lostwithoutmyblogger | covert observation

The stage is set for an elaborate play. The dom has decided to put on a vampire themed show complete with three lovely assistant ladies to play his vampire harem. Cloud played the part of the hapless traveler brought into the castle as food. It's messy, dramatically messy, blood flowing in rivulets and spatters and puddling on the white carpet and sheets. The focus was, of course, on the thoroughly charismatic dom performer. The supporting cast did a lovely job showcasing his talents. At the end, Cloud was left on the bed, slicked with blood, draped artfully off the side so blood could drip from his fingertips.

A minute or so afterward, the lights shifted to something more subdued and Cloud stood up with a smile to take a bow, partly to signal the end of the performance and partly to reassure the audience that he was not, in fact, horribly injured and possibly dying. The other actors came back to the stage for their curtain calls as well, then the stage was discreetly closed off with curtains to be cleaned up.

During the applause, Sherlock gives an uncharacteristically indiscreet wolf whistle, just to draw his eyes for a moment. He stands out, in the back of the crowd, looming just slightly over the people around him, recognizable even in the faint shadows.

He won't disturb him backstage, but instead settles down to wait.

The audience is deliberately cast in deep shadows while the performers suffer rather strong glare in their eyes, but Cloud manages to recognize the figure. His eyes go wide with a start, then he beams back. About fifteen minutes later, when the rest of the audience has cleared away, Cloud makes his way into the room wearing a biker jacket, black leather pants and boots, and a different set of gloves than he had worn during the performance. His hair was quite damp but still stuck straight up in unruly spikes. In the indoor lighting, nothing was particularly odd looking about his eyes except how vibrantly blue they were.

"You didn't tell me you were back in town."

"I know."

He answers, reaching out and succumbing to the impulse to touch his forearm. From Sherlock, it's practically a warm embrace, Cloud may or may not recall.

"You must be hungry. Can we have dinner?"

Borrowing her turn of phrase, her flirtation.

Cloud recalls quite clearly and responds with an even bigger smile, brushing his fingertips over Sherlock's hand gently enough not to trap it there. Under the thick leather and crewneck shirt Cloud is covered in a thin layer of bandages, wound by a rather speedy expert who wasn't Cloud.

"Starving! Got anyplace in mind or am I playing tour guide?"

"You know the area better than I."

He offers, moving to scoop his coat out of the booth, pulling it and the scarf back on, nodding for Cloud to lead the way.

"Nothing overly crowded?" He doesn't particularly mind quality, so long as the press of people isn't quite as bad as it is in here.

"You got it. My favorite place to go after shows isn't crowded at all. If it was then I'd have trouble getting a table for just me."

He heads to the door, glancing hopefully over his shoulder. "Feel like taking my motorcycle? I won't drive crazy, promise."

"...all right."

He agrees, eyebrows arching.

He sort of doubts very much that he will fit comfortably on a motorcycle, but that's all right.

The answer seems to make Cloud even more gleeful and he heads out into the parking lot. His motorcycle is carefully camouflaged to look normal, but it's very heavily tinkered with and modified by Cloud. "Ever ride one before?"

"Not one like this."

He says, immediately. Vague, rickety little rides through back alleys with informants, but nothing so new, nothing with the kind of power he suspects is lurking in this thing.

"Here's the rules," he said, with an excited gleam in his eyes. "You get on behind me, press yourself as close and you can with your hands around my waist. With me so far?"

When the got to his bike Cloud caressed it lovingly with his fingers, an unconscious act.

Sherlock catches it, and glances down at the plate, at the side, assessing make and model information, trying to identify how long it's been in his possession. If it might be a trace of him older than six years.

"Is there a second helmet?"

"No helmets. Yeah, the cops could pull us over for it, but we should be fine for short distances." That was rather uncharacteristically reckless of Cloud. Either he had a really inflated sense of his skill as a driver and the workmanship of the machine, or he was just suffering some kind of invincibility complex.

The bike, to the extent that it was still the original make and model, was hot off the assembly line. The plate, too, was gleaming new.

Sherlock looks at him for a measured moment, before nodding once.

"You know, in motorcycle accidents, the passenger is most likely to be killed?"

In case he was curious.

Cloud had to suppress laughter at some secret personal joke, then relaxed a bit. "You'll be fine. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

He slung a foot over the motorcycle, mounting it properly. "Next rule: don't try to steer. You'll be tempted. Passengers like to shift their weight to counteract the angle when a bike turns, and sometimes they even panic at the slightest angle. Just hang on tight and trust me to steer. Got that too?"

He settles down on the bike behind him, tucking against him carefully, sliding his arms around Cloud's waist.

Sherlock's posture remains cautiously rigid, not permitting himself to shift.

Cloud smirks, reaching for Sherlock's arms and settling them into a more cozy embrace. "The last rule: Relax. Don't fight the bike's movement, don't fight mine, and don't fight your own body. I promise I can handle it if you wiggle, just don't let go. Okay?"

He leans forward, leaving plenty of room for the much taller man to fold his legs easily and lie against his back.

"This is impossible."

Relax. Don't give in and lean. Don't fight against leaning. He shakes his head, and just holds on.

"It's not impossible, it's easy... here, let go a second." Cloud pulls his hands away so he can halfway turn around, pulling the knot out of Sherlock's scarf and tucking the two ends firmly into the detective's coat. "You don't want that catching on anything. It wouldn't be pretty."

He shifts back into place, pulls Sherlock's arms back around him, and starts up the motorcycle. The noise is deep, rumbling, and eerily unlike the noise of a normal motorcycle. It also spoils any chance of talking on the trip.

He pulls out of the parking lot and takes the first turn rather gently, putting them onto a busy street.

He hangs on tight, forcing himself to just breathe, closing his eyes against the sting of the wind and burying his face against Cloud's shoulder. This is uncomfortable, and he doesn't yet see the redeeming value.

If Sherlock was going to be a less than appreciative passenger, Cloud was quite happy that he should keep his eyes closed. He keeps a tad below the speed limit, though that goes up on the six lane highway they reach less than ten minutes later. A rather hideous grinding noise of metal on metal in front of them, followed by metal on asphalt, might or might not inspire Sherlock to open his eyes to see what's happening.

As if they're in a bad Hollywood action movie, a semi has jacknifed on the road and turned, and is now taking up all six lanes of traffic and approaching way too fast.

Cloud growls a quiet curse, inaudible over the noise, and throws one arm out behind him to keep Sherlock from being tossed off the bike as he turns sharply left.

He collides with Cloud's arm, reattaches briefly, and fastens his legs tighter to the bike, in case they lurch again.

He knew this was going to go wrong.

It's inevitable. They're going way too fast and the truck is way too close. They're going to crash, hard, with no helmets against several tons of steel. There's a lurch, a sickening noise of the motorcycle dashing itself into a twisted wreck against the truck...

And the sensation of being jostled around against restraints as if on a roller coaster, spinning, rising and falling, jarring, lights zipping in streaks with the dark night as background.

Several more crashing noises, now, with car horns and air bags. The world stops spinning with Cloud crouched on the sidewalk, holding Sherlock against his body, letting the detective's legs contact the ground with an odd gentleness.

Sherlock wants badly to ask what just happened, but frankly, after that, he isn't sure he can walk, never mind come up with a response or a rational series of questions to try to establish how they are not dead. Where the hell the bike went, he had no idea, because his face is pressed against Cloud's shoulder and he will not be lifting his head up any time soon.

Cloud muttered something that sounded like Norse, complaining tensely about how much he hated being blind. Or was that not what he said? Noises of car horns, car alarms, screaming, and more filled the air.

He ran a hand very gently down Sherlock's back and spoke in English again. "Are you injured? I can't tell."

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