The days between Christmas and New Year are called "zwischen den Jahren" in German, "between the years". They feel as unreal as their name sounds and pass us by with a slow mixture of violin music, stormy weather, and domesticity.
Nothing really happens, and yet they are over within the blink of an eye.
On the morning of New Year's Eve, my parents leave for Hamburg. This breaks up the surrealistically peaceful time for just a few moments. The rest of the day Emmi demands our attention. She has become a blonde nearly-walking, nearly-talking whirlwind. She makes us do the most ridiculous things and before we notice, it is night time and she falls asleep in my arms.
John waits downstairs while I bring her to bed. He has been in a strange mood all day. Like me. No matter how matter-of-factly you try to see it, New Year's Eve is a peculiar time. It makes you reflect on last year and wish for the next even if you try not to.
I put Emmi into her bed and allow myself to watch her sleep for a while. No matter what the last year did to us, it also brought this little wonder into our world. My heart swells. Who would have thought one year ago that I would stand the test of being a father so naturally?
Emmi makes touching little sounds sucking her pacifier in her sleep. The little stuffed sheep John gave her for Christmas is half hidden underneath her. She sighs (happily) and starts dreaming of something nice (apparently). I continue loving her for a while. Then I tear my eyes away from her and go back downstairs.
Two glasses of red wine have appeared on the table in the living room, and a fire has been lit. The whole room is emanating an air of cosiness and warmth.
The only thing that does not really fit in is John. He arranged all that, and yet he feels like an invader. I can tell that by the way he sits in his chair a bit too straight, a bit too close to the edge. His (lovely expressive) face shows the inner turmoil he is going through. His fingers are ...
"Stop it, Sherlock," his voice cuts through my thoughts. Insistent but not unkind. He feels uncomfortable under my deduction. I don't want to intensify that feeling even more. So I nod and ...
And what? Grab a glass of wine? Drink it while standing in front of him? John has not touched his. Sit down then. But where? Next to him? How close is too close? How far away is too far away?
I curse my indecisiveness, yet I am lost as of what to do next.
"Could you … " John starts but stops talking again. His eyes wander to my fingers and then to my violin. He frowns.
What a relief to know how to go on. Without saying a word I reach for the instrument, turn my back to John to give both of us some space and start to play a sentimental tune.
I play a few pieces John likes, including the one I composed for him in my head the week before Christmas. One day I will tell him that it is his song. One day I will tell him, and he will be able to deal with it. One day.
That thought makes me play another bitter-sweet song before I lower my bow.
John's glass is full but the bottle of wine is clearly more empty now. His second glass then. Being tipsy is not a good idea in a strange night like this.
Anyway. I down my wine too fast and finally sit down opposite to John in the other chair.
"What happened to your old violin?" he asks (out of the blue and it hits me by surprise).
There is still something surreal about this night. Something that makes me lower my walls and open my soul. Or maybe it is just the wine.
"I smashed it against your chair when you left Baker Street."
We look at each other for a moment. He nods (sadly). "I had to go," he whispers after some time.
Of course he had. I know that (now). But there is one thing I still fail to deduce. "Why didn't you commit suicide in Scotland?" I blurt out. (Should have drunk the wine slower.)
John stares at a point on the wall behind me for a while. Then he takes another big gulp of wine himself. "Because of you," he says.
I want, I need to dig deeper but the door bell disturbs us. It is only a group of islanders in costumes. (Old Tradition. Boring.) John is polite, I am rude, they all get a shot of whisky and leave. The mood between us is gone.
For a while, we sit together awkwardly. My mind wanders back to New Year's Eve last year. I had been in prison, with no idea what would happen to me. The vague idea of a suicide mission to Serbia was looming over me back then.
And then an unpleasant thought crosses my mind, so sharp that my fingers start to tingle and my eyes start to burn. If I had been sent to Serbia, John would have stayed with Mary. She would not have had any reason to do all the things to him, to cripple his soul and kill his sister and make him regret the fact that he loves. She would have had no reason to shoot Mycroft.
For seven months I have managed to abandon thoughts like that. Now they hit me with uncontrollable force. John senses the change, looks at me with a frown. It is too much. I cannot stand his gaze.
I stand up too fast, nearly knock over my empty glass and turn my back to him. Pretend to look out of the window while trying to regain control over my thoughts that are running wild.
If only I had been sent to Serbia.
I hear him approach me (carefully). "Sherlock," he says. Nothing more. Not necessary. I can hear his unspoken questions, his concern.
I shake my head, unable to speak. Try to breathe evenly. Fail.
I can sense him standing behind me for a long time. Then he places his hand on my back. He holds still for a moment, then starts rubbing me carefully. I cannot help but lean into the touch.
"Tell me," John murmurs. His hand is still on my back.
Is it the wine? Is it the strange mood? I don't know but I take a deep breath and say, "If Mycroft had allowed them to send me to Serbia, none of ..."
I cannot go on, for John grabs my arms hard and jerks me around. He is angry, very very angry. "Stop that thought right now," he hisses.
We stare at each other. He takes a deep breath. His fingers are buried into my sleeves. He is shaking. "Stop that," he repeats.
I fail to answer. We look at each other again.
"If you had been sent to Serbia, you would be dead by now," he says, dangerously calm.
I swallow hard. "Yes," I answer, "and Mary would not have ..."
John interrupts me again, this time involuntarily. He makes a painful noise, something between a howl and a whimper. His arms fall down limply. Then he grabs me by my sleeves again. "You. Would. Be dead." he repeats.
Time stands still for a moment. Our eyes meet and the rest of the world ceases to exist. I hold my breath. So does he. And then he springs into action, pulls me closer and presses his lips onto mine.
I must admit I have spent some time, mostly at night, imagining how our second first kiss would be. Now I realise that I have never even come close. He is still angry, and sad, and troubled, and he puts all of his emotions into his kiss. It is rough and clumsy. Our teeth clash and my body switches to autopilot.
My tongue is inside his mouth, my hands are on his backside. I have missed him so much I feel like drowning right now. My whole body is pressing against his, and I love it, I love him so badly.
For exactly 4.2 seconds we share a passionate kiss. Then our brains have time to catch up with our bodies. John freezes. Before I can prevent it, he stumbles back three steps. There is panic in his eyes, wild and painful. I must have looked the same way back when I accidentally talked to my parents.
The absence of his body feels like snow-filled air on my skin.
"John," I say (pleadingly) but do not know how to go on. I remember that day almost three months ago. There is nothing my parents could have said to ease my fear.
"Something terrible will happen," John mumbles. "Something … I love you so much and … and something will ..." He is panting.
"John, no," I babble (regardless of how useless my words will be), "nothing will happen. Nothing." I am aware that I continue talking but I don't know what I am saying.
He steps back, one step, two, three. Shakes his head. It is so painful to see him like that, desperate and haunted by his inner demons.
And then something changes. His body straightens and the expression in his face …
This is no longer crippled, troubled, desperate John. This is Captain Watson, ready for a ferocious fight. He is still shaking his head. "No," he agrees, and looks at me in defiance. "No, nothing will happen to the two of you. Because I will protect you."
Oh.
Okay. Given the fact that nothing would happen to us anyway, that sounds like a reasonable thing to do.
He closes the space between us and only stops when he is so close that I can smell the red wine in his breath. "I know I couldn't, last time. But now I will ..."
He embraces me, careful but strong. I do not know how long we are standing like that for my brain fails to count the minutes. It does not matter anyway. Funny how I always feel completely safe and wrapped up in his arms, with him being so much smaller than me.
There are no fireworks at midnight (too many houses with thatched roofs), so we miss the beginning of the new year. But we both know that we started the year in each others' arms. It is so much more that I hoped for.
"I will protect you," he whispers before letting me go.
"I know," I answer. What else is there left to say?
Author's note: Thanks to my wonderful betas for their incredible speed. :-)