americas_son | (no subject)

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.

After a few more seconds, or maybe a little longer, of looking at their hands

(and adjusting his hold a little, to fit better with Sherlock)

Cal looks up.

"Shall we?" he asks softly, stepping away toward the stairs without relinquishing Cal's hand.

He has a feeling that this should feel weirder than it does.

But it's not - it isn't like that.

(Is it?)

"Yeah," he says, letting Sherlock lead.

Sherlock Holmes makes his own rules.

If Cal needs the reminder that he is human, by all means he can have it.

And that's all he wants.

Because he's not like that. He'd know by now. (Wouldn't he?)

(Of course he's not. He likes girls. He has ex-girlfriends who would say he likes girls way too much.

Things are just different with Sherlock. That's all.)

He doesn't let go as they make their way up the stairs.

There really doesn't have to be anything remarkable about it.

And yet, he keeps his head ducked down in a halfhearted effort to obscure his smile.

. . . Cal is now not so much not paying attention to Sherlock's smile as he is studiously ignoring it.

He's watching the stairs. Carefully. So that he doesn't trip or anything.

Never mind that he could take these stairs blindfolded by now.

Of course he is.

God, he's so sweet.

All right, that was officially an inappropriate thought, and Sherlock is not entertaining it any longer.

Probably he should say something.

Anything. Just get conversation happening, and put the focus on that.

For once in his life, he can't come up with a single conversation starter.

(Sherlock's hand is warm in his, and he's not thinking about vampires anymore.)

Oh, look, they've arrived at his rooms.

Luckily for their newfound equilibrium, he only needs one hand to open the door.

Cal follows him inside, nudging the door shut behind them with his foot.

It's easier than using his free hand.

When he does let go, to pick up his violin case, Sherlock has a wholly unexpected urge to lean across the space between them and kiss Cal on the cheek.

He doesn't. He doesn't even start to. That is not a volume that seems likely to come off the shelf anytime soon.

Cal slips his hand into his pocket, feeling oddly bereft.

. . . god, he must really be tired.

He's more than tired if his narration is using words like 'bereft'.

Sherlock sets the case on the long table, flips it open, extracts the instrument, and hesitates over a choice of tune.

Then, entirely aware of the reference, he begins playing one of his own compositions. He's never liked them enough to inflict them on anyone but Jarvis. Perhaps Cal won't know the difference, anyway.