americas_son | (no subject)

"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.

Cal likes listening to Sherlock play. He's even been learning that it does not, in fact, all sound the same. He does find most of it soothing, though.

"Okay, I will."

As soon as Sherlock does.

With a wry smile, he extricates himself from the cushions and offers Cal a hand up.

Cal accepts, reaching up to take Sherlock's hand and use it to lever himself up.

(Sherlock's touch is comfortingly warm. Not a vampire. Cal allows himself to linger for an extra second or two.

Or five.)

His smile turns a little wider and a little wryer.

Cal isn't really paying Sherlock's smile much attention; he's more focused on the point of contact. And okay, he's probably holding on a little too long, but - under the circumstances, he's allowed to indulge. Right?

Absolutely.

Sherlock isn't going to be the one to draw away first.