if_inconvenient | (no subject)

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He has not spoken to Cal in six days.

It is a ridiculous measurement. Plenty of more important things have happened since then. Tony is now CEO of Stark Industries. Virginia Potts has, with some reservations, accepted a position as his personal assistant. She is already proving invaluable. The media seem to believe that the only interesting thing Obadiah Stane ever did was die, and Tony has indulged in several bouts of cathartic rage on the subject.

And yet.

He has not spoken to Cal in six days.

Every moment he has to spare, away from the minutiae of making Tony's job easier as best he can, finds Sherlock on the couch in his workroom playing the violin. He throws himself into the most challenging pieces he can find, and as soon as he has perfected every note he moves on immediately to the next.

But he doesn't keep count of how many new solos he has mastered this way. Another count entirely occupies that part of his attention.

He has not spoken to Cal in six days.

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"Hello," he answers.

"Sherlock is upstairs, as you can no doubt guess."

The heartbreakingly beautiful notes of yet another violin solo are clear, if distant, all the way from the third floor.

"Yeah," Cal says, glancing up the stairway.

"Thanks."

He hesitates for a second or two, then starts up the stairs.

Sherlock is standing in his workroom with his back to the door, making music as though he has forgotten how to do anything else.

Cal is slightly out of breath when he gets to the workroom, but not as much as he'd normally be; he took a little extra time coming up the stairs.

He pauses in the doorway.

He decides not to interrupt.

In that case, they may be here a while.

But no. At a natural pause after one of those long drawn-out fragile-sounding notes, he raises the bow from the strings.

Cal shifts in the doorway a little, and gives a quietly awkward cough.

"Yes, I know you're there," he murmurs, turning to put the violin away in its case. "Come in."

Of course he does. Who did Cal think he was dealing with here?

He steps into the room, pushing his hands into his pockets.

"Hi."

He closes the case and looks up.

One of them should probably say something.

As demonstrated the other day with Tony, Cal can't let a silence sit for too long even when he doesn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I - took so long." The sentence is broken and awkward, coming out in two pieces instead of one, but it's better than not saying anything.

He hopes.

"It's all right, I suppose."

Sherlock smiles wryly.

"I don't know how to do this any more than you do," he observes.

Cal huffs out a breath that sounds something like a laugh, ducking his head.

"Damn," he says. "There's no rulebook or anything?"

"We are in uncharted territory, I'm afraid."

Cal looks back up.

"Yeah, that - sounds pretty much like us, I guess."

He laughs.

Cal smiles at that, relieved.

"I can live with skipping the part where we talk about our feelings if you can," he offers.

"Oh, but you know how I like to have all the data," he teases.

"I'll spare you that conversation if there is nothing to be said."

There's plenty to be said. Some of it he genuinely cannot articulate even to himself, but some of it . . . he could try, anyway.

But what would be the point? Nothing would change. So he shrugs and says,

"I don't have anything."

Sherlock gives him a studying look.

. . . Cal can't quite hold his gaze.

Softly:

"If you're sure."

"I . . ."

Cal runs a hand through his hair.

"I'm pretty sure I was the asshole here," he says finally.

His lips quirk.

"Very likely."

"So."

He shrugs.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

And, again, "It's all right."