americas_son | Sunnydale AU: An Illicit Visit (no, not that kind)

". . . you know your father will be announcing his candidacy soon. You will shape up or you will be very sorry. You would be destroyed in boot camp and you know it. Now show that deluded little bastard the door and get upstairs!"

The door opens. Violet's voice, bright and sweet again, drifts out, saying clearly,

"And do tell Sherlock it was lovely to meet him, but I've just got to get back to work."

Cal exits the parlor, the last vestiges of a shamed expression dissolving away.

"That could have been worse." He says it quietly, so his mother won't hear.

Equally quiet: "I've suffered worse names than 'deluded little bastard' in my time."

He draws the line at pretending he didn't eavesdrop at all.

Cal would be kind of insulted if he did.

"That was the nice version."

That lecture was the warm-up. They'll get worse if Cal continues to disobey.

"This would be the part where you show me the door, then?"

He's grinning.

(Speaking of doors, down the hall is one that has been ajar; it is now pushed fully shut from inside the room. Cal does not acknowledge it.)

"I probably should," he agrees.

"And supposing I managed to come back?"

Sherlock is already thinking through everything they could have done better. He could break into this house. Not easily, but he could.

It would even be fun.

Cal looks more cheerful at that.

"My room's on the third floor. End of the hall, on the right."

"Then why don't you show me out, and I will be seeing you shortly."

"Okay."

Cal takes him back through the back way, saying aloud for his mother's benefit,

"It shouldn't be a very long walk back to town, or you could call a cab, but you probably shouldn't wait on the property."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of loitering," he answers. "I don't mind a bit of a stroll."

"Yeah, I know."

Weirdo.

"Okay, then, I'll see you at school tomorrow. Uh, in the hallways. Not looking for you or anything."

Obviously.

"Indeed."

Cal is so adorable when he's trying.

As quasi-recoveries go, it could have been worse.

"Okay. See ya."

Cal turns and heads upstairs.

Sherlock does, indeed, leave the property.

He stops just out of sight down the road, closes his eyes, and reviews everything he has seen of the house so far in detail.

Cal remembers to take the stairs like he's upset, and slam his bedroom door for good measure even if it will just barely audible downstairs. He's a decent performer, if he's had a chance to think about it.

Someone else, meanwhile, didn't have to overhear the conversation moments ago to know exactly what's going to happen next. He's already in place.

There does not need to be a blind spot in the sweep of the cameras for Sherlock Holmes to pass through. All there needs to be is an element of timing. The cameras cover the whole grounds, yes, but not all at once. And he can find the gaps.

He circles around until he has inspected every side of the house, choosing the best spot to make his approach, watching the cameras from well out of range until their rhythm is imprinted on his mind. Guards, too. It will not, he determines, be easy, but it will be possible. Third floor, end of the hall, on the right. There are four suitable points of entry on the route he plans—one balcony, two windows, a skylight—and if he finds them all fitted with alarms, he estimates it will be possible to slip past one of them.

The thing about a house is that if you put too much security on it, it can start to resemble a fortress, and some people find that uncomfortable. From what he saw when he was inside, the Chandlers' precautions are not as extensive as the Starks'. Windows and doors not rigged with sliding steel panels for emergencies. Camera coverage inside the house less than complete. Yes, this is doable, if he makes no mistakes.

Everyone makes mistakes.

For example, focusing on skylights and technology and not, say, the fact that a certain previously paid visit has told a certain head of security all he needs to know to circumvent this particular visit.

Not precisely accurate. His predictions are right on the dot, as far as they go; he can indeed enter the house unnoticed, and he does.

His mistake is that he assumes, when he drops silently into the third floor hallway leaving almost no trace of his passage behind him, that the hard part is over.

At least he doesn't let the assumption fool him into dropping his guard. The footprints in the carpet are innocuous—Cal was the last person to pass through here, without a doubt. Every door he can see is closed. He can't hear anyone, but that only clears the two closest rooms. Still one between himself and his goal—the last door on the left, too far for him to hear if anyone is waiting there.

Judging by the age of the brick he climbed to get here—exactly one brick is now missing a millimeter or so from one corner, which is as much sign of the route he took as anyone will ever have—the floor will creak. So does he walk along the edge, for quieter floorboards, or along the middle so his footprints will not stand out? Perhaps if he is careful he can avoid making much noise all the same. The latter, then.

He is almost careful enough. Only three steps from Cal's door, he trusts too much weight too quickly to the wrong spot and elicits a soft groan from the floor for his trouble.

Cal knows about that spot, of course, but Peter knows he can trust to the fact that the kid won't have been bright enough to remember to warn his little friend about it. So when it goes off, it can only mean one thing.

He steps out of the room across from Cal's and snags Sherlock by the arm.

"And just where do we think we're going?" he asks with a smirk.

(In his room, Cal deflates and mutters, "Shit.")

"Norbury," he snarls, like a curse.

In the next moment, though, he shakes off his self-directed anger. "Dear me," he says contritely. "I'm terribly sorry. I have paid you a very bad compliment. Ought to have known you'd be waiting."

Peter doesn't even try to hide the fact that he's hugely satisfied with himself for having cracked through Sherlock's calm.

"Tell you what," he says, "you walk me through exactly how you got this far and I'll forgive you and even let you have your little visit."

He knows the security system like the back of his hand - better than that, in fact - and he has a clear idea or two, but he wants confirmation. Knowing exactly how the flaws in the system can be exploited is top priority in this situation.

Plus he's already gotten his back for the code-memorizing incident. He feels he can afford to be just a little generous.

"Oh."

He smiles.

"Kind of you. I'd be glad to."

"And no cute little tricks," Peter warns. "I'll know."

"Of course not," he says disdainfully, "unless being able to keep the rotation periods of all your security cameras in my head at once counts as a cute little trick. North wall top corner is a little slow on the backswing; there are only two others that overlook the northeast approach, and there's a periodic gap in their coverage. It was a bit of a dash to get across the lawn in nine seconds, but once I made it to the oak tree, it was just a lot of wall-climbing and keeping out of the way whenever a camera had line-of-sight on the house. As for guards, I saw two, and neither of them was looking for a skinny seventeen-year-old up a tree."

Yes, he manages to get all that out in one breath.

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