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[complexharmony]

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[acuriousincident]

( You're like me says the man who's admitted to killing others to harvest their powers (however that works - though Sherlock's got no doubts at this point that it does, this man is clearly not at all the type to believe in things that don't exist) and Sherlock would object if the truth of it - the similiarities - weren't so obvious. Though Sherlock knows nothing about watch-making or the intricate, inner work of timepieces, he knows the exact moment that the other man finds the flaw, the link, he's been searching for. His face lights up in a triumphant smile and for just a second, it's like looking into a mirror.

How right am I, he asks, looking up at Sherlock and the look in his eyes makes something inside him chime back in recognition. I know you, it says, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Well. )

I don't have to tell you.

( He looks at the watch, at the gears arranged neatly on the table, no need for undue damage, no need for disarray. Yes. That's how it is, despite what others might think - they perceive destruction when in reality, it's a game. A search for what's beyond basic notions like order, chaos, rules. Sherlock leans in closer, observing the shift in the alignment of the tiny, tiny gear, God, the subtlety of it. It's quite beautiful. His voice, when he continues, is full of air: )

Because you abhor what's normal and monotonous, too. That's why you understand.

[complexharmony]

( No, Sylar thinks as their eyes meet, you don't have to say a word. He could almost see past those irises of a raging sea into the mind beyond. The neurons and pulses firing on the same wavelength, and it was as if no one else existed in the world. Only they mattered, they above the ants that crawled beneath them, mindless in their routine, intellectually inferior.

Soon his reflection looked away and Sylar exhales slowly, unaware he had been holding his breath. Heartbeat loud in his ears, the nearness of the other man. If his hadn't been occupied with the gear, still held suspended in time, he might've...

Well. That was an excuse, wasn't it? It would take no thought at all to suspend the tool there with his mind, free his hands to pull Sherlock into his lap, or even better, lay him flat upon the desk and see how alike their tastes were.

But there was a broken thing still here, one nearly made whole again. He turns his attentions back to it now. Magnification was no longer required; he knew the gears' placement by simple rote memory. )

I don't normally perform this for a captive audience. Careful; I might become addicted to this, too.

( There's a beat, a hesitation within his hands before he places the next gear where it belonged. Addiction. What else did Sherlock use to satisfy that ache within him? There were not, he presumed, always a case to solve. Or, at least, a case suited to Sherlock's tastes. How did he fill the time?

Mm. Answers were everywhere around them, like dust in a sunbeam. He would find out soon enough. He sits back and places the tool within its toolbox once again. The puzzle was not complete. He moves his fingertips over the remaining pieces leisurely; he felt no need to hurry. )

I'm going to tell you the story of a man named Brian Davis. I hadn't known I had an ability, you see, until someone came into my life and told me I was special. What I can do isn't flashy, or obvious. It's all in the mind, what we do. Suresh ran his tests, took blood, hooked up the wires to my head. Those all said I was normal. He was ready to give up, abandon me, move on to someone else on his fucking list.

( No trace of anger anymore; he'd put those demons to rest a long time ago. His voice is velvet wrapped in steel wool. )

But. I knew the tests were wrong. I felt different. So I called one of Suresh's other names. Brian came into my shop, showed me his ability. And, would you believe it? He said he didn't want it. That he might... hurt someone. He was scared of the unknown, scared of stepping outside his programming.

I took what he unknowingly offered to me.

( His hand rises from the remaining pieces. As puppets on a string, the metal cogs rise as well. They hove between the desk and his hand, one piece to each finger. He waggles his fingers in a wave pattern, and the pieces follow in formation. He guides them to the clock, returning them to their rightful place. Similar gestures flick the switch on the mantlepiece clock, close up its back panel and set it upright again.

Tick. Tock. Perfect harmony. His mind felt at peace as he heard the mechanical clicks from outside his mind, instead of from within. He turns to watch him once more. )

Would you have done the same thing?

[acuriousincident]

( Sherlock watches as the watch slowly comes together, piece by piece, the other man's personal image coming together in a parallel procession as well while he speaks. Tells him a story. But it's not just a story, obviously, it's a puzzle piece. Unwillingly (because certain compulsions are weaknesses, he knows it well enough), his mind jumps back to his own childhood. Being told time and again how stupid he was, how ordinarily blank, that he'd never measure up. Though Sherlock doesn't exactly relish the chance to see his own reflection in a man who takes what people unknowingly offers him - because naturally, that's what serial killers do - there's a part of him that nearly aches at the thought.

Imagine actually finding out that your initial hypothesis - your own ordinariness - is wrong. Faulty. Imagine rising above it, until for instance, you can make tiny pieces of glittering brass float in the air simply by willing them to do so.

Indeed, they've both been there, in their own, particular ways. )

Yes.

( His gaze slips away, the intensity of the situation (what are they both and how in the world do they correlate?) prompting a need for some sort of respite, if only just a mental one. He thinks about the watch on the table, whole again, about Sylar's hand rising, his fingers dancing in the air. Then, he takes a deep breath and re-establishes eye-contact again. )

Years ago, I would have.

( Then came crime. Addiction. And in between, long periods of soul-crumbling depression and boredom. He's resigned himself to those two existential extremes, to the point of not knowing whether any other reality might even exist for him. He adds, voice contemplative, rougher than Sylar's, speaking plainly of the smokes he no longer indulges in: )

Inevitably, boredom will find you. No matter what you do - ( Nodding at the candle, then at the watch. ) - it never really stops.

[complexharmony]

( Years ago, I would have... The tip of his tongue curls against the corner of his upper lip, very briefly. By the time it disappears back inside his mouth, he thinks: I want you by my side when I kill again. If they had the same ability, as he suspected, they worked exactly the same. Sherlock could absorb powers the same as Sylar.

Channel that hunger for knowledge in a new direction, channel that addictive personality. Could he convince him to go through it, Sylar wonders. After all, telekinesis would only force him to kneel, put his finger to the brain, but he could not make him rewrite his own DNA.

That was something Sherlock would have to do on his own.

Sylar leans back in his seat, lounging in a lackadaisical fashion. While never fully relaxed he could permit himself this tiny margin of respite. A flick of his wrist sends the clock sailing through the air at breakneck speed. At the last possible second, the timepiece floats down with delicate care to its rightful place on the mantle. )

I could make it stop for you, Sherlock. Maybe not now, or tomorrow, but someday... And you'll just have to trust me when it happens.

( Sylar doesn't look away from his kindred spirit as his hand rises, just a little, enough to bring that candle into his grasp. )

Imagine if you could do what I can do. No more guesswork. No more missing pieces. With just a simple flick of the fingers...

( His index and middle fingers barely rise from the candle and his eyes lower to Sherlock's shirtfront. The first two connected buttons there snap off, scattering to parts unknown within the apartment. Their eyes meet again, Sylar's sharp and watchful beneath the lazy veneer. )

...You could have anything your logical heart desires.

( Watching his reaction only a few seconds longer, drinking that in. Then, down to business, something he cannot put off any further. He closes his eyes, sets the candle down in the spot formerly occupied by the clock, and focuses deeply inward. )

[acuriousincident]

( It's as if the very fabric of the room has shifted, as if, on a molecular level, reality's being altered right in front of his eyes. Sylar flicks his wrist and the watch flies back to its place on the mantle - you'd think it would crash at that speed, if you didn't know better. But while Sherlock can't pretend to understand Sylar's powers (the sheer extent of them), he understands quite intimately the power of the mind. How, if you understand every little detail, you can predict any outcome, in any context.

The trajectory of a watch, flying through the air, for instance, and every little inch of the space it traverses.

Imagine if you could do what I can do says the man who then proceeds to pop two buttons on his shirt, leaving his collarbones and chest just a little bit revealed, his skin prickling in response. Oh. If he'd been less entranced, he would have probably protested at Sylar's word choice - guesswork, really, like he'd ever guess - but then again, if he'd had the same powers, he might have thought inductive reasoning guesswork, too.

After all, compared to just knowing, pretty much everything is. )

You felt it, just now. The thrill of working through all the tiny links, one at a time.

( He doesn't bother fiddling with his shirt (it's ruined and also, ultimately unimportant) choosing instead to lean in a fraction as the other man closes his eyes, ready to work his magic - what an insipid metaphor, it's nothing like that, clearly, nothing so boring. )

Landing on the solution, finally, when all the pieces align and click - how do you get that, with your abilities? Frequently, the challenge lies in overcoming banality. In the process itself.

( He's honestly curious. In his own field of expertise, he considers himself the final authority, really, because everyone else simply can't be bothered learning enough, thinking enough, to challenge him. But this is clearly new ground, nothing he's ever seen before. Imagine if you could.

Indeed. )