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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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.

When he's about ten feet away from Sherlock, Cal stops too.

He thinks about getting out his own cigarette, but he's pretty sure it would tremble in his hand. He knows Sherlock can tell how nervous (terrified) he is without any help, but Cal himself doesn't need the visual reminder right now.

"You're Bound." His voice isn't shaking, at least.

"Yes. Well done. We'll make a detective of you yet."

Cal definitely does not say, Oh, go fuck yourself.

Instead he goes with,

"I bet you didn't see that coming."

He snorts.

"No, but I should have. If being a vampire really does make you stupid I believe I shall take a nice afternoon stroll and save you the trouble."

Peter, Cal recalls, had been of the opinion that the demon who had replaced his father had been a little smarter than the soul that had been there.

He doesn't see why it couldn't work the other way around.

He doesn't share that theory, either.

"The timing probably threw you off a little," he says.

Sherlock flicks the remains of his cigarette out into the water and tucks his hands in his pockets.

"Oh, no, it was perfectly predictable. Absolutely in keeping with this bloody place's sense of humour."

At last, he looks back at Cal.

"Come to make sure I don't have a nibble while I wait?"

Cal decides to have a cigarette after all. When you're not sure of what to do with your hands, it's best to keep them busy. He takes out his pack (in the same pocket as his laserpointer, not that that's going to do him any good - even if he could get to it in time, killing this soulless Sherlock would be as good as killing the real thing, since it would leave nowhere for the soul to go back to) and extracts a cigarette.

"It did occur to me," he says evenly.

"Sensible of you. But I should point out that if I get up to anything too naughty, I have a whole unlifetime of guilt to look forward to. Since nothing on my or any planet is going to stop me from going back and finishing what I started the moment I get the chance, and I have it on good authority that I'll be getting my soul back afterward."

Cal lights his cigarette.

That all sounds like Sherlock's logic, clear and entirely reasonable. But the demon does take on the personality of its host.

"I haven't heard a lot about vampires being good with impulse control," he says.

"Name one time you have seen me act on impulse without thought of the consequences," Sherlock challenges.

It wasn't that time you were a vampire without a soul, is what Cal is about to counter with -

Except then he thinks of a very recent example. ("I really ought to have remembered that.")

He fumbles his response completely, and he can feel his face getting hot.

Asshole, he thinks, though who it's directed at is up for debate.

"Oh, I am off my game today," he murmurs. "Well. Now that we have established that you are apparently my sole weakeness in that area—"

Sherlock reaches into his pocket, extracts a laser pointer, holds it up, and tosses it underhand to Cal.

"If it comes to a choice between killing you and dying, I know which one I'd pick. No complex reasoning necessary."

(He is not thinking about that, at all, or about how it started with the need to reassure himself of Sherlock's humanity, or how he'd been so aware of Sherlock that whole weekend, or how -

No. No. He's been fighting not to think of it all week, he's not going to weaken now. He'll never win the fight if he weakens.)

He manages to catch the laserpointer, just barely, and looks at it.

As symbolic gestures go, it's not a bad one.

He spreads his hands in a careless shrug. "Do with it what you like."

The symbolic gesture, the deadly weapon—either one, really.

Think, Cal. Stop getting caught up in stupid shit and think.

He looks back up at Sherlock.

"You know I couldn't," he says. "He wouldn't have anywhere to go back to once they cast the spell."

"There is that. I assume you also know what my better half would think of that logic, if your life were in danger."

"If I were just worried about myself, I would have left," Cal says.

He puts the laserpointer in his pocket. He can leave it with Bar, for Sherlock to pick up after the spell kicks in.

"Touché. We seem to be at an impasse, then."

"Bullshit," Cal says bluntly. "You wouldn't have to kill me to get me out of your way."

An impasse requires that both parties have equal power, and Cal isn't about to kid himself on that front.

"If I wanted you out of my way. Which I don't. Since my impulse control is quite capable on all subjects not related to Cal Chandler, and we seem to be operating on the premise that I would rather die than hurt you."

(What would - ?

No.)

Cal takes a deep drag from his cigarette.

"You wouldn't have to," he says, exhaling smoke as he speaks. "You'd just have to move faster than I can toward someone far enough away."