americas_son | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's been a few days since - well. Everything. Cal's been at home, focusing on his obligations there, giving Sherlock and Tony space to deal.

(Tony knows he can come talk to Cal if he wants. Cal told Jarvis. And he hasn't cut off all contact with Sherlock, either. He's called a couple of times.

He just. Doesn't want to get in the way.)

He's been keeping an eye out for Milliways, though. He did make a promise.

So when a door shows up, he takes it.

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Cal finishes off his own cigarette and lights another without thinking about it. This one really does tremble between his fingers.

Just the adrenalin.

Sherlock can hear it.

The pause between one breath and the next is rather longer than usual.

Cal draws from the cigarette and exhales, deliberately slow, trying to keep the stream of smoke steady and to calm himself.

(It doesn't work very well.)

Sherlock seems to be ignoring him.

He's okay with that for the moment.

He inhales again only when his cigarette is in danger of going out. Cal smells a dozen kinds of lovely. Sherlock wants...

Sherlock refuses to think about what he wants. He can't have any of it. Not a single thing. Dwelling on the subject won't change that.

Sherlock can be the one to speak next, Cal decides. He needs more to go on than what he has.

Which - is nothing, basically. Maybe he's overthinking this whole thing, making himself anxious for no reason.

In this instance, though, he'd rather overthink than underthink. Sherlock can pretty much do as he chooses, either way, but Cal would rather not be caught off guard. Even if being on his guard won't do him any good.

(Another slow breath, shaky exhale. He only has a couple cigarettes left. He should have grabbed a new pack when he found Milliways.)

Should he have just lied? He could have faked his way through that conversation with little difficulty.

He could have—

Forget the imminent return of his soul. There are some things Sherlock finds genuinely abhorrent regardless. The thought of coaxing anyone else into bed with charm and lies is exciting; for it to be Cal would be an act of painful self-destruction.

Cal doesn't often smoke two cigarettes in a row, at least not this quickly. The smoke is starting to burn his throat; soon the nicotine build-up will be making him a bit dizzy.

There's still the tiniest bit of reassurance to be found in the familiarity of the act, so he keeps going.

All right, perhaps a little idle conversation will slow down all the things that are wrong with this silence.

"School hasn't started for you yet, has it?"

Cal's gaze had begun to wonder, without him realizing it. Now it snaps sharply back to Sherlock's still figure.

"- No," he says. His voice is slightly raspy from the irritant of the smoke. "Another month or so."

"Who's the werewolf?"

This time, the question doesn't come as a surprise.

"Tina," he says. "She got bit a couple months ago."

"Of course. Sometimes, my dear fellow, I really suspect that the multiverse does not like you very much."

Cal shrugs a little.

"As long as m - as our Sherlock doesn't get turned, I don't care."

The things that happen in his world seem to be the only things he can do anything about. And even that only sometimes.

"I hope he doesn't."

From the Sherlock with a soul, Cal believed that without hesitation.

From this one, he doesn't buy it. Vampires obviously love being vampires. Why should this one be any different when he doesn't have anything yet to make him be different?

He takes a last, searing drag from his cigarette and drops it to grind it out, not bothering to even try and hide his skepticism.

"It was not a pleasant few days. On balance, I appreciate the opportunity to express my contempt for Obadiah, but yours can do that well enough without all the rest."

(It occurs to Cal that it should probably have worried him more when he realized that the blood had not, in fact, been animal blood.

If it had belonged to anyone else, it would have.)

He takes out his cigarette pack and considers it, aware of the burn in his throat.

"He'll probably kill him if he does come back."

"Good."

"And if he doesn't, I will."

Cal hadn't realized that until this moment, but.

It's been true all along.

He smiles at the lake.

"I know."

Cal takes out another cigarette.

(Killing Stane would be easy. He might expect Sherlock to try something, if he expects anything at all, but not Cal. Never Cal.

And killing someone who should be fucking dead doesn't even count as murder.)

He coughs on the first inhale.

"Don't hurt yourself," Sherlock says dryly. "I was under the impression that mortals needed their lungs more or less intact."

Cal swallows, wincing. It is starting to feel kind of like scrubbing his throat and chest with steel wool.

"I'll live."

"I know you will, or I would be taking that away."

Cal snorts softly.

Whatever.