if_inconvenient | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Sherlock is perfectly confident in his ability to take on a vampire in hand-to-hand combat and survive, unless the vampire in question has significant training. That's one vampire.

He is also perfectly confident in his ability to take on any number of them at a distance with his laser in hand, at a distance being the operative phrase.

The situation he finds himself in, when he tracks down the lair of the conspirators at last, transpires to be somewhat chancier. There is little margin for error, and at the end of what is unquestionably the most violent fifteen minutes of his life, he is lying on a richly carpeted floor surrounded by clouds of dust and wishing there were two of him so he could delegate the job of calling Peter Beardsley to the other one. Surely Tony could have cooked up an extra while he was at it.

No, that is not a productive train of thought. Coughing hoarsely, he drags himself to his feet and finds a telephone.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Peter has yet to go home since this mess began, despite the increasingly broad hints of some of his staff, but he did get a little sleep earlier today. If only because his body didn't give him much choice in the matter. He's not as young as he used to be.

He still sounds gravelly and tired as he answers.

"Chandler security."

"Found them," he says succinctly.

"Killed them all."

Funny thing—it's Sherlock's voice and Sherlock's accent, but it's missing his usual air of smug self-assurance.

Which is why, despite the good news, Peter frowns slightly.

"Where are you?"

"Their lair, of course." He lets out a soft huff of breath that might be some distant cousin to a laugh. "The lady's name was Heather. She orchestrated all this out of spite that the Chandlers have stayed out of the collective vampiric grasp for so long. She was very clever, but her accomplices were not."

Peter rolls his eyes, setting up a trace on the phone Sherlock is using.

"I don't suppose you gave any thought to what Mr Chandler might do when he finds out," he says.

"Yes, it did occur to me that I could have used a touch more foresight, but at that point I was a little outmatched and it seemed prudent to put the question aside." He coughs; his voice is getting a little hoarse from the dust. "I received the impression from Miss Heather that there was no love lost between them in any case. A purely practical arrangement."

"All right, then."

Peter supposes that if something is going to set Mr Chandler off, he'd rather it be sooner than later.

Also he prefers Sherlock alive. Hence the trace. Which, by the way, works a lot faster than it does in the movies. (Magical enhancement helps.)

". . . sit tight," he says, sending off a text, "Connolly's coming to pick you up. No fucking arguing, just humor me."

"I am overawed at your kindness," he says dryly.

But he does not, in fact, argue.

He doesn't ask do I really sound that bad?, either, but only because he'd rather Peter not call 911.

If it were someone else who sounded like this, Peter would hardly blink. But he knows Sherlock well enough by now to know that if he's letting his control slip even a little, then something is very wrong.

"Mark your calendar," he says. "I don't get this generous too often."

He picks at a spot of blood on the pillow beside him where he sits on the edge of the late Heather's bed.

"Oh, indeed. I'll be sure to commemmorate the event appropriately. Perhaps I'll send you a thank-you note. I can break into your house to deliver it—that way you won't see it for at least a week."

"See, I knew you had manners," Peter says.

"All right, Connolly's on his way. Give him about five minutes."

"I suppose I can trouble myself to stay put for that long," he allows.

"He'd appreciate it," Peter says. "Hates having his time wasted."

That and Peter's sent him out a good two hours after finally sending him home. Connolly understands, but Peter isn't the only member of security at the Chandler compound who's had a long few days.

"Far be it from me to waste any, then."

He deduces from the cirumstances and the way Peter says it that he is, indeed, taking precious minutes out of an already overburdened schedule. With that in mind, he gets to his feet again and goes looking for the bathroom, taking the cordless phone along. Those bite marks aren't going to disinfect themselves, after all.

It's partly for the same reasoning as before - Sherlock has met Connolly - but also because, yeah, Peter can't spare any of the men he's got on duty.

"He'll have a first aid kit on him," Peter says. "He's trained on how to use it. All my men are."

And if it's necessary to take Sherlock to the hospital, Connolly will do that, too. Peter thinks not mentioning that would be the wisest course, though.

"That is good to know, but I believe I am adequately supplied," he says, cradling the phone against his shoulder as he starts going through the medicine cabinet.

These were classy vampires. They had a house.

"Tell it to Connolly."

He's the one who'll actually be laying eyes on the damage. Though it is encouraging that, from the sounds of it, Sherlock is able to walk around on his own.

Dryly: "Connolly can see for himself."

Those sounds are also beginning to imply that Sherlock is able to give himself rudimentary medical attention. Another good sign.

"He will in about - thirty seconds."

Which is also about when Peter will be hanging up the phone. Not before.

"Perfect timing. I do admire the way you run your organisation," he says absently as he deals one-handed with gauze and medical tape.

"If I didn't have it right by now, I wouldn't deserve to be the one running it."

There are the sounds of a car outside the vampire house, followed shortly thereafter by someone casually breaking and entering.

"That is either Connolly or a burglar with the luck of the century," he says, setting the roll of tape down on the counter and listening closely. "Ah—Connolly it is." Before Peter can hang up, he adds, "Do get some sleep before I have to drug you, lock you in your bedroom, and do your job myself for twelve hours."

A voice calls,

"Sherlock?" Connolly is not bothering with stealth in the event that there are any bad guys left, because: vampires. Not much point in trying to sneak around enemies who can hear your heartbeat.

Peter hears him and says,

"All right. Play nice." And then he hangs up.

"Upstairs," he answers, emerging from the bathroom and tossing the phone onto the bed. "The house is empty save for us, I can personally certify. I'll come down."

When he does, his t-shirt is ripped open at the collar and scorched all down the front. A bandage, untidy but functional, covers part of the left side of his neck where it meets his shoulder. He smells of blood and ash, both of which are smeared here and there on his clothing; there are bruises darkening on his cheek and both arms.

Connolly flicks a look over him, assessing all that damage as well as the way he moves.

"Anything broken?" he asks, just to be sure.