americas_son | (no subject)

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.

Cal has no idea. He just knows that it seems to suit the mood in the room.

Whatever that mood might be.

He picks a couch and stretches out on it, but doesn't close his eyes just yet.

He watches Sherlock instead.

Sherlock does close his eyes, the better to concentrate his attention on the music. It requires more thought than simply reproducing a piece from memory; sometimes he finds he wants to change something, and he has to keep the whole flow of it in his head while he figures out what. The challenge of it is good. Keeps him occupied.

With so little thought to spare, he looks very... unguarded.

It's a different look for Sherlock, one Cal doesn't think he's seen before. Sherlock always looks like he has his guard up, just a little, even when - even in conversations where he doesn't necessarily need to.

(Cal doesn't mind. He usually keeps his guard up, too. It's safer. It doesn't always work, but it's safer when it does.)

It makes him look . . . something. Cal watches him, absorbed, trying to figure it out.

This is a side of Sherlock very few people have seen. Exactly the same people that have seen him sleeping, in fact, up until now.

Usually he is paying attention, analyzing everything. Usually he cannot stand to miss a second's worth of the world as it goes by. Usually, even playing the violin with his eyes closed, you would get the sense that he was watching you, and you'd be right.

Now, when he opens his eyes and looks at Cal during a slow section, he is genuinely surprised to find Cal looking back.

Cal forgets entirely to be embarrassed over having been caught scrutinizing Sherlock like that.

He's too busy laughing. It's a soft, affectionate sound, one he doesn't make very often.

Tina is probably the last person to have heard it.

Sherlock laughs, too, letting the note trail off.

"Welcome back."

Is that what that was? Looking like he was somewhere else? Sherlock never looks like he's anywhere except right where he is.

Almost. That's almost what it was.

"Technically speaking, I have been here the whole time."

He does not look like he expects Cal to believe it.

Another laugh.

"Bullshit."

Sherlock was right about that.

"You don't - usually look like that when you're playing."

"It takes more concentration to improvise."

"Is that what you were doing?"

Okay, it's not the most brilliant question Cal's ever asked, but he's fine with that right now.

(He looked -

- no, that can't be right, either.)

He grins. "Yes. Sadly, while I am very proficient with music written by other people, my skills as a composer are not quite up to scratch."

"I liked it," Cal says immediately.

Even if he had been doing less listening and more looking.

That surprises him, too, although it really shouldn't.

"I'm glad."

Well. Now they are both equally inane. That's something.

"Don't let me interrupt," Cal offers.

"All right."

Smiling, he closes his eyes again and picks up—after a moment's thought—where he left off.

(He looks . . .

. . . whatever.)

Cal shifts on the couch, turning onto his side and resting his head on his arm. It's more comfortable to watch that way.

He looks, at the moment, peaceful.

It's a considerable improvement on how he looked when he first came downstairs.