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

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.

Well, there are two guards who are getting fired within the hour. Someone in a fucking tree should be getting spotted and dealt with regardless of age. The cameras need to be tightened up some, too; he'll talk to Mrs Chandler about that.

Peter will look at this as part one of a security test. A very useful part one.

"What does a smart kid like you want with Cal, anyway?" He doesn't trouble to keep his voice down in case Cal can hear. "Are you gay? Because in that case, you're wasting your time."

On the off chance that Cal might ever have been willing to explore that, finding out what he's what turns his pervert uncle's crank has traumatized him out of it for at least the next decade.

(Peter knows all the Chandlers' secrets.)

"I never waste my time," he says, inscrutably.

Peter snorts.

"Good luck," he says. "I suggest you pick a different route on your way out."

With that, he heads for the stairs. He has a whole new list of problems to take care of.

With an air of triumph, he knocks softly on the door to Cal's room.

Cal, who was of course totally eavesdropping, is right on hand to open the door for him.

". . . That went better than I thought it would."

"I believe I've reached something of an accord with the man. I certainly won't be underestimating him again. May I come in?"

"Sure. Of course."

Cal steps back to give him room.

. . . he kinda wishes Sherlock had directly answered the question about him being gay. It's just - good to know these things. Sometimes.

He seems utterly unconcerned about the matter.

Cal could always ask.

Meanwhile, Sherlock steps into the room and looks around, analyzing what he sees.

Cal won't ask on his own. Then he might have to explain why it's an issue for him.

Or, considering that it's Sherlock, he might not have to. He's not sure which is worse.

Cal's room, defying any and all expectations, is clean and tidy. This is due solely to the cleaning staff. The bed, which is back against the far wall in the center, is king-sized and neatly made. There are a few posters on the wall, with a general theme of music and attractive women, and a calendar that's two months behind. There are two doors aside from the one to the hall; one is ajar and leads to a bathroom, and the other closed securely (the dimensions of the room and spacing of the doors in the hallway imply a large closet).

There is a bookshelf, but its contents are mainly CDs and DVDs - lots of movies, mostly of the summer blockbuster variety with a certain bent toward science fiction. On top of the bookshelf is a stereo and a well-used incense burner. Next to it, directly across from the bed, is a stand holding a big TV and a DVD player. Aside from the TV stand, the furniture looks like it all predates Cal and was in the room long before he was.

The first thing he wonders is how Cal could possibly stand to have people touching his things.

It's probably one of those inexplicable quirks of so-called normal people.

The calendar is probably evidence of nothing more than absent-mindedness, but he'll reserve judgment. The question of the incense burner is what exactly it is used for, but he is hardly going to cross the room and check. All in all, not terribly informative.

Oh, unless one or more of those DVDs is relevant, of course.

He's used to it. And the really important stuff - his stash of pot, for example - is hidden away.

The incense burner is used for incense, of course! When Cal is smoking. No one has told him yet that it doesn't actually fool anyone.

The DVDs are probably not of great interest to Sherlock (yet) unless he's been wanting to catch up on his cheesy scifi. It's Cal's favorite thing to watch when he's high.

. . . Quick, now guess Cal's favorite activity. Those not privy to the narrative are welcome to instead notice the faint scent of pot clinging to the room that Cal is so used to, he doesn't even know it's there.

"Is the incense a courtesy, or do you imagine there is anyone left who does not know?"

It's the first thing he thinks of to say, a few seconds at most after he enters the room.

Cal looks blank for a second, then remembers the burner out in plain sight. And as far as he's concerned, there is of course no other reason for a pot user to burn incense.

"It covers it up," he says. "Dad knows, but that's it."

Reed Chandler's response to the discovery, verbatim: Share that, or I'll tell your mother.

"You have an odd definition of that's it. You are obviously not the person who keeps this room in such an exemplary state of tidiness, and anyone who sets foot in here is going to notice the smell. I don't doubt that by now it is a permanent fixture."

Hanging out with Sherlock Holmes tends to have a destructive effect on your cherished illusions.

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