steepled position, when John surprised him by surrounding Sherlock's gloved hands in his own, holding Sherlock tightly within his grip.

"You will not laugh at me, Sherlock," John said in a low, dangerous voice. "You will not stand here and laugh at me. Not for this. You can call me an idiot in any other situation, and I'll sit back and laugh, but listen to me:—" his voice brokered no argument "—If you laugh at me when I'm talking about us, I will—I swear—" He paused, then reached up and grabbed Sherlock's head, bringing the taller man closer to him until their foreheads were touching and their eyes were just inches apart.

And then John's lips were on Sherlock's, kissing him angrily, surprising Sherlock with his vehemence. "Do you hear me, Sherlock?" John asked between kisses. "I –." Kiss. "—will—." Kiss. "—fuck—." Kiss. "—the living—." Kiss. "—daylights—." Kiss. "—out of you." Kiss. "Do you understand me, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock panted, trying to pull away from John and gain a few inches for himself. But then he let out a loud bellow again, an irrational, unbidden roar of laughter, and John grabbed Sherlock's face again. "I don't think you do understand," John said, in that same low, tight voice. "You are trying to pull away right now."

"It's not that, John," Sherlock protested, "It's just—I want—I want—"

John covered Sherlock's mouth again with his own, preventing the detective from finishing his sentence. They kissed each other eagerly, violently almost, not caring that there might be people staring at each other, not caring that they were arguing, and snogging, and is John actually threatening me? Sherlock wondered. Is that what he means? Is that his form of a threat? He's too good to threaten to leave Baker Street again; he wouldn't say that lightly, I know he wouldn't. And so he tells me that he's going to fuck me. As if that would be any kind of deterrent to my laughing at him. Or refusing to tell him what he wants to know. Oh, John, you'll have to do better than that-or worse, I should say.

Sherlock managed to wriggle free of John long enough to pant, "How soon?" John loosed his grip on Sherlock's head and stared up at the taller man.

"How soon what?" he asked.

"How soon can you fuck me?"

John looked around. They were on the park's main drive, and despite a certain predilection he had for sex in the open air – a remnant, no doubt, of his days in the army, and those uncovered jeeps, God, they were excellent for a shag, especially at night – John was not about to get arrested in Brooklyn for sodomizing his boyfriend against a tree.

"How far is it back to the hotel?" he asked. Sherlock looked down at his watch. John wrinkled his brow, puzzled.

"Thirty minutes in a cab, I'd say," Sherlock said. "But first we need to walk out of the park. Come," he said, taking John's hand in his own and pulling him along. "There will be cabs along Flatbush Avenue."

They reached the road in a few short minutes, but it took another five or ten before a cab passed by. The two men stood close together on the curb, waiting. John was aware, as he had so often been aware, of the height and breadth of Sherlock's body, and every move he made with it, as the detective now began to hop on and off the curb in a lilting sort of jig. John had seen Sherlock like this, before, during cases, at times exactly like this – Well, perhaps not exactly like this, thought John. Unless there was something that he knew and I didn't… – when a cab didn't arrive, and Sherlock was just itching to get to the scene of the crime and strut his stuff, and could hardly stand still with the anticipation of it all. It was at times like those, in the past, when John would tease Sherlock about his nervous energy, or occasionally pick a fight with him, just to distract him. But this time, John felt nearly as antsy as Sherlock, though his army training had taught him to hide it better than Sherlock managed to do. We'll see how eager he is when we get back to our room, John thought darkly, and he sees that I'm not fooling around, here.

For his part, Sherlock was not just eager for the release of sex; more than that (which he had to admit was something that he was looking forward to almost more than he ever thought possible) Sherlock wanted to know how John would act, making love when he was angry.

I've had angry sex before, Sherlock thought. That's what sex always felt like – before John, that is. Sex as another game, a test of wills played out between two bodies. And I usually won. But this, with John, could be something altogether different, this kind of angry sex. It would be angry, but loving, too. Passionate. Oh, wonderful! Passion: another of those double-sided words, like sentīre. Etymology: Latin, of course Latin. Bloody Romans left their words all over Europe. Passiōn. Early Church usage: to depict suffering, ardour. Passion of Christ. Passionflower. So named by the Portuguese because the fruit and flower of the New World reminded them of the suffering of Christ. Later usage: physical disorder, a bodily affliction or other malady. And now: passion as intense feeling, overpowering emotion. What John does to me, in both directions: passion as love, passion as rage; passionate love, passionate rage. Or both at once. If only a cab would come. I cannot wait for this any longer.

The cab came, of course it came, but later than John or Sherlock would have liked. And then there was traffic crossing the Brooklyn Bridge – John saw the famous structure at last, though he still had the curious impression that Sherlock was hell-bent on keeping him in Manhattan. They had barely spent a morning in Brooklyn before they were being whisked back to the hotel, back to Manhattan. John was too busy to protest, however, because he was presently occupied in the wide back seat of the cab, trying to keep Sherlock's wandering hands from reaching inside, yes, actually inside his trousers. In a moving cab, no less, and John would have none of it. He told Sherlock firmly that they would both have to wait, that was just the way it was, and it wasn't because he was afraid of offending the delicate sensibilities of their cabbie, if the cabbie had any such misgivings; no, it was because John rebelled, in principle, at private displays of affection when there was a third party nearby. And so Sherlock contented himself with a few scant kisses, and the soft pads of John's fingers rubbing against his own, which, in themselves, were really quite enchanting, and Sherlock wondered what else he had been missing out on in these last two years when he had kept John at bay.

Sherlock paid the cabbie when they arrived at the hotel. It did not surprise John, now, that Sherlock would be the one to pay; he had paid for everything since they had arrived in New York, and as far as John was concerned, it was about time. He wasn't about to protest, especially when Sherlock had taken him by the hand and was pulling him inside, and then charging up the escalator, which was already moving, and through the lobby, and into the crowded elevator that brought them to the top floor.

When they were inside the suite again, alone and indoors at last, Sherlock scarcely had a moment to catch his breath, or look around, before John had immobilized him, pinning his chest against the wall, and was whispering into his ear.

"A bit eager, aren't we, Sherlock?" The taller man pressed his bum backwards, trying to find some purchase against John's body. But John held himself away from him, pinning him firmly with his arms alone, as Sherlock wiggled and squirmed beneath him. "Do you know what I am going to do, Sherlock?" John asked. "Do you know what I said I'd do to you, if you laughed at my questions? If you kept changing the subject?"

Sherlock shook his head and let out a sound that was suspiciously similar to a giggle.

"I think you remember, Sherlock, and that is what has you so turned on. Am I right?" John paused and blew a warm stream of air against the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock trembled and tried again, unsuccessfully, to push backwards against John.

"No, no, no," John said. "You aren't the one in charge here. You know what I said would do. And now I am going to do it. I am going to fuck you senseless, and you are going to do exactly what I tell you to do."

Sherlock's breaths were coming in ragged bursts. He leaned against the wall, letting it support the weight of his body.

"What do you want me to do, John?" Sherlock asked. He was surprised at himself; usually, he wanted things to go his way, he wanted to be el que manda, whether at Baker Street or at New Scotland Yard. Wasn't that why he arrived late, or not at all, and why he left his belongings scattered around the flat, and why he never texted unless he needed something, and why he wouldn't ever seek out Mycroft, not even at Christmas – because he who refuses is he who rules.

John had turned all of that around. Sherlock pushed himself closer to the wall, yearning for contact of one kind or another; if John would not give it to him, then the wall was a suitable alternative for the time being. He liked the cool feel of the plaster against his face, and he noticed how, even when his chest was flat up against it, his arse still felt exposed, distant. John was looking at his arse, Sherlock suspected. He had caught John looking at it on more than one occasion, and most of those times had been before this week.

"Lower your trousers," John said. "And put your arms up, on the wall."

"What?" Sherlock asked, in astonishment.

"You heard what I said." John leaned forward and blew another stream of hot air against Sherlock's neck. "Lower your trousers."

Sherlock did as he was told, reaching for his belt and then his zipper, pulling his trousers down into a puddle at his feet. He lifted his left foot, then his right, stepping out of them.

"And your pants," John commanded. "And yes, in case you were wondering, this is my military voice. It's Captain John H. Watson, to you."

"I wasn't wondering," Sherlock managed to say.

"Yes, you were," John corrected him. "And you were right. This is what I sound when I'm giving orders. Are you ready for your orders?"

Yes, Captain, Sherlock thought to himself. But it seemed exaggerated to use those words with John. He didn't go in for role plays, at least he had never been interested in that kind of thing, before. But this isn't a role play, Sherlock thought. This is John, and he's being himself, just a different part of himself. He's being the captain that he once was, the captain that he still is, if I'm not mistaken—you don't lose your rank just because you're invalided—and I like it, very much. I like him, in this way, and I want to know what he's going to make me do. Because I am very, very willing to go down on my hands and knees for this man. And doesn't he know it, too! What a lot of bluster, back there in the park. He knows I can't hide from him. He knows that he's the only one I'll do this with, the only one I'll let in. And that has to be enough for him, for now. If only he'd keep doing this, in the meantime.

To John he only said, "Yes, I'm ready," before turning around to face his lover.

I have now posted photos of the Hudson Hotel on my tumblr account, emmadelosnardos dot tumblr dot com. You can get a sense of the interior of the hotel where I imagine Sherlock and John staying when they are in NYC.

Don't feel shy, if you want to leave a review and say hello, I try to write everybody back. I love hearing your impressions of this fic, and I love talking about Sherlock, in general, and about sex and eroticism even more, so go ahead, ask me!

Thanks to Mirith Griffin for the shout-out in her lovely fic, "Control, Alt, Delete." As my father would say, we're members of the Society of Mutual Admiration. And I've enjoyed the convos I've had lately with Catastrophic Monsoon, tsukinoblossom, Mirith, syncsister, leew1, sycamore tree, skyfullofstars, writeaddict, Lady Ginger, Cumberbitch99, power0girl, thisisforyou, dark knightress, yuunash, Zarra Rous, and SeenaC.