americas_son | (no subject)

"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.

Cal is still watching his progress, though he sets the coffee down and quietly asks Bar for a pen and some paper.

He doesn't really feel like sticking around for any more surprises.

He tries the door.

He tries it again.

He slams his fist into the wall hard enough to leave a shallow dent.

. . . Cal laughs.

Not because it's funny, but because it fucking figures.

He stalks back across the room and lays a hand on Bar.

"Something to smoke and something to light it with. Yes, thank you."

Stiff with anger, he turns for the lake door this time. Thankfully it is late evening out there.

His first thought is to get out of there, while he has the chance, while Sherlock is outside and too far away for even a vampire's speed to get between Cal and the door.

(The tragic act a few minutes ago was good, but he doesn't buy it. Reed Chandler had faked his compliance pretty well for a while, too.)

But - no. That's leaving everyone else in danger. At the very least he should tell whoever's on Security right now. Leaving a note won't cut it. A note will take too long to find.

Cal stays where he is and scans the crowd, looking for one of the familiar badges.

Nothing, nothing, and more nothing.

(Outside, Sherlock is wishing he could have asked Bar for something more potent than a cigarette.)

Yeah, that fucking figures, too.

Cal forgets sometimes that not every security staff works for Peter Beardsley.

He glances toward the back door. Maybe -

No. That's a stupid idea.

But he's probably the only one here (aside from maybe the odd god or goddess, who are unhelpfully hard to identify by sight alone if there are any here right now at all) with even the faintest chance of neutralizing this Sherlock until Milliways sees fit to let him out.

Cal could probably sit and think about this, waffling back and forth, all night, but someone else gets up and goes out through the back door, which makes his decision for him.

"Hold those for me," he says distractedly to Bar, and crosses the room to go outside.

Sherlock is pacing the shore of the lake, smoking, contemplating how long he should wait before he goes back inside—

Or that could happen.

He doesn't turn around, but he stops.