if_inconvenient | (no subject)

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&cal

(no subject)

Sherlock does not want to be at school today. For once in his life he is something less than indifferent to the occasional stare and snicker, the looks of familiar contempt from those who have been around long enough to get used to him. His mood has been fluctuating wildly between rage and despair since yesterday morning. He knows his self-control is good enough to keep him from reacting to any taunts with violence, but nothing will stop him from wanting to. Which is unsettling in itself.

He has a duty, though, one that cannot be ignored. And if he is going to show up at school again, he may as well do the job properly. He is on time for every class before lunch, polite if not friendly when circumstances call for conversation, crisply dressed—in trousers, thank you; he does not think he could bear the reactions to another skirt. The only signs that anything is wrong are the dark circles under his eyes and the tension that stands in sharp contrast to his usual indolence.

At noon on the dot he is in the cafeteria waiting for Bella Swan.

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He tucks himself into the passenger seat and stares out the window for a moment, gathering courage.

Since when does Sherlock need to gather his courage for anything?

"I did something very foolish yesterday," he starts.

Bella quietly unwraps her sandwich, listening.

A couple of days ago, the list of possible reasons why he might choose her to confide in would have had some half dozen items on it. Technically, it still does, but the one she would rank first now takes considerable precedence over the rest: she knows what must be his biggest secret now. That makes her a very logical choice for any other confidences he might see fit to share.

Now how the hell does he tell this sensibly, without lying, and without making her think he has gone thoroughly mad?

"I discovered that someone has been spying on me for some time. We exchanged words. I was not polite. It was reckless of me to be so cavalier without knowing my adversary. Among other things, this individual threatened to—to damage your father's sanity. You would know better than I whether such an attempt might be successful."

Bella's eyebrows go up as she absorbs this.

Her immediate instinctive response is no, of course not, Charlie is the steadiest and most rock-solid person she's ever known. Nothing could shake him.

But she makes herself stop and think anyway before she answers, chewing a bite of her sandwich slowly. It's true that it would take a great deal of force to break Charlie down, but it wouldn't be impossible. Everyone has a weak spot. Charlie is no exception, no matter how much she wants him to be (and of course she wants him to be).

She doesn't have enough information yet.

"How?"

"I... cannot go into as much detail as I would like about the methods," he says, wrapping his arms around his stomach and staring down at his knees. "Once again I am put in the position of knowing something patently unbelievable for which there is no ready proof, and this time without even circumstantial evidence on my side."

He shivers very slightly when he adds, "And I am not up to being disbelieved at the moment."

"Sherlock," Bella says tightly, "you can't tell me someone threatened my father and stop there. What is the point of telling me anything at all if you're not going to give me enough information for it to be useful?"

Sherlock's anxiety about the situation is clearly real; it's practically pouring off him. Considering how few friends he has, and how people have noticed the fact that she has been friendly with him outside of their assigned roles in Biology class - she ate lunch outside yesterday to avoid a barrage of questions from Jessica once she realized that they had been seen leaving school ground together - it's not unreasonable that anyone wishing to get to Sherlock might target her or her family.

It has not occurred to her until now to think about the potential dangers of befriending the boy whom the world believes to be Tony Stark's brother.

"This person prefers exclusively to work through... indirect means," he says. "There is no physical danger whatsoever. But their resources as far as gathering knowledge are superior even to mine. And it is possible to be very unsettling with little more than words—witness my current state, although of course in my case there is so much material to work with."

Bella frowns down at her sandwich. Her appetite is rapidly disappearing.

"Charlie's been a police officer since before I was born," she says. "He's got his share of material to work with, too."

She's seen him come home from work quiet and tired, visibly struggling to make even the simplest of conversation with her, trying to create a normal atmosphere for her sake. Sunnydale, she realized eventually, is a hard place for a cop who cares about his job.

"There is that," Sherlock acknowledges.

One hand starts to rub at the opposite arm; it stops almost immediately, and Sherlock holds himself a little more still.

"I am sorry," he says, forming each word carefully. "Whatever is in my power to protect him, I will do, if the threat turns out to be more than idle."

It does not, frankly, look like there is much in his power at the moment.

"I'll talk to him."

If it's not a physical threat, then maybe a warning will make all the difference. It's harder to mess with someone's head when they know what you're doing.

He nods.

For a moment, he even relaxes—it is, he knows, the most either of them can do, and he has delivered his warning and Bella is treating it with the appropriate level of seriousness and there is no more action required on his part.

That's kind of the problem, actually.

His hand starts rubbing his arm again, as though he is cold, but he obviously isn't. He closes his eyes and leans back against the seat.

Bella takes a bite of her sandwich, but it tastes dry in her mouth and she has to force it down.

There is nothing more that she can do for now about the threat to Charlie. Frightening herself about it is useless, even counterproductive.

She puts the sandwich down, balancing it on her lap, and opens her juice.

"Maybe he can help," she says. "You can - tell him, you know. What you're not telling me." A part of her objects to being left out of any kind of informational loop, but she ignores it. It does not have priority. Charlie can take steps that she can't, and the reasons Sherlock has for not telling her who this person is might not apply to Charlie.

"He is even less likely to believe a word of it than you are," Sherlock says quietly.

Bella sighs, frustrated. She can see the tension in him, and the fragility of that nervous gesture in someone who takes pride in his composure, but this is her father they're talking about.

She tries, at least, to choose her words carefully.

"I really do not like not having access to everything I might need to know. What should I tell him to watch for? What should I watch for if he misses it? Who should we watch for? This isn't as helpful as you think it is."

"I do not think it is very helpful at all, but it is the best I can do. If I tell you what actually happened, you will think I am insane, which—will—help—no one."

He cannot quite keep his voice even through those last few words.

Hearing the unevenness in his voice, Bella stops herself in her mental tracks to perform her mood-zapping routine. It takes longer and is less effective than usual, because the fact is that her annoyance is extremely valid and she cannot pretend even temporarily that it isn't. Giving in to it, however, will most emphatically not improve the situation or increase the likelihood of her getting the information she wants, so she walks herself through the routine once, then again.

When she has herself in something resembling a calmer frame of mind, she points out (keeping her own tone of voice as mild as possible),

"You told me you were a clone and I have yet to call the psych ward."

He really shouldn't tell her. It would be, not just unpleasant—he'd do it in a heartbeat if it were merely going to be unpleasant—but counterproductive. She is less likely to take the threat seriously once she discredits the source.

And yet.

"The night before last, Tony was disturbed at his studies by an apparition with the voice and image of Obadiah Stane and no solid physical form. It first tried to pretend it was in fact Obadiah, did not succeed, and proceeded to taunt him as Obadiah and then as each of his parents. He called me about all of this. The next morning—" he breaks off, digs his fingers into his arm, continues with rapidly dwindling steadiness: "The next morning it visited me. In my bedroom. As Obadiah. It was waiting for me when I woke up."

"An apparition," Bella repeats.

"Like a ghost?"

"Yes."

His eyes are closed. It is sheerest cowardice, but he can't look at her right now.

"Although not, I must emphasize, the ghost of any of the people it tried and failed to impersonate."

"Right," Bella mutters. "Because that would be silly." It slips out before she can think better of it, and she doesn't much care.

He believes it. He's not lying, not on purpose. That much she can see for herself. And he's careful about information the way she is, working from fact to theory instead of the other way around like so many people do even when they think they're being careful.

Two days ago he said clone. Now he's saying ghost, or something like a ghost.

Renée believes in ghosts. Bella did when she was little, in the way children follow their parents' beliefs when they still think their parents must surely have created the world. She concluded some years later that the belief was erroneous. The scientific explanations rest on evidence of how the senses and the mind can be tricked. It's all very simple, she told Renée, once you get into the logic of it. Renée had laughed, not unkindly, and had not been swayed. Bella ascribed it to the passionately rose-colored way Renée views the world, something about her mother she would not change even if she could, and left it at that.

Now, looking at one of the most logical people she has ever met, she's a little less certain that Renée is wrong.

He flinches very slightly at the words.

She sighs.

"I'm sure you appreciate that you've given me a great deal to think about in the last couple of days."

Very softly: "I do, yes."

"It wasn't difficult to conclude that I had no way of proving that you are not a clone," she continues, "and what little evidence I have makes far more sense if you are than if you're not.

"I don't think confirming the existence of a ghost-like entity, or at least confirming that it doesn't not exist, is going to be quite so simple."

"Hence my reluctance," he murmurs.