americas_son | (no subject)

The complete bewilderment reminds him favourably of Tony; he can't help grinning.

Obviously the only sensible course of action is to close the distance between them and kiss Cal's cheek.

Cal blinks.

He can't quite decide whether to go with it or to cling to the ~~sulking~~ solitary glowering he'd had planned. Having the wind knocked from one's sails is always disconcerting.

Well, Sherlock will not be exerting any undue influence on his decision. Unless that fond smile counts.

"Just don't do it again," Cal decides finally.

"I won't."

"Okay."

This is probably his cue to feel guilty about the girl in the park. He doesn't, though, because vampire.

(And all that petulance that's been piling up has to go somewhere.)

Anyway, Sherlock wouldn't have called it a pointless bit of self-indulgence if he had thought it worked.

(He doesn't know for sure, but the odds are not in his favour.)

"I believe I will go and have a cup of tea," he declares. "Care to come along?"

"Sure," Cal says. "I'll skip the tea, though."

"You know, I had thought you might."

"I didn't even drink that shit when I was human."

Big surprise, right?

"I am astonished at this revelation," he says dryly, turning for the stairs.

Cal snorts a little, following after him.

Sherlock smiles to himself.

It is absolutely unfair how adorable Cal is. If only he were not a murderer. 'Soulless fiend' only works as an endearment when the person so named is willing to act otherwise.

Hey, Cal has earned his soulnessness. He deserves it. What's the point of having it if he's not going to use it?

He should talk to the other Sherlock about that.

Okay, no he shouldn't.

Sherlock doesn't bother turning on the light in the kitchen; neither of them needs it. He puts the kettle on and perches on the counter beside it, leaning back against the cupboards.

Cal sits on the kitchen table, feet resting on a chair.

If Sherlock wants a conversation, he can start it.

For a minute or so, he doesn't speak, just looks at Cal thoughtfully.

Then he says: "Do you mind if I ask what you argued about?"

Cal shrugs a little.

"He thinks he's still gonna be basically the same person after he gets his soul back."

You don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to find his casual tone unconvincing.

Sherlock considers this.

"Yes, I suppose he would think that. It's easy for him to discount the obvious difference."

"Thank you!" Cal exclaims, a cross between exasperated and relieved. "That's what I kept trying to tell him."

"And let me guess—he reacted by becoming incomprehensibly annoyed and then not killing anyone for dinner."

He can see the humour in it.

Cal pauses over that last.

"- I don't know, we split up."

His expression darkens into irritation, though, because now that Sherlock has pointed it out, it's obvious.

"I'm very predictable sometimes," he murmurs, reaching into the cupboard to his left to get out a mug just before the kettle clicks. "If it helps, he was not doing it to spite you."

"Sure, he wasn't," Cal mutters.

Now he's actively glad he killed the girl in the park.

"Oh, no."

He glances up from pouring his tea and looks at Cal very seriously.

"No, he was proving to himself that he could do it." A wry smile touches his face. "You have no idea the lengths to which I will go to assure myself I can do the impossible."