if_inconvenient | (no subject)

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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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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.

"Yes," she allows. She would be similarly reluctant in the same position.

"Well, I certainly won't tell that part to Charlie."

"As I said."

He's rubbing his arm again, and he still hasn't opened his eyes.

She'll find a way to warn Charlie to be careful without giving him the details. Forewarned is still forearmed.

She watches Sherlock's hand work on his arm for a moment as she thinks. Of her current available options, accepting Sherlock's warning as genuine for the time being and proceeding accordingly seems best; finding out just how this entity operates is important if it's real, and won't do any actual harm if it isn't.

"Is it just the dead that it looks like?" asks finally.

"Yes. I have personally seen it disguise itself as Obadiah Stane and Howard Stark. The image is flawless, the voice likewise, but either it cannot accurately mimic the behaviour of its subjects or it does not care to. And it makes no sound when it moves, only when it speaks."

He opens his eyes at last, only to look out the window. His hand stills for a moment and then resumes its restless traversal of his forearm.

Bella remembers her earlier reflection on the difficulties of Charlie's job.

"I can see why a police officer would be a useful target for a threat," she observes. "Especially here."

"Oh Lord," he murmurs. "The major advantage I had over it is that I do not know any dead people over whom I am particularly disturbed."

"And you already knew about it," she says. "Because of Tony."

She can give Charlie half that advantage, maybe. He's already leery of her spending time with Sherlock; he's sympathetic to what he believes to be Sherlock's plight, but concerned that he may be unstable or otherwise undesirable company for Bella. Not only can she not tell him the full story about this entity (if she decides she believes it), she also can't tell him who it came from. He'll know she's omitting information and will be unlikely to take what she does tell him seriously, and probably be annoyed into the bargain. Which isn't to say that a warning won't be useful if the entity does make a move, as an actual encounter would give Bella's words more weight, but it doesn't seem to have done very much for Sherlock.

"I had previously assumed that it could not trouble me."

He wraps his arms tighter around himself, hunching a little in his seat.

Very, very quietly: "It watched me sleeping."

A shudder passes through Bella. Sherlock's demeanor makes even more sense now; she can imagine how intensely unpleasant it must be to wake to find that someone with malicious intent has been watching you at your most vulnerable.

She can't imagine being especially pleased with the idea regardless of the person's intent, for that matter.

"That is certainly troubling," she agrees.

Sherlock nods.

Something in this exchange, either telling her about it or seeing her agree, seems to relax him a little.

"Is there any way to block it?" she asks. "To keep it out?"

"That I have discovered, no."

He kind of didn't sleep last night.

She had expected as much. He would already have included the information if he had it. Still, she sighs.

"Will you be all right?"