americas_son | (no subject)

About ten minutes later, the front door opens again and someone steps through, licking the fingers of his right hand and holding a cup of tea in his left.

As the door begins to swing shut behind him, his head comes up and he takes a deep breath, looking nothing short of entranced.

Cal is at the Bar with a cup of coffee, wondering how long he should wait before he leaves a note. He's in no rush, but - well, leaving certain things out will be a lot easier in writing than face-to-face.

Sherlock will still know, somehow, because that's what he does, but at least Cal won't have to look him in the eye while he figures it out.

Sherlock picks him out of the crowd and smiles—sharp as glass at first, softening after a few seconds.

He doesn't take particular care to hide the blood on his fingers or his lips as he makes his way across the bar.

Cal scans the bar again. His gaze falls on Sherlock and his eyebrows arch a little, but all he says once Sherlock is within speaking range is:

"Want a napkin?"

"Yes, actually."

Bar provides. He daintily wipes his hand, then his mouth.

There's something in the way he's looking at Cal. It's not a simple thing by any means. Two parts predatory, three parts wistful, five parts calculating. At least the last part is nothing new.

After the events of a few days ago, Cal is hyperaware of how any version of Sherlock looks at him. He shifts uneasily on the barstool.

He should have left a note.

"We decided to tell Tony everything," he says abruptly.

He closes his eyes, in that particular way Sherlock does when he is thinking through a great many things very fast.

"I believe we may be speaking at cross purposes," he says, opening them again and taking a careful sip of tea.

There is a long moment's pause.

Oh.

Of course.

He really has to stop assuming that anyone he meets in Milliways is someone in particular just because they look alike. Or, this being Milliways, are alike.

"I hate this place sometimes," Cal says. "Never mind, I thought you were someone else."

Sort of.

"You thought, let me see if I can get this right, that I am Sherlock Holmes, your best friend, vampire—although your personal version isn't—with a soul—because I imagine you would have greeted me much less cordially otherwise. And you have recently had a conversation with this fellow, wherein he related the circumstances of his turning, and then you went home and made sure no such thing would happen half a year into your own future."

Another sip of tea.

He doesn't mention the most obvious thing.

"Pretty much," Cal agrees without missing a beat.

At least the fact that the person in question is Sherlock Holmes saves him from having to explain everything. Milliways isn't the only place where that can come in handy.

"Well."

He smiles wryly, looking down into his cup.

Cal follows his gaze.

With him sitting, and Sherlock standing, Cal can't see the contents. But he kind of doubts that being a vampire made Sherlock forget how to drink from a teacup without getting it everywhere.

"What's with the tea?" Milliways tends not to require the use of props; not everyone with a glass of red liquid is drinking wine.

Oh, the hell with it.

"I'm afraid the door caught me at what you might call a bad time," he says softly, speaking more to the tea than to Cal. "It does have a habit of picking all the most interesting moments."

Cal snorts a little.

"Yeah, tell me about it." He has yet to be victimized the way Milliways does to some people, but he has a feeling it's only a matter of time.

"What I mean to say is that I have Obadiah Stane on the other side of that door, and the tea is for no purpose you'd like to hear about."

Although he must say it makes an excellent place to keep his eyes focused while he waits for Cal to figure out the rest.

It doesn't take long. Cal's eyes flick toward the door.

". . . Right."

He's glad - really, really glad - he decided to wait inside.

Sherlock drains his tea and sets the cup down very carefully on the bar, along with the bloodstained napkin.

"Sorry," he adds. "Although one thing I'll say in favour of the whole vampire business is that it's nice to know I did once have a soul."

Cal looks away from the door, down at his own cup.

"Of course you did."

And will again soon, lucky for his world.

"I had a bit of trouble over the question, beforehand. Didn't I tell you? I suppose it's not the sort of thing my better half would bring up."

"Not that I remember."

Cal picks up his coffee. It's just cool enough now to cradle in his hand without burning himself on the ceramic, so he does.

Holding it doesn't make any real difference, but it's reassuring anyway.

"There wasn't a lot to do while I waited other than think of all the ways it could go wrong. The second most frightening was the thought that I would wake up as exactly the same person I was, which I am happy to report did not happen."

He sighs.

"And this conversation can't be doing you any good, can it."

Cal makes himself look up, meet Sherlock's eyes.

"It has been kind of a fucked up week." His voice is, he thinks, impressively steady. Under the circumstances.

And it's Sherlock who looks away first.

"May I have another cup of tea?"

Bar provides.

"Thank you. I believe I'll do the most helpful thing I can under the circumstances, which is leave you alone and go back to Obadiah's charming company. Give my regards to all applicable Sherlocks," he says as he turns away.

Cal relaxes a little, but not all the way. Not even close. He won't until he's watched the door close behind this Sherlock.

"Tell him I said hi," he mutters, "that should confuse the shit out of him."

(He brightens ever-so-slightly at the prospect. Not that he'd admit it.)

"Delighted to oblige," is the last thing he says before he's out of earshot in the bustle of the bar.