"This is boring," Sherlock complained, as he leaned back further in his seat and looked around the lounge of the Empire Hotel. He and John had been there scarcely fifteen minutes, but Sherlock had already deduced the professions of the occupants of a nearby table, insulted the coatroom attendant by observing that Chanel No. 5 made her smell old, and had sent his caipirinha back to the bar, complaining that they had used Cuban rum instead of cachaça.
"You're in right mood tonight," John observed.
"Don't I know it!" Sherlock snapped back at him.
John shrugged. "We don't have to be here, you know," he said. "We can always go back to the hotel. Or, if you like – go somewhere else?"
"Go where, John?" Sherlock pouted. "There isn't a bar in this city that will be quiet, and I know that you like to get sloshed on New Year's."
John opened his eyes wide. "Sloshed? Not how I'd put it. But speaking of …" He trailed off, smiling up at the dark-haired waitress who had brought them their drinks on a white tray.
"Pro cavalheiro que gosta da cachaça autêntica," she said with a wink, setting down an old-fashioned for John and a caipirinha for Sherlock.
"Muito obrigado," Sherlock said, brightening a bit at the opportunity to use another of his languages. "Você é de qual parte do Brasil?"
"Sou carioca."
"Ah, de Rio de Janeiro," he said smoothly. "A cidade maravilhosa. E o que você faz aqui em Nova Iorque, tão longe de Ipanema?"
"Eu poderia te perguntar o mesmo, um estrangeiro tão elegante e bom vestido, não como os americanos, " she said in a coquettish voice.
"Sherlock?" John interrupted. "What are you talking about?"
"The best beaches in Rio," Sherlock lied. "She says she prefers Copacabana, but I much prefer Leblon."
"You didn't use those words, Sherlock," John said peevishly. "All I heard was Ipanema." He began to hum the song under his breath. Tall and tan and young and lovely….
"Didn't I?" Sherlock tried his best to look innocent.
"Nope." John shook his head, then he looked up to the waitress. "May I have a glass of ice water?" he asked in the poshest voice that he could muster.
"Right away, sir," she murmured, before clasping the empty tray to her chest and walking away from them.
"What was that all about?" John asked.
"Brazilian, late 20s, I'd say she came here on a tourist visa, overstayed her welcome, tried to get modeling work, found it was too hard, settled on waitressing until she has her 'big break.' "
"She was flirting with you," John stated.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Was she? I wouldn't know."
"Of course you would know. You notice everything about people. She liked you, Sherlock."
"Are you jealous?"
How could I be jealous, John thought. How could I possibly be jealous of a stranger when I am here with you, in New York of all places. You brought me here for a reason, Sherlock, and if I'm not mistaken, I think that reason was to seduce me. Well done. I'm completely taken in. And I'm not going to give you up. Nor am I going to get jealous just because you pull out the charm with our Brazilian server. I know by now when it's an act.
"You're better than this, Sherlock," John said calmly. He took a large draught of his drink and noticed that Sherlock was downing his own rather quickly, as well.
Sherlock cocked his head to one side, waiting for John to continue. When he did not, the detective asked him what he meant.
"Only that you're a better man than this. Better than you have been tonight."
"Don't be like Mycroft," Sherlock said in a bored tone. "Don't lecture me, John. I won't have it from you."
"Yes, you will," John said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, staring intently into Sherlock's eyes. "You will have it any way I want it." Sherlock struggled to keep from blinking, but John's gaze was too intense, and he was forced to look away first. John sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "You know what you really need?"
"A spanking?" Sherlock said in a pouty voice. John burst out laughing.
"Far too late for me to be the one to provide you with that. And I don't play that way, in any case." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, thinking of how John had kissed him earlier that afternoon, pressing him against the wall of their hotel room, pinning his arms above him so that he could not move. He didn't quite agree with John's claim that he 'didn't play that way', but he decided to let it pass.
John reached for his whisky and took another generous sip, feeling the liquid burning in the back of his throat. "No, it's not a spanking you need. You just need someone to tell you when you're being impossible. Someone who is not your family, and doesn't work for Scotland Yard." He took a deep breath. "I know you didn't care a thing for that waitress. But you thought it might bother me if you began to speak to her, in another language, no less. And for some reason – ah! Ah! Wait, don't interrupt me!" John held up his hand to signal Sherlock to be quiet. The other man shut his mouth and absently twirled his drink with a straw. "For some reason, you wanted to make me jealous. Which is ridiculous, really." John leaned forward again, circling his fingers around one of Sherlock's wrists. They both felt a shock when they touched, but neither pulled away.
"Is it really ridiculous?" Sherlock asked in a soft voice. "Is it ridiculous to think that you could do so much better than me, when you were about to leave Baker Street?"
John wrinkled his brow. "Leaving Baker Street?" He shook his head, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's palm. "Silly. I'm not going to leave Baker Street now. Surely you've figured that out." He looked up at Sherlock. "Or haven't you?" Sherlock looked away from him. "Look, I – I don't want to leave Baker Street. And I don't want to leave you, okay? This week has been – I can't even begin to describe it. Probably one of the most important weeks of my life."
"Moça," Sherlock cried out just then, as their waitress passed their table. He gestured for her to bring the check.
"Sherlock!" John said sternly. "Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"
"It's time to go," Sherlock announced, downing the rest of his caipirinha in one long swallow.
"Yes, I'd picked up that much when you asked for the bill." John dropped his head into his hands, his elbows resting on the table. He rubbed his eyes with his palms before looking up at Sherlock again. "You are impossible, you know that?"
Sherlock smirked.
"You rotter, say something!" John said angrily. "Don't leave me hanging here. I've just bared myself to you, told you again – and not for the first time – that you're terribly important to me. And then you go and do it again."
"Do what?"
"Change the subject. Ask disinterested. Ignore me." The waitress dropped the check on their table. Sherlock grabbed for it, looked it over quickly, and withdrew his wallet from his coat. He left a few folded bills on the table, then stood and pulled his coat over his shoulders.
"I'm not ignoring you, John. You finished your old-fashioned in less than ten minutes, which, combined with the champagne and wine that you had at dinner, makes this the fourth drink of the evening for you. Probably not enough to get you totally drunk, as is your wont on New Year's Eve, but enough to put you in an over-emotional state. You are the kind of drunk who gets sentimental, aren't you? Or do you get angry?"
"I'd always thought of myself as an earnest drunk, actually," John said, pleased that he was still sober enough to correct Sherlock. "Which is why I'd much rather be discussing the important things in life, and toasting to Auld Lang Syne, and forming resolutions, and all of that, instead of fending off the quarrel that you so obviously want to pick with me right now."
Sherlock cocked his head, looked down at John, and opened his mouth to let out a loud chuckle. His laugh was richly timbred and deep, and hearing his lover let forth in that way, hearing no bitterness in the laughter, John knew that the dark mood had passed.
"Come, John," the detective said, extending his hand to help John stand. "Come, let's walk. And then we can talk of all the earnest things that you desire. Of shoes, and ships, and ceiling wax…"
John smiled up at him. "It's quite a warm evening. I wouldn't mind a stroll, myself."
"My thoughts, exactly." Sherlock turned and led John out of the bar and to the elevator.
Once inside the elevator, which thankfully was empty except for them, Sherlock stood close in front of John, grasping his upper arms and staring resolutely into the doctor's face before dipping down for a soft kiss. John felt the tension in his body release as he leaned into Sherlock's mouth, feeling the apology in the gentle kisses that Sherlock was brushing over his mouth. This is not easy for him, John reminded himself. Patience, patience, I've got to have patience. Because this is so absolutely lovely, like nothing I've ever had before and nothing I'm likely to have ever again. And I want it to last. So I'll be patient. I'll let him lead.
"What are you thinking?" Sherlock asked, pulling away from his lover as the elevator doors opened and they stepped out onto the landing.
"About you," the older man said matter-of-factly.
"Anything interesting?"
"Depends on what you consider interesting." John looked around them as they left the hotel and came out on Amsterdam Avenue again. "Right now, I'm wondering where we should go."
"The Park is that way," Sherlock said, pointing east. "I thought we'd go for a stroll there, show you Belvedere Castle; they light it up at night."
"Is that a good idea?"
"What?" Sherlock had begun to stride away, but he slowed down to look back at John. "Why ever not?"
"Oh, I don't know. Large urban park, New Year's Eve, people have had a lot to drink, coming home from bars. Just thought you might want to avoid it."
"Let's go down to the river, then," Sherlock said. "The piers at 72nd street should still be open. And they won't be as popular."
They walked uptown on Broadway, then crossed over to the river at 72nd Street. The night was unseasonably warm, and foggy, and though the city was not as busy as John had thought it would be, there were still plenty of people strolling along the sidewalks: large groups of boisterous youth, couples holding hands, drunken suburban mothers.
"There are several university dorms near here," Sherlock observed, as they passed a large group of young people, gaily singing a song by Adele. "We're not far from Fordham, and I met with some people from John Jay the day I had to be at the airport."
"What are those, schools?" John asked.
"Yes. Universities – or colleges? I'm never quite sure what the Americans call them. Anyway," Sherlock gestured to a man with a school sweatshirt, "I'm sure these kids go there. John Jay teaches forensic science, you know."
"Nope, I didn't."
"The federal agents at the Frick studied there. Oh, and here is one of the older subway entrances. Did you know that the subway lines used to be owned and operated by different companies? That's why some use numbers and some use letters to mark the lines. The numbered lines were run by one company, the letters by another. It was lines like these that opened up the Upper West and Upper East sides to residential settlement."
"Hmm," John said.
"Yes, no one wanted to live so far 'uptown' without means of getting there. Why, back when Henry James and Edith Wharton were writing about New York, Washington Square was the height of fashion, and the East 20s were considered to be too far uptown to be genteel!"
"Interesting," John observed.
They continued conversing in this way – Sherlock rattling on about New York trivia, John patiently listening – until they arrived at Riverside Park, which bordered the river.
"Ah!," Sherlock exclaimed once they crossed Riverside Drive and stood next to the balustrade that looked over the park. "If I remember correctly, there's a trail somewhere that will lead us to the river."
"What kind of trail?" John said, somewhat nervously. He didn't know if there were any deer in New York City, but the dark woods below them, bordering the river, looked like they might harbor a creature or two.
"Oh, more like a road than a trail," Sherlock said. "Paved, but for bicycles, strollers, no cars." He looked downtown, then up again. "I think we have to go up another block," he said, leading John along the balustrade until they reached an entryway with a long set of stairs that led downwards.
"After you," John said, looking around to make sure that they didn't have a tail.
"No one's following us, if that's what you're worried about," Sherlock said. "I made sure of that when we left Broadway." John almost lost sight of the taller man as Sherlock descended into the shadows at the base of the steps.
"Wait up," John called, rushing to join Sherlock.
"Don't tell me you're afraid of the dark," Sherlock scoffed.
"You are probably the most frightening thing within a one-mile radius, Sherlock," John said.
"Only one mile?" Sherlock asked sardonically. "Why not two? Or ten?"
"Fine. Most frightening person I know. You. Now, tell me where we're going."
Sherlock grabbed John's elbow with one hand and pointed to the river with the other. "See those lights down there? That's the pier at 72nd St. Come on!"
And then Sherlock was running, and John was running after him, down the smooth path that lead them across a bicycle trail and next to a volleyball court and beside a pile of chairs at a restaurant, until Sherlock sprinted ahead and John could not keep up. His coat billowed after him as John watched him run onto the Pier – more of a landing, really, wide and new and dotted with streetlamps and benches – and run and run until he reached the railing at the far end, which he clutched with both hands as if to prevent himself from rolling over and into the river.
John caught up with him a few moments later, breathing heavily. Before he had a moment to catch his breath, Sherlock's arms were around him, pulling him close to his chest, where John nestled into the taller man's shoulder. But Sherlock nudged John's head upwards, so that his face was mere inches from Sherlock's, and then they were kissing again – When will this stop? John wondered. When will I stop feeling like this, so completely undone by him? Will it be like this in London? When I chase after him there, will the chase end with a kiss, like this one? Or will it be like all the others, Sherlock pursuing a criminal and me pursuing Sherlock and Lestrade and Anderson following close after both of us? What will it be like, now?
"What are you thinking?" Sherlock whispered in his ear. His breath was warm against the cool night air, forming clouds of condensation around John's temple.
"Nothing," John murmured. "Just – just, Sherlock?"
"Yes?" rumbled his lover's deep voice.
"Can we not have this end? Just – don't change, please. For me."
Sherlock kissed him softly, all lips and no tongue, before asking John to explain himself.
"I thought I was the one who wanted everything to stay the same, the one who didn't want to grow up. And now you're playing at Peter Pan, too, John, and I'm afraid it doesn't suit you. Doesn't suit you at all." There was a sly, joking tone to his voice, suggesting something that John couldn't make out.
"What? Why?—" he began.
"I'm here," Sherlock said. "Like you said: I can't promise you more than that. Either of us could be killed tomorrow."
"I should hope we aren't killed tomorrow, thank you very much!"
"You're joking because you're nervous. Don't worry, I'm not going to ask you to marry me. This isn't one of those speeches." John's eyelids fluttered opened and his heart began to beat faster, hearing those words coming from Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock looked at him sharply. "Though I'm not sure that isn't what you'd like me to say. Am I correct? No matter. To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose, as the old teacher once said. But I digress." Sherlock paused, pulling John closer to him. "Do you know what I would very much like to do to you, right now? Take you home – to Baker Street, not to that dratted hotel – and wrap you up under my sheets and blankets, and have you to myself for an entire day. No computer, no cases, no clinic. Just you and me, John. Would you like that?"
"Yes…" John said breathily, not knowing exactly what Sherlock was driving at.
"And we would make love, of course, and then you would ask me about the books I have, and my photographs – don't tell me you haven't been dying to ask me about Edgar Allen, and I know you want to see pictures of me as a child, which I'm afraid won't be possible as Mycroft keeps all of the family photo albums. No, what I had in mind was more of the kind of day in bed that everyone always goes on and on about, when you don't leave the bed except to eat and shower and fetch a book to read, and then you return and your lover is there, under your sheets, sleeping on your – my, I should say – pillow. And I'd find the most delightful ways to wake you up, John. You don't think I can be romantic but I assure you—" he paused, driving up the tension "—I can be as romantic as the occasion requires. And this occasion would be very, very romantic." He looked across the river, pausing to admire the lights on the Jersey shore.
"I love you, you know," John said. "I love you. You don't have to tell me these things, I would love you anyway."
"Ha!" Sherlock said. "I know you would. But that's not why I'm saying them. I'm saying them because I can and because I really want to. Do you believe me?"
"Believe what?"
"That I can be a romantic? That I want you?"
"What is this all about, Sherlock?" John asked, pulling back to get a good look at Sherlock's face.
"Me being with you. Me being a romantic. Us going back to London."
"If you wanted to talk about London, you could have just said so!" John said, laughing. "God knows it has been on my mind, too."
"Is that why you said that you don't want things to change?" Sherlock's eyes grew wide, like a child, curious and amazed. "Because you think that things will change when we go back to London?"
"Yes," admitted the other man. "Because I don't think this enchanted week will last forever. And I'm – to tell you the truth, Sherlock – I'm afraid of that. I'm afraid of this ending."
"But that's ridiculous, John," Sherlock protested. "You know that I want you to always be with me. You must know that."
"I didn't, actually. But thanks, um, that's—that's good. Very good."
Sherlock hugged John closer and put a light kiss on his lips. "Now is an appropriate time to say the same," he reminded him.
"Oh, yes, I – dammit, what do you want me to say, Sherlock? I've told you, I love you!"
"And you aren't going to leave me," Sherlock prodded.
"And I'm not going to leave you, you git."
"And you are going to move into my bedroom when we get back to Baker Street."
"And I'm going to move into—wait, Sherlock! Why your bedroom?"
"Because it's larger," Sherlock said reasonably. "And because your room has better ventilation."
"Better than where?"
"Better than the kitchen. I thought you'd approve."
"Of you turning my room into a lab?"
"Of you moving into my room. We don't have to turn your room into a lab if you don't like. I can just as well keep using the kitchen—"
"No! The lab idea is fine. It's all fine, Sherlock. You, me, this," he gestured back and forth between me. "It's all more than fine. It's the best thing that I could have ever imagined."
"Now who is the sentimental one?" Sherlock smirked. That's it, he thought, laugh and him and he won't know how much this means to you. Laugh and he'll be the one with more to lose. No, that's not right. I don't want to laugh at John. I shouldn't keep things back from him, not if I want him like this, this same happy John, when we get back to Baker Street. Inspired, Sherlock whispered, "If you ever, ever leave me, John Hamish Watson, I will come after you. Wherever you are. War zone or Piccadilly, I will find you."
"Is that a promise?"
"Most definitely."
They wandered down the path that followed the river the length of the island, reaching Chelsea piers just as dawn broke. The first glimmers of light were shining on the river when John and Sherlock arrived at the construction site near the former World Trade Towers.
"This is where it all began," John commented, looking upwards at the half-completed skyscrapers that ringed the site where the towers had fallen.
"Where what started?" Sherlock asked. There were any number of things John could mean, and he wanted to know more.
"The wars, of course," John said with a sigh, releasing Sherlock's hands. "Iraq. Afghanistan. This is where it all began."
"But surely, you know that it didn't really begin here," Sherlock observed. "Anti-American sentiment has existed as long as – well, at least as long as anti-British feelings began to wane. Let's pin it down to the end of World War II. Or we could look even earlier, when the Yankees refused to involve themselves until 1917 in the Great War, though their isolationist policies were far more upsetting to their European allies than to any colonials in the Orient, who may have thought that an allied defeat would lead to their own independence."
"I thought you didn't care for politics," John answered. "I thought that Mycroft took politics and umbrellas, and you took forensics and scarves. At least, that's how I imagine things got divvied up in the Holmes household."
"No, he took the piano and mille feuille and the viscountcy, and I took violin and cocaine and my mother's inheritance. But that's beside the point."
"Quite," John said amiably. "The point was, at least I thought it was the point—the point was, we're here at the site where the Towers fell, where New York was attacked. And that attack led, almost directly, to military involvement in the Middle East. Including, in some roundabout way, my own deployment in Afghanistan. Which ended, as well you know, with my invalidation, my return to England, and my meeting you. So this here-" he waved expansively, "—is also part of my story. Our story."
"Yes, it is," Sherlock agreed. "But I have to admit, I like the ending much more than the beginning." He squeezed John's hand tightly.
"Meaning?"
"I'm glad you're here with me now. I'm glad I met you when I did. I wouldn't have known what to do with Dr. John Watson, RAMC."
"I think you would have known exactly what to do with him," John said in a low voice.
"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "I would have had the foggiest. But now, my dear Watson—" He looked down at his watch. Seven o'clock. They had walked and talked for nearly the entire night.
"Happy New Year," John said. "Any chance I could convince you to try that day in bed? The one that you mentioned before? I know we're not at Baker Street, but I could certainly use the rest."
Sherlock stepped towards the edge of the sidewalk, holding out one arm over the street as he called "Taxi!" A yellow cab smoothly pulled over.
"We have exactly thirty hours left in New York," Sherlock said. "And I don't want to waste a single minute."
"Do I at least get to sleep?" John asked, hopefully.
"Yes, John. Six to sleep, then six to laze about, then another six—"
John interrupted him as he opened the cab door. "Let's just get back to the hotel. The whole idea of a day in bed is that there isn't a schedule. Get in!"
Sherlock closed the door behind them, and they headed back to the Hudson Hotel.
A/N: I am sorry for the delay in publishing this chapter; it is a sort of transitionary moment in their visit and it was hard to pin down. But at last I'm finished with it, so here it is for you! Hoping to finish by the end of the week. Yes, finish. As in, THE END.