americas_son | (no subject)

"I can't imagine he'll disapprove of our solution," Sherlock says thoughtfully.

"I'm kind of surprised he didn't think of it when we were talking before," Cal admits.

They had gotten kind of caught up in talking about Stane's death, but. Still.

"Maybe he just thought it was really obvious."

"Or he never seriously considered it at all. I didn't, until that conversation pushed me to it."

Cal looks embarrassed.

"You mean until I went a little crazy on you," he corrects.

He feels like he maybe could have handled that a bit better.

"No," he says quietly, "I believe your reaction was entirely appropriate to the circumstances."

Cal flushes a little and looks away, shrugging awkwardly.

"I still could have not freaked out about it," he says.

"Perhaps. Nevertheless, I won't fault you for it."

"Okay," Cal mutters.

He'll just have to fault himself enough for both of them.

"Whatever, it worked out, anyway."

"Please don't accuse me of telepathy, but I'd rather you didn't fault yourself, either."

Cal glances up, but doesn't quite meet Sherlock's gaze, because he thinks he knows exactly what Sherlock will think of his response.

"I should be able to control stuff like that."

"Oh, but I am the one whose self-control is supposed to be beyond the mortal capacity."

Cal relaxes a little.

(It's true that if there's anyone he is allowed to lose it in front of, it's Sherlock, but he doesn't say that.)

"Well. I won't tell if you don't."

"Agreed."

Cal looks at him for real this time, meeting his eyes, and smiles a little.

"Deal."

Sherlock returns the smile.

. . . for - some unknown and unhelpful reason, Cal's brain chooses this moment to flick up the image of Tony with his face practically in Sherlock's crotch.

And for the second time in the past three minutes, Cal's face heats up as he looks away.

Stop being disgusting, he orders himself.

Hopefully, Sherlock won't ask. And - doesn't know. And . . . went blind sometime in the last five seconds and didn't notice anything at all.

No such luck.

He raises his eyebrows.

Yeah, Cal doesn't even have to see the gesture to know it happened.

"Nothing," he says hastily. "I'm - just tired."

Well. He is. Which is probably why he wasn't on guard against something like that, because he should have known it would happen.

Softly: "All right."

Relief. Cal resists the impulse to shift his position on the couch. It would be stupid to give himself away by moving away from Sherlock.

(And he doesn't really want to.)

"You look tired, too."

He lets out a huff of breath that's not quite a laugh. "I am that," he admits.

Cal makes himself relax and looks back up at Sherlock.

"Maybe we should both get some sleep while Tony's passed out," he says, even though he's pretty sure he's too wound up to sleep.

"I am not sure I could." He closes his eyes. "It'll be a long night with the violin, I expect."

Cal lets out a long, weary exhale.

"Yeah, me either," he admits. "Too much to think about."

"Come and listen to me play if you like. Perhaps I can manage to put you to sleep even if I cannot do as much for myself."

But he makes no move to leave the couch.