Pax XXVI

Note: This is a belated birthday present for vector-nyu, who was so kind as to provide me with information about the New Year's Eve gala at the Metropolitan Opera. Thank you, vector-nyu!

This chapter has taken me longer than I had anticipated to write, what with a case of writer's block and my own sadness at knowing that the story is ending soon. Thank you for sticking with me through all of this. Your comments, kudos, reviews, and follows are so heartening to me. Thank you, thank you.

I have posted some more photos of the opera on my tumblr page, as well as a link to the aria that Sycorax sings to Caliban, so that you can get a sense for the music in this opera. Enjoy!

"Hearts that love can all be broken," sings Sycorax to her beloved, monstrous son, the Caribbean cannibal, Caliban. He has run to her, like a child wanting to be consoled, after the beautiful Helena wakes from her enchantment and remembers that she is in love with a man, after all, and not with a beast like Caliban. Demetrius has spirited Helena away, leaving Caliban to mourn over her loss in his mother's arms. "Hearts that love can all be broken," repeats the grand soprano, DiDonato, trilling Handel's floral melody to new words.

Sherlock sees John's profile at the corner of his vision; the doctor is leaning forward in his seat, his eyes transfixed on the scene in front of them. Sherlock wants to reach for him, to wrap his cool fingers around John's warm hand, but he restrains himself. The music is too beautiful, too sorrowful, and Sherlock finds himself unable to breach the distance between him and John, lest he break the spell of loss and longing crafted for them by the singers.

Hearts that love can all be broken. He repeats the words silently to himself, over and over, until he loses track of the duet, caught in the automatic repetition of those words.

What does she mean? Sherlock asks himself. The ambiguity of the verses disturbs him. Why can't she just say what she means? Is she telling her son that it is still good that he loved someone, even if he lost that love? 'Better to have loved and lost,' and all that rigmarole? Or is she warning him against love? Must be the latter: her love for fickle Prospero was what landed Sycorax in exile, on the dark side of the island. So she would be warning him against love, then; warning him that love could only bring him sorrow.

Unwillingly, a memory pricks at the back of Sherlock's mind. The soprano's words remind him of something that Mycroft said to him, months ago, when they stood in the passageway together outside of St. Bart's morgue. All lives must end, he had said. All hearts are broken.

Sherlock had been puzzled then, as he is puzzled now. What did Mycroft mean? he had wondered. I asked him if he ever wondered if there was something wrong with us. And he did not answer, not really. More ambiguity, not that I'm surprised by that, not with Mycroft. He excels at not saying what he means. So what did he really mean, by telling me that all lives must end, all hearts must be broken? Why must my heart ever be broken? Why must I ever give this up, give him up? I won't! I won't give him up, ever!

And then Sherlock thinks, Are we really so different, Mycroft and I, from others? Why do we insist on being above all of this, this messy business of life? I can't say that I'm above it, anymore. Not after this week, not after John.

Sherlock reconsiders the enchantress's words. Perhaps I've got it all wrong. Perhaps she is not telling Caliban to avoid love, but rather that it is because he loves that he has a heart. It is because he loves that he is a human and not a wretched beast, for only humans have hearts that can be broken.

The scene has changed. The strings are dying off, and John has sat back in his seat. Sherlock shifts in his seat, stretching out his legs, before turning his attention to the next aria.

When the curtain fell an hour later, the confounded lovers had found each other at last, the glorious Prince had arrived in raiment to rival Louis Quatorze, and Ariel was freed from bondage – but Caliban was still alone. Sympathetic character, Sherlock thought. Abu would have liked him, too. Soft spot for the underdogs, the nacionales, the younger sons of fairy tales – that was Abu.

At his side, John clapped loudly, leaning forward in his seat as the performers took their bows. Sherlock's applause was restrained, but he couldn't hold back the knot in his throat when Sycorax took her bow; the soprano's performance, in his opinion, was unparalleled.

John turned to look up at Sherlock. Over the applause he shouted, "Great show, wasn't it?" Sherlock continued to sit stiffly at his lover's side, only raising an eyebrow in response. When he saw the audience below rise all at once in a standing ovation, John stood in his seat, clapping all the more loudly and letting out a few catcalls before the curtain fell. Sherlock remained resolutely seated; it was his policy to reserve standing ovations for only one performance a year, and as he had already used up that quota when Evgeny Kissin performed the Liszt Sonata in B minor at Barbican Hall in February, he did not move from his seat.

As the applause died down, John sat down again, smiling broadly at Sherlock. "That was amazing," he said.

"Hardly a compliment, coming from you," Sherlock said.

"What is that supposed to mean?" John asked, with a note of irritation in his voice.

"Only that you call everything 'amazing.' The word loses its significance, after a while, if you use it too often."

John cocked his head. "Are you serious, Sherlock?" he asked.

"Problem?"

"Only that we just saw a spectacular performance, and you barely clapped."

"I clapped," Sherlock said in a clipped voice. "It doesn't do to stand at every performance, you know."

"This isn't my first time at the opera. I think I know a good performance when I hear it."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "And this was a good performance, then? According to John Watson?"

John sighed loudly. "So now I know how you feel about it. What wasn't to like?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said. "The singers were first-rate – I'm hardly one to complain about Plácido, and the countertenors were especially good, all things considered – the set was original, and the costumes were entertaining. And the music – rarely do you hear two centuries of hits all together in an evening."

The rest of their box had emptied out, and Sherlock and John were alone again. John began to walk towards the door, Sherlock trailing him.

"I don't understand," the doctor began. "If the opera was so good, then why didn't you stand?"

"For the same reason that I don't go around calling everything 'amazing' all of the time. A standing ovation loses its meaning when it's employed too frequently."

"I disagree. First, I do not go around calling everything 'amazing' all the bloody fucking time."

"No?"

"No, Sherlock! Think for a moment, why don't you! You may have heard me call you amazing, and brilliant, and incredible, but don't think for a moment that that's what I tell everyone."

"It's not?"

"No, you idiot." Sherlock blinked. "Yes, you are an idiot, in addition to being numinous and spectacular and mind-blowing and gorgeous and all the rest. You are an idiot because you think that –"

"You are rather hyperbolic, John."

They stood in the hallway of the parterre, Sherlock looking left and right, expecting Mycroft to appear at any second.

"I am not exaggerating. And I don't go around telling everyone that. I just—" he paused. " – I give compliments where they are due. No point being stingy, I always say. There are always people ready to criticize, ready to pounce on the slightest thing you do wrong. And I don't mean pounce on you, in particular, Sherlock, though God knows you could improve your bedside manner. I just mean, we don't let people know when they've done something well, most of the time. And it doesn't hurt to do so."

"I don't work at anyone's bedside," Sherlock retorted. "Except yours," he added with a slight smile.

"Fine. Not bedside manners. Just manners. Period."

"This is tiresome," Sherlock announced in a breathy voice, just as he saw Mycroft approaching. "Don't try to change me into someone I am not, John. It won't work."

"I'm not trying—"

"John. Sherlock." Mycroft tugged at his tie as he greeted them. "What a lovely performance. The Met really outdid themselves tonight."

John gave Sherlock a glance that implied I told you so, before nodding to Mycroft.

"And now, gentlemen, shall we dine?"

"If we must," Sherlock grumbled, following as Mycroft led them to the banquet on the grand tier. The tables were covered in sea-green linen and glittery sequins, echoing the colours of the mermaids' tails and hinting at the fireworks that would follow the meal. When Mycroft found their table, and introduced them to a trio of American diplomats, John gave Sherlock a bewildered expression.

"I promised him we'd have dinner with him," Sherlock whispered. "He always insists upon it, on New Year's Eve."

"Alright. No problem. Now I know why," John whispered back. "Just—be on your best behaviour, okay?" He felt Sherlock's hand at the small of his back, leading him to his place setting. The detective pulled the chair out from the table, indicating to John that he should sit. As John lowered himself into the chair, Sherlock leaned down, placing his mouth close to John's ear. John shivered when he felt the hot breath on his temples, as Sherlock whispered: "Oh, don't worry. I'll save my bad behaviour for later. For you."

After their supper of lobster salad, bœuf bourguignon, and fennel soup, they lingered at their table, watching the other guests at the gala. Most of the opera's stars were in attendance, though John had found it difficult at first to identify them without their extravagant costumes. He sipped at a small cup of espresso as his gaze followed Joyce DiDonato and Danielle DeNiese, striding arm-in-arm together across the balcony.

"Will you dance with me, Sherlock?" John asked suddenly, scant seconds after the Americans left the table. Sherlock's eyes darted to Mycroft, who looked amused.

"Don't mind me," he urged them. "There are a few other people here with whom I wish to speak."

"I wasn't worried about leaving you alone," Sherlock said snappishly. "God knows you're used to solitude."

"Indeed," Mycroft said blandly. "Usually, when three people are seated together, and two of them are an established couple—well, I wouldn't want to be the proverbial third wheel."

"As far as I'm concerned—" Sherlock started, but he didn't finish his sentence because John was pulling on his hands, and speaking to him, asking him to please come and dance, and apologizing to Mycroft. John really was quite handsome in that suit, after all, and he wasn't going to pass up on another opportunity to lead him around a dance floor. He didn't know when they would have another chance. Will John want to dance with me, when we get back to London? Sherlock wondered. Would he go out with me, if there were a chance of him running into someone he knew? Is he dancing with me now because he knows that we don't know a soul here beside Mycroft?

"What's eating you, Sherlock?" John asked, as the taller man pulled him into a loose embrace.

"Nothing's 'eating' me," Sherlock said frostily.

"Come on, I know that's not true. You've been on edge ever since the opera ended."

"I do not like to socialize with my brother," Sherlock said.

"Yet you knew that was coming. Plus, you had your pants in a twist before we even saw Mycroft. You didn't want to stand for the applause, and you didn't want to admit that it was a good performance, even though you bloody well knew that it was spectacular."

"There you go using that word again. Spectacular. You've already said it once tonight. Do try to be original, John," Sherlock spat out, as he led John in a waltz of sorts. Their movements were awkward, nothing like the spontaneous fluidity of their dancing at the U.N. Ball. John was reminded of dancing lessons at primary school, when all the young boys had to dance together because there were no girls. It had been awkward then, too, all of that effort to follow the steps while avoiding the other's body, the other's gaze; they had danced like zombies, as if propelled by nervous energy alone, all desire firmly held in check.

"This is exactly what I meant," John retorted. "There's no reason to be in such a snit. I thought we were here to enjoy ourselves."

"Are you not enjoying yourself? Sherlock asked archly.

John sighed. He was tempted to pound his head against Sherlock's chest in frustration, but instead he insinuated himself more closely into Sherlock's arms.

"I would be enjoying myself a lot more if my dancing partner weren't such a prick," he whispered. "If he could remember, for once, that the people around him care about him, and want to know what's on his mind."

"People don't care about me," Sherlock said. "You care."

"I won't argue with that," John said, thinking it was better to not tell Sherlock that a number of other people also cared about him. I don't know what's got into him tonight, John mused. This was supposed to be an evening out, and – oh! Tonight. The roses. The anniversary. Of course. Of course Sherlock is out of sorts. How did I not see this earlier?

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm."

"Do you want to talk? About your mother?"

Sherlock did not reply for half a minute. Almost imperceptibly, John felt the other man's arms tighten around him, until he was firmly clasped in his partner's embrace. Progress, John thought. If only he'll speak.

"I don't want to talk about her," Sherlock said. "But if you—if you have any questions, I'll answer them."

"Interesting," John commented. "Yes, I do have some questions. But first—what do you think I should know about her?"

"Oh, you'll probably want to know when she died, and how, and what happened to my father. All the common questions."

"Has anyone ever asked you those things before?" John looked up at Sherlock's face, examining him carefully.

"No."

"No?"

"No. No one has ever asked me."

"Interesting."

"You keep saying that," Sherlock observed.

"Well, it is interesting that no one would ever think to ask you about your family."

"What do you think, John? Take a guess."

"What do I think about what?"

"What do you think happened? How did my mother die? What happened to my father? Go on, try to guess. Or, better still, deduce."

John pulled back slightly from Sherlock, his eyes still fixed on his lover's face.

"You want me to deduce you?"

"Yes. I've taught you well enough. You should be able to figure this out."

"Well…." John paused, wondering how much to say, how much to hold back. I bet Sherlock never even thinks to hold anything back, he reasoned with himself. So why should I? "Okay, you really want me to do this, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Because I may say things you don't want to hear."

"Go ahead." Sherlock had an unreadable expression on his face, as if he were trying to hold back a smile.

"First, I'd say that she died when you were young. Young enough to still call her 'Mummy.' That's why you and Mycroft refer to her by that name, even today. You're adults, but you weren't an adult when your mother died. Hence, 'Mummy' she will always be to you. Am I right?"

"Go on," Sherlock said.

"She played at Ravenna when you were nine years old. So she was still alive then. And you would have stopped calling her Mummy soon after, at least by puberty, if she had lived that long. But she didn't, right? She died before then. And Mycroft probably didn't call her that name, because he's so much older, except when he was around you. You were the baby of the family, and he called her Mummy for your sake. So I'd put her death sometime between the time you were nine and thirteen."

"Right, there," Sherlock said. "Better than I thought you'd do."

"I am going to guess—"

"Don't guess. Deduce."

"I am going to deduce, then – oh for gods sake, you know that I'm just guessing here! Fine. I'll deduce that she died when you were twelve. That was the year when you learned German. Your mother died, and your father sent you to Germany for some reason. Boarding school? Am I right?"

"I wanted to go to Spain," Sherlock said. "But he said that Heidelberg would be better, for philosophy and physics."

"You were twelve years old. Twelve years old! Don't tell me that he sent you to university when you were twelve years old!"

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "You were doing so well, too. Not university. Heidelberg does have a number of outstanding secondary schools as well as the university. I was enrolled in a boys' school."

"So you went to secondary in Germany. Explains a lot. No one does logic like the Germans, right? Anyhow, Sherlock, back to the guessing game. Your mother died, unexpectedly I would say. New Year's Eve suggests an accident, rather than a disease. Drunk driver?"

"Both drivers were drunk," Sherlock stated blandly.

"Fuck, Sherlock." John's face took on an expression of pity. "I'm sorry."

"Don't feel sorry for me."

"If I don't, who will? Sherlock, if I worked this out correctly, then your mother died when you were twelve, in an automobile accident. Judging from the look on your face, and the complete absence of any reference, ever, to your father, I would say that he was the driver. Am I correct?"

Sherlock would not meet John's eye.

"Your father was driving, and he was drunk—"

"They both were drunk. It wouldn't have mattered if she had been the one driving that night. It would have happened anyway."

"That's not what you thought then, is it, Sherlock? You blamed your father. And why shouldn't you? I probably would have blamed him, too, if I had been in your position."

"They both were drunk."

"Ah! So you blame both of them, is that it?"

"I don't blame anyone. That would be ridiculous. Neither of them wanted to die. They made a mistake, one that millions of other people make on that night. No different."

"It was different," John said gently. "It was different, because they were your parents. Of course it was different, for you. It had to have felt that way. Every death matters to the people who love them."

"If you're saying that I was upset about it, of course I was. I didn't speak to my father for a year. But that was childishness, and I got over it, soon enough."

"I wish that I could believe you, Sherlock. As much as I wish that were the end of the story. But there's still so much I don't understand. Why do you hate Mycroft so much? Why don't you talk about your father, still? What happened to him?"

"Are you done?" Sherlock asked archly. "Done with your deductions?"

"Would you like me to go on?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. This is tedious. You're not telling me anything new."

"It's tedious, and you want me to stop. But that's not really why. It isn't nice, is it, Sherlock, when people see you too clearly? When they know why you are hurting?"

"I don't mind if you see me," Sherlock said.

"Maybe not, but it has to be on your own terms, doesn't it?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"That you want to be the one who sets the terms. Who tells me things, when you want them to be known."

"Is that so bad?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John.

"Not at all. In fact, it's what most people want, usually: to be left alone with their own problems until they decide that it's time to talk about them."

"Your point?" Sherlock drew back slightly, looking down at John, scanning his face in order to discern what John thought, what John felt.

"Just that you do this to me, all the time. I'm an open book to you, Sherlock. I should be used to that, but it does bother me sometimes when you deduce something about me that I'd rather not talk about just yet. And it doesn't surprise me, but it does irk me a bit, that you can't stand to have someone do the same to you. Especially since I care about you more than anybody, and I'm not asking you these things to make you upset."

"Do you mean that you care more about me than you care about anyone else, or that no one else cares about me as much as you do?"

"Both, I would venture. I love you, Sherlock. But only you can say if anyone else cares about you the way that I do."

Sherlock did not respond at first, but he gripped John more tightly in his arms. "John—John, I—" He danced John over to the side of the dance floor, bringing them both to a halt next to a pair of slender twins. Sherlock took John's face between his palms as his wide eyes stared down at John. The twins scattered away, as if startled by the sight of two men in such a close embrace. John looked at them with concern. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it.

"Ignore them," Sherlock demanded. "It's not as if we're the only two men dancing together tonight. Look around: who do you think attends the opera, nowadays? Grey-haired dames and gay men."

"It's not that," John protested. "I don't blame them for leaving. You look like you are about to say something serious. Maybe they don't want to be in your way." He chuckled, but there was a nervous ring to his laughter.

"Why are you scared of me?" Sherlock asked.

"Scared? I'm not scared of you. Hell, I'm just longing for you to get out of this foul mood you are in. What can I do to speed it along?"

"Besides giving me a cordial of oblivion? Nothing, John."

"So it's that bad, is it?" There was no anxiety in John's voice now; he was calm, collected. He knew about pain and grief, and he knew when pressing the topic only made it hurt all the more.

"I told you, it's tedious to talk about." John smiled at that; only Sherlock would say something was tedious in order to disguise his discomfort.

John looked down at his watch. It was fifteen minutes to midnight. "Well, then, what do you say we head out to the plaza? They'll be setting off the fireworks, soon. And then we can go home." Funny, how the Hudson Hotel feels like home, now, and it's only been a week, he thought. But then again, Baker Street felt like home after only one night! It took me that long to save Sherlock's life, and after that, there was no turning back, was there? I can't ever turn away from this man, this crazy, broken man. And I hope he'll never find me tedious, never tell me to bugger off – or, at least, never mean it when he says it, because I know he'll keep saying it, and not meaning it, and expecting me to ignore him, which of course I will. I'll do all that, and more—

"Come, John," Sherlock said in a gravelly voice, taking John's hand and pulling him across the floor. They made their way down the circular stairs of the Opera House, picking up their coats before heading out into the night.

The fountain was running in the centre of the plaza, despite the cold weather. Underwater lights illuminated jets of water, calling attention to the structure. It caught John's eye and he gestured for Sherlock to follow him through the loosely scattered groups of people. When they reached the fountain, they paused to watch the play of lights on the water, the ripples and windsongs forming in the pool. A dark marble ledge circled the perimeter of the fountain and John was tempted to sit on it, but as he reached his hands out to touch it, he felt water under his fingertips. Shaking away a few drops, he grabbed Sherlock's hands, then pulled his friend to face him, until their chests were only a few inches apart.

"May I kiss you?" John asked. Sherlock nodded his assent and bowed his head down so that John could reach him. The first brush of the doctor's lips over his was surprisingly tender; Sherlock had expected an impassionate, angry kiss, the sort that he would have given John, if John had been an arse all evening. He had not thought that John would treat him with such gentleness, such reassurance, after his quarrelsome behaviour at the gala. Sherlock reached his hands up to John's head, one hand pulling him closer by the nape of his neck, the other caressing the skin under his chin. John murmured and sighed beneath him, tilting his face upwards to give Sherlock better access to his neck. Thus encouraged, the younger man ran his lips across the edge of John's jaw, trailing kisses down his neck before burrowing his face in John's collar.

"Sherlock," John said affectionately. "I think they're going to start the fireworks soon. Look!" He pointed across the plaza, to an area that had been cordoned off. A group of men and women were working furiously to stack boxes and erect a launch pad. John looked down at his watch. "We have a couple of minutes until midnight," he said. "Any last-minute wishes for the new year?"

"Wishes?" Sherlock asked, sounding puzzled. "Is that what people do, for the new year?"

"Why not?" John returned, giving Sherlock a peck on the cheek.

"Sounds better than making resolutions one can't keep," the younger man observed. "Alright, then. Wishes. Wishes, wishes, wishes," he mused. "I wish…"

"Don't tell me!" John interrupted. "You can't tell me your wish, or it won't come true."

"Who says so?"

"Everyone knows that, Sherlock. You have to keep your wish a secret or it won't come true."

"But the only way this wish can come true is if I tell it to you!"

"Fine, fine. You can tell me, but don't tell me now. Tell me later, once we get back to Baker Street. Or is that too late?"

"That will be fine," Sherlock said, kissing John's mouth. "The wish will keep. May I kiss you now?"

"I thought that's what you were doing," the other man said, between kisses.

"I thought it would be better to ask."

"Not when I've been kissing you for several minutes already, Sherlock. And not when it's New Year's Eve. Everyone kisses when the new year comes."

Sherlock scoffed. "I like to be ahead of schedule—" he began, but then all of the people around them were counting down from ten, and a renegade firework shot up over the plaza – nine! – and John pulled Sherlock closer to him – eight! – and John's lips were over his again, only this time John had opened his mouth and was pressing his tongue against Sherlock's palate – seven six five four three! – as someone somewhere was playing "Auld Lang Syne" on a pair of bagpipes – two one zero! – and it really and truly was the new year, in a new country, and the entire night, the entire year, stretched out before them.

"A drink?" John asked. "Back at the hotel, perhaps?" He looked up, watching the fireworks cross the plaza, bright blazes of red and purple that disappeared into the night.

"I've got tickets for somewhere else." John tilted his head, curious. "Don't worry, it's just across the street, we barely have to walk. And we can get completely sloshed if we want to, and still get home on foot. The Empire Hotel. Rooftop bar, we can see views of Central Park and Lincoln Center from there, too. I hear they have quite the party going on, and it's still open bar until two o'clock."

John whistled. "Don't tell me that you had this entire trip planned out ahead of time. The plane, the hotel, the opera, now this. I keep thinking: what if I had been foolish and hadn't come at all? I could have missed all of this, missed you."

"You never would have stayed behind. Don't think about it." Sherlock was kissing him again, kissing him and shouting at him above the din of the fireworks. "I knew you, and I knew you'd come. If only because you wanted to avoid another Christmas with Harry."

"Not true!"

"Yes, true. But I don't mind. I would have kidnapped you if that was what it took to get you here."

"Really? You're as bad as Mycroft."

"I'm worse." Sherlock smiled broadly, one of his rare genuine smiles. "Come, now. Let's leave the plaza before the fireworks end and everyone tries to get out at once."

"After you," John said, watching Sherlock wend his way through the crowd as he headed towards Amsterdam Avenue. The crowd parted to let the tall man in the long coat pass. Sherlock turned back to clutch John's hand, and together they descended the shallow steps and left the Plaza.