if_inconvenient | (no subject)

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It has been a day and a half, and the afternoon sun is sinking through a bank of clouds. Last night contained only minor revelations.

He is not precisely sure what he expects, but he is reasonably sure he won't like it. Nevertheless.

Sherlock phones Cal.

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Cal is vaguely aware of his cellphone's ringtone, the one he assigned specifically to Sherlock.

(Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road
all the way to Dublin -)

It's taken longer than he thought it would.

He takes a hit from his pipe and ignores it.

He lets it ring out.

"Too soon to break in, do you suppose?" he asks when, as he might have guessed, nothing comes of it.

"One might argue that it will never not be too soon," Jarvis says dryly.

"Nonsense." He gets to his feet. "I'm going out. If Tony asks, reassure him that I am not dead in a gutter."

"Will do, sir. Try not to prove me wrong."

There is the briefest of pauses before he answers:

"Of course."

Frankly, humans breaking in barely even makes the list of shit Peter Beardsley is dealing with right now. He, for one, would welcome the distraction.

He can have a phone call instead. From a payphone—not the same payphone—at about eleven-thirty that night.

If Peter sounds like he hasn't gotten a full night's sleep in the past two days, it's because he hasn't.

He'd like to answer with Tell me something I want to hear or fuck off, but he can't be a hundred percent sure of who's on the other end of the line with that number, so he goes with, "Chandler security" instead.

"Learn anything interesting?" he asks, a touch breathlessly. As though he was just out for a jog.

"Not yet." Except that the demon does seem to be just a shade smarter.

And Grahame Chandler apparently doesn't object to making the occasional blood donation (http://showmenomercy.livejournal.com/787.html), but that's not a huge surprise.

"Pity. I've had a fascinating evening." He wants to pace, but there isn't room; he settles for running a hand through his hair. "I found one of the conspirators, largely by accident—he smelled slightly of the lady's perfume. He won't be reporting back to the group. From what he let slip while he was prematurely gloating, I gather they're quite small."

"I love when they gloat," Peter says reflectively. Then,

"That's something, anyway. Not a big support base to fall back on."

"Indeed. And it is likelier they will be agitated at the loss of this fellow, which means it is likelier I will find the rest of them."

Sometimes it's quite nice, being Sherlock Holmes in a world that doesn't expect you to exist.

"Don't get yourself killed," Peter advises. "That won't help anyone."

Agitated = careless, yeah, but agitated vampire = twice as dangerous. Sherlock may be good, but he's still human.

"Why does everyone keep telling me that?" he wonders, philosophically. "I don't plan on it, I assure you."

"Few people do," Peter says dryly, "and yet."

Sunnydale has a lot of full cemeteries, and they can't all have been complete idiots with no idea of the world around them. It's statistically unlikely.

He chuckles.

"Touché. I'll be careful."

"Good," Peter says. "That'd send Cal right over the edge. My resources are maxed out, last thing I need is a funeral to deal with."

Sentimental fool, that Peter Beardsley.

"In that case, of course I will generously refrain from dying."

He's not even going to bring up the possibility of them turning him. It won't happen, but the thought of it should give Peter nightmares for weeks if he has anything resembling an imagination.

Of course Peter has an imagination. He has to, in this job.

But he doesn't waste time tormenting himself with it, either.

"You're all heart," he says.

"I am glad you noticed. Until next time, then."

Sherlock hangs up, takes a deep breath, and steps out of the phone booth. His investigation awaits.

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