A telegram: COME AT ONCE IF CONVENIENT STOP

If convenient? John thought.

It went on: M WILL PROVIDE DETAILS STOP

That was all.

As promised, one hour later the doorbell rang announcing the man from the Ministry. John treated him with all the deference that Sherlock did, which was not a great deal. He was dressed in his impeccable grey three-piece suit, bowler hat in hand, carrying his umbrella, as he walked through the door of 221.

"Doctor Watson," he said in greeting.

"M," John replied. M was the only name John had ever been told, although it always felt peculiar to address a man by a letter, not even sure if it was an initial or a title.

M strode up the stairs without invitation and settled himself in the more comfortable of the two armchairs. He made a point of examining his umbrella until John had seated himself in the opposite chair.

"I assume that you received Holmes' telegram?"

"Yes. Is he in trouble? Should I be concerned?" There were no secrets from M. When he had first contacted Sherlock during the war, he had been completely aware of Sherlock's relationship with John, had in fact been aware of every aspect of Sherlock's life and of John's.

"He would hardly be able to wire you if he were ill or arrested, now would he?" M tilted his head in a chiding manner. It was something that Sherlock did occasionally, and John couldn't remember if Sherlock had always done it, or if it was something that he'd picked up from the other man.

"No. But why does he want me to come to Berlin? He's on a…a case, isn't he? Working for you."

A small crease appeared between M's neatly groomed eyebrows. "Yes. He needs…a partner to…confirm his cover. He has requested that it be you."

John gaped. He had never, in all their years together, been asked to assist Sherlock in his work for the secret service. He had assumed that it was taboo.

As if to confirm this, M continued, "Let me be clear, Doctor Watson. I am entirely opposed to sending you, a civilian, into Berlin. There are numerous well-trained agents who could accompany Holmes, but he says that only you can provide the authenticity that the situation requires. The political climate in Germany is turbulent, to say the least. Things are ready to slide one way or another and it is our job to make sure that it goes in the correct direction. That is why this mission is of the utmost importance, and it is why we are permitting Holmes this leeway."

M drew a packet of documents from his breast pocket. John was impressed by M's tailor; he'd have never known that they were there. He wondered what else was hidden behind a perfect fit. "Now, here is your passport, travel documents, train tickets and other forms of identification and some money. You are Doctor John Waverly. As you are new to this, we felt that it would be easier if we provided you with an identity that is as close to your own as we dare make it. If, for instance, you accidently bring something that you have had monogrammed, a handkerchief or luggage, the initials will be the same. You will be able to converse convincingly about medical matters. Holmes is Herr Viktor Krause, German-born, raised in England, works as an import-exporter. Do you think you can remember that?"

He passed the papers over to John who looked at the fake passport and other credentials curiously. They looked so real, but he supposed that was the whole point.

"Doctor Watson, there are some things that you must remember. Do not assume that anyone speaking German is actually German. Do not assume that anyone speaking English is actually English. Do not assume that German and English agents are the only ones operating in Berlin. Assume that everyone can understand what you are saying at all times, even if they pretend that they cannot. Do not assume that anyone is 'on our side'—"

John interrupted, "Even Sherlock?"

M's scowl deepened, "These are very serious matters, Doctor Watson. You must behave as if lives depend on you playing your part perfectly, as they probably do. Do I make myself clear? Unfortunately, I am not entirely aware of how things stand on the ground and I must trust that Holmes will brief you more when you join him."

He rose to signal the end of the interview, "I wish you and Holmes much luck. Good-day. I shall see myself out." He paused at the door, "Oh, and bring your evening clothes."

Although the packet of information had included the name of his hotel, John assumed that Sherlock would meet him at the train station, but Sherlock wasn't waiting there, nor did he meet him at the hotel. Instead, there was a bouquet of yellow roses waiting for him in his room with a note. "Have dinner in the brewhaus next door. The owner speaks English and is reliable. Be ready to go out for the evening at nine. I'll come and fetch you. – VSK

He ate his meal early—the haus nearly empty at that hour—returned to the hotel and had a bath before putting on his tuxedo.

At ten past nine there was a knock on the door. He opened it to find Sherlock in full evening dress, complete with top hat and a white silk scarf around his neck. Sherlock pushed John into the room and kissed him without a word, then turned and swept out of the room, "Coming, John?" John wanted more than a kiss after months apart, but it was clear, as Sherlock was want to say, the game was already on.

Out in the night air, Sherlock threw his arm around John's shoulder. "We'll walk; it's not far."

"Sh— Viktor," John hissed, M's words still ringing in his ears, seeing spies in every shadow, "can you at least tell me where we're going?"

Sherlock paused, turned and smiled, "To a nightclub."

"A nightclub?"

"Yes, I'm taking you out for a night on the town, Doctor Waverly. It's been so long since we saw each other in London. I'm so happy that I can show you Berlin."

"Oh," said John, no more enlightened than he had been before.

The door to the nightclub was inauspicious: a small awning, shielding a dark door down five shallow steps from the street.

Sherlock rapped on the door three times until the door was opened a crack and a girl's face appeared. Sherlock spoke to her briefly in German and she opened the door, letting them in.

The foyer was brightly lit, to John's surprise, decorated in vibrant blues, greens and reds in sharp Art Deco designs. Music could be heard through the heavy velvet curtain at the end of the room. A few men and women in evening dress were standing around chatting, cigarettes dangling from painted nails and champagne glasses in manicured hands.

Sherlock swept up to the coat check counter and was greeted effusively by the girl behind the counter.

"Ach, Herr Krause," she cried, taking his hat and scarf. "Sie sehen wie immer wundervoll aus. Zu schade, dass ich nicht mehr zu haben bin! Und wer ist ihr gut aussehender Freund?"

"This is Doctor Waverly. He's visiting me from London, and I want to show him the very best time," Sherlock replied in English.

John stepped closer to the counter, "Er, hullo. So…excited to be here."

"Of course you are, darling," answered the girl in a heavy German accent.

She reached out for his hat as well. Her hands were large with prominent veins and long nails varnished a vibrant blue.

John gave a start and tried to disguise it with a cough. He caught Sherlock's smirk from the corner of his eye. It was subtle but, as Sherlock would say, visible enough if one would simply observe: the beaded choker at her neck that disguised a too prominent Adam's apple, the heavy pancake makeup to hide a strong jaw and the faintest hint of stubble. But all in all, she was quite pretty. He looked around the foyer with new eyes. There were no women. There were only men in frocks, lovely draped gowns that gave the illusion of curves, capelets that hid broad shoulders. And some who, he suspected, could pass unnoticed on the street if the day were not too bright, so careful was their artifice, heavily painted eyes and ruby stained lips held in elegant puckers. Beyond the makeup and the clothing, the Marcelled hair glittering with feathers and baubles, they held themselves as women, their movements graceful and studied. A demure tilt of the head, a slightly cocked hip with the weight on one high-heeled foot in a way that a man would never do. Well, not as men normally behaved in public.

Sherlock tipped the coat check girl and slipped his arm about John's waist to lead him into the club proper. "Relax, John, we're among our kind."

John had heard that there were clubs like this, even in London, but he'd never been to one, and if Sherlock had, on one of his adventures with Prince George or other outré friends, he hadn't said.

Through the curtain, the music was loud and clear from a jazz band on a raised dais. Couples filled the dance floor, some where both partners wore tuxedos, others dressed as a man and a woman and even some where two "women" danced together. There was a haze of cigarette smoke and the smell of expensive alcohol. High tables were scattered around the perimeter of the room, where more men, chatted, drank, and in some cases kissed.

Sherlock led them smoothly to an empty table where he signaled a waiter and ordered champagne. He lit a cigarette and put it into a long, ebony holder, an affectation that both amused John and irritated John for its vanity. Sherlock said that it allowed him to smoke in the bath without getting the cigarette paper wet, but that didn't explain his fondness for using it when out for the evening.

"Marvelous, isn't it?" he asked when their drinks arrived. The waiter slipped away again without being paid. "I have a tab," said Sherlock in answer to John's raised eyebrow.

"Marvelous isn't quite the word I would use," replied John.

In a low voice, designed to not be overheard, Sherlock asked, "Does it shock you?"

"Somewhat."

"How terribly British you are," Sherlock said but his tone was tender.

John swallowed, "Have you come here often?"

Sherlock glanced away. "Enough."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"And do you leave alone?"

"Ye—es."

"Yes?" John repeated, his voice wavering slightly.

Sherlock reached across the table to take John's hand in his own and caress it gently. John jumped at the touch and glanced about instinctively to see if anyone had noticed. He realized that for the first time in their lives, no one would care. "There are a few…friends that I mingle with for appearances, you might say. I'll explain—and make it up to you—later." He looked away and took a long drag on his cigarette, then coughed.

John sighed. "You should give those up."

"Don't scold. You used to be quite fond of them."

"Yes, but—"

Still looking around the club, Sherlock cut him off, "Wait here a moment. Enjoy your drink." He stood and strode off, disappearing into the swirl of bodies on the dance floor.

John watched the dancers, listened to the voices around him speaking in German. The music changed and a male singer in tails joined the band.

"Spendieren Sie mir etwas zu trinken?" said a young man, taking Sherlock's chair.

John smiled and shrugged, "Nicht…sprachen zie Deutsch."

"Buy me a drink," the boy replied. And he was a boy, very young and very beautiful. He gazed at John with large kohl-rimmed eyes.

"I'm with someone."

"I know," the young man purred, looking in the direction where Sherlock had gone. "I'm not adverse. I like that." He turned back to John, "I like older men. They know what they're doing."

John almost choked on his drink. "I'm afraid— I'm sorry, I…we…we haven't seen each other in a long time. We have a great deal to catch up on."

The boy sighed dramatically, "Another time, then. Auf wiedersehen" He rose from the table, then leant down and kissed John on the cheek and swept away, presumably looking for another man, or other men, to buy him a drink.

John had finished his champagne by the time Sherlock returned and was contemplating asking for another.

Sherlock leant close to him, "Care to dance?"

"I'm not sure I know how to…"

Sherlock smiled, "Don't worry. You'll be fine. I'll let you lead."

They worked their way out to the floor as the singer switched to something slower. It was light and melodic, and John caught the word 'lieber' here and there. That meant love, didn't it? It seemed strange to lead someone who was so much taller and finally he gave up and simply leaned into Sherlock's rhythm, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. He shut his eyes and inhaled the smell of wool, and cigarettes, and cologne that was all Sherlock. It was nice, this, though he wouldn't have thought that it was important, to be dancing with the man he loved in the sight of God and everybody, but it felt good. How shocked they would be at home, he thought, even though their relationship was certainly an open secret amongst London society.

Sherlock whispered, "I love you."

"Mmm… What is it in German?"

"Ich liebe dich. Not quite as pretty, is it?"

"I don't know…it has a certain strength."

Sherlock chuckled and John could feel the rumble in Sherlock's chest against his cheek.

They returned to their table—and it did seem to be their table as no one had taken it while they were on the dance floor and their champagne had been replenished—where Sherlock kissed him, long and slow. It was lovely, but John pulled away. A lifetime of habit was hard to break.

"Sherlock," he hissed.

Sherlock's forehead creased, and John realized his mistake. "Er…look," he fumbled, but rather ruined it by looking into his own lap.

Sherlock smiled reassuringly. "It's fine."

They danced a few more times, and John drank some more champagne, particularly when Sherlock was greeted by apparent friends. He introduced John to each and if John saw disappointment in some of their eyes, he couldn't be blamed for feeling rather smug.

An hour passed. A female, or rather a female impersonator, was singing another slow song. While definitely still an alto, her range was remarkable. They were on the dance floor again, when Sherlock murmured into John's ear, "Come with me and follow my lead. It's very important that you try to look as though you aren't surprised by anything you see." He stroked his tongue along John's ear and then took his hand and pulled him deeper into the club.

At the back, hidden by the orchestra, a green baize door was guarded by a large and bored looking man. Sherlock spoke to him in German and the man waved them past. Sherlock pulled John up a steep staircase to a large, dimly lit room. Around the room, on sofas and against the walls, men were kissing, groping, sliding against one another. As far as John could see, no one was actually undressed, but buttons were undone, hands roamed inside shirts. All around there were moans and whimpers. John spotted the young man from earlier. He was sitting on the lap of one man who sucked on his neck while a second kissed him and had a hand down his trousers.

John tried not to stare, to act as if he'd seen this before. Perhaps sensing his confusion, Sherlock pushed him against a wall and kissed him. It was rough and tender at the same time. John reached up to grab Sherlock's arms, but the force of the kiss overwhelmed his objections. He let Sherlock loosen his tie, nuzzle his neck, before he thought to push back. "Please, not…please," he murmured helplessly.

Sherlock pulled back and looked in his eyes. "Shhh…do you trust me? Trust me." He took John's hand again and led him through the darkened room to another set of stairs. At the top, a young man lounged in a chair. Seeing Sherlock and John, he stood, smiled and led them down a hallway to an open door and showed them in, exactly as if they'd been in a restaurant, or if he were a bellboy escorting them to a hotel room. In fact, Sherlock tipped him just as he would have tipped staff. Sherlock waved John into the room and then followed, shutting the door behind him. He put a finger to his lips before John could say anything, then turned and pressed his ear to the door to listen. John looked around the room. It was small; no more than six by eight. There was a simple cot with a mattress along one wall. The room was lit, barely, by a frosted wall sconce.

As Sherlock was still listening at the door, John sat down on the cot. The room was also hot, almost muggy. Since his tie was already undone and his shirt opened, he took off his jacket. Sherlock turned back to him and whispered, "Stay here. Don't make a sound. I'll be back in a few minutes." He opened the door a crack, peered out and then slipped out into the hall.

The walls were thin. It took John a moment but when he worked out what he was hearing, he blushed. Men having sex. Moans, cries, the wet sound of skin slapping skin, and the occasional sharper sound of a smack. John imagined a hand against a buttock, a thigh, soft flesh. And there were words as well, in a variety of languages:

"Fick mich! Oh, Gott, mein Gott!"

"Plus fort! Fais-moi jouir! Merde"

English voices crying, "Yes, fuck, there, there." And even broad American accents saying, "Shit! God! YES!"

John thought about what M had said and wondered if even spies would revert to their own language during sex. But that made him wonder how far spies were asked to go and that made him wonder how far Sherlock had been asked to go, had gone. He put his head in his hands and waited. The sounds were disturbing, but perversely erotic. So many sounds of pleasure, unabashed, uncontrolled and unashamed.

Sherlock slipped back in again.

"Sh— Viktor?" John whispered.

But Sherlock just smiled and kissed him gently. "We should muss ourselves up a bit before we go."

"Is this…is this a male brothel?" John hissed.

"Shh, no. Later. Not here." He kissed John again and nipped at his lips, tugged at his shirt and ran his fingers through John's hair. In spite of himself, John found he was becoming aroused again, lost in the pleasure of having Sherlock back in his arms. He slipped his hands around Sherlock's waist to pull their hips closer together. Sherlock pushed John away reluctantly and then mussed his own hair and undid his tie.

Sherlock pulled John under his arm and they stepped back into the hallway, staggering slightly. John tried to remember what he would look like if he'd just had sex. They stumbled along, waved airily at the boy at the door, and went down the stairs. In the downstairs room, Sherlock stopped and made a show of readjusting his clothes and John's. The pretty boy and his paramours were nowhere to be seen. John wondered if they'd gone upstairs as well.

Back on the ground floor there were more dancers. The men seemed rougher to John: lower class. There were fewer men in tuxedos and dresses and more in plain jackets and trousers. Some wore common work clothes. Sherlock hurried them through. He retrieved his hat and scarf from a different girl at the coat check and swept John back into the night.

Outside Sherlock paused to light a cigarette, without the holder this time. In the glow of the lighter, John reached out to cup his cheek, and leaned in for a kiss, but Sherlock stopped him. "At the hotel, John. The police may tolerate places like this, but they are not so forgiving if you do it in the street and frighten the horses." Chastised, John followed him back to the hotel.

The night porter greeted Sherlock as an old friend and gave him a small suitcase and a briefcase when John retrieved his key.

"What was that?" John asked as they walked up the stairs.

"Since I was planning on spending the night here, I had a change of clothing dropped off."

"And the briefcase?"

Sherlock just smiled and led the way to John's room.

They weren't young men anymore. The night's excitement, while it had been stimulating and provocative at the time, was fading. The time in the club was beginning to seem a dream. Inside the room, they behaved much as they might at home. After a brief kiss, Sherlock took his sponge bag and went down the hall to the toilet. When he returned, John took his toothbrush and flannel and went to the floor's tiny washroom.

He came back to find Sherlock already in bed, lying on his side, the sheet and blanket draped over his bare hip. Strips of tickertape-like paper littered the bed. Sherlock was checking them against a book. John tilted his head to read the cover: Die Leiden des jungen Werthers. Sherlock smiled at his efforts. "The Sorrows of Young Werther, by von Goethe. Book code, little more complicated than the ones I showed you. Time consuming to solve." He put the book on the side table and gathered up the pieces of paper. "Pass me that briefcase, John."

John obliged. As Sherlock put the paper away and locked the briefcase with two different locks, John took off his evening clothes and crawled into bed. "Technically," Sherlock said as he dropped the briefcase on the floor, "I should now go down and lock this in the hotel safe, but since I am naked and that might cause a commotion, I believe that it would be wiser to keep it here."

"Yes, you naked is sure to cause a commotion." He snuggled closer so they were face to face as he rubbed his hands up and down Sherlock's side. "Do I get to know what we did tonight?"

Sherlock looked at the ceiling for a moment. "Well, in answer to your earlier question, it is not a brothel. No money exchanges hands in the establishment. Whether gifts are given or arrangements made for outside the club is unknown. That's why I needed you, actually."

"What do you mean?"

"One is not allowed in the upper rooms alone. You have to have a partner, preferably one who doesn't look like he's on the make.

"But why would anyone go there for that…at all."

"Not everyone has a place to go. Some may be married. Others have positions of importance. Not everyone is as lucky as we are." He kissed John's hand. "And some people, well, some people prefer not to have the same partner every night."

"Why did you need to get to the upper rooms?"

"Ah, there was the issue. We had a contact, a young man with access to…some very important people. He wanted to help but he's on a very short leash, so to speak. He was in the upper rooms—there are nicer ones than the ones we were in for regulars—with a patron, and after…well, after, his patron had a tendency to fall asleep, so we were able to exchange notes. He gave us some information and places where he'll be able to establish dead drops for the future. I don't need to go to the club again, although I'll probably go a few more times for show and then trickle off."

John didn't particularly like that thought. "Can I stay with you then? Continue to go to the club with you?"

Sherlock sighed, troubled, "No. I need you to go home in a few days"

"But why? Why? I'll get better at acting the part! Surely having a lover will make your cover more convincing?"

"It's dangerous here."

"All the more reason for me to be here with you!"

"John, John, calm down. I have an escape route— a couple, actually."

"Then I'll have one too!"

"Will you be able to switch identities in an instant? Do you speak enough German to get out of the country if your cover required it? Enough French to cross the border? I can't…I can't take that risk. I can't let you take that risk."

"Then why send for me at all?" John groaned in frustration, "If I can't really be of any help."

"I could have…could have used another operative as my partner, but I didn't…I didn't want to…I wanted it to be authentic, and…I wanted…it gave me a chance to see you. I shouldn't have done it. Sentiment, really. "

"I'm glad that it was me there, with you. But I'd have understood if you had to…" John trailed off, frustrated at the thought. "I just wish…it's frustrating…that I can't help you in your work. Do you think things are that bad then? Will there be another war?"

"I think so. There are many who think it can be avoided. Or that we can at least negotiate so that Great Britain isn't involved, but I don't think that that's going to be possible."

"God."

"Yes, God help us all." Sherlock ran his finger along John's jaw and pulled him in for a kiss. "Let's not talk about this now. I've missed you." He lowered his lashes. "I'm ready for you. Salve's on the table." He rolled onto his stomach and wiggled his hips suggestively.

John giggled, "Tart." He ran his hand along Sherlock's back, over the swell of his buttocks. "You have the most beautiful arse you know. Better than any I saw in that club tonight."

Sherlock sniggered again. "Why Doctor Waverly, you say such lovely things."

John rolled over to cover Sherlock's body with his own, and began to kiss his shoulders. He ran his hands down along Sherlock's sides and hips. "I've missed you so," John murmured into Sherlock's back. He reached for the salve, Sherlock's own concoction. After so many years together, they slipped into an easy and slow rhythm. John reading the movements in Sherlock's hips to time his thrusts.

After several minutes at a gentle pace, John whispered, "Roll over." Sherlock obliged, settling into the new position by pressing his hands against the headboard and arching his back. John found Sherlock's hard prick pressed between them, the head slick. He peppered light kisses on Sherlock's neck and then gave him a long, deep kiss. "I think of you all the time. And thinking of other men, other men with you, wanting you."

"You know it's only you that I want, don't you?" Sherlock whispered back. "Only you, always you."

"I know. Only you. Are you close?"

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded. John held his own orgasm in check, rolling his hips in a way that he knew Sherlock liked, until he could feel Sherlock tighten around him. Sherlock's face was damp with sweat and his chest and throat were flushed. John gave one hard thrust and let himself go. As he came down he kissed Sherlock's plush mouth.

"How have you stayed so young?" he murmured, stroking Sherlock's face. "You look exactly as you did twenty years ago."

Sherlock chuckled and John could feel it along his body, and where he was still inside him. "Don't be absurd, John. My hair is grey, my forehead is etched with lines, my—"

"To me you look as you did the first day I saw you."

"You are a blind fool but I love you too."

They cleaned themselves up, and put on their pajamas. John poured them glasses of water from the pitcher as Sherlock turned off the lights and lit a cigarette.

John lay on his side and watched the burning tip. "How long do you have to stay? If you've made the contact, will you be able to leave?"

"It depends. The pickups can be done by field agents. The information will be sent to England for decoding and analysis. We're not sure what kind of information he'll be passing. Until we know its value, I'll need to stay. At least a few weeks, a month perhaps."

John groaned. "Why are they still sending you into the field? Surely there are younger agents."

Sherlock laughed, "A moment ago, you said that I was ageless and now you have me doddering." The laugh turned into a rough cough until he had to put out the cigarette and drink some water.

"You see!" John exclaimed. "You need to have that cough seen to. As soon as you're back in England I'm sending you to a specialist. I've half a mind to tell that M that it's my opinion you need to be pulled out of the field for your health."

Sherlock sighed and fell back against the sheets. "John. What would you have me do? I know that I'll be too old for this soon. We're going to need Russian speakers, possibly even Chinese. It's not as easy for me to pick up languages as it used to be, or to decipher codes. I can't run as fast, or fight as well. Oh, hell, John." He ran his fingers through his hair angrily. "I still…need this! I still need to be useful." He rolled to face John. "Do you remember when you went to enlist at the start of the war? When I begged you, begged you to stay and treat the wounded when they came home, and you said that you had to serve where you were needed, that you'd been in field hospitals before and a lot of doctors hadn't seen combat injuries. You were in so much danger and there was nothing I could do but sit in the flat and twiddle my thumbs."

"You had cases. You started to build your reputation. And then M—"

"Yes, M. M came and gave me a job. I need this, John. Can you understand that? I'm not ready to retire."

John pulled Sherlock closer so that he could tuck himself under his arm. "I need you to be safe."

"If this war comes, nowhere will be safe."

"Can you do intelligence work in England? At a desk?"

"I'll come home soon, John. As soon as this is settled. I promise."

"Let it be over soon."

"Let us hope so, John. Let us hope so."

Cheek to Cheek by Irving Berlin