Wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy

[drpsychosomatic]

Who| John Watson, Sherlock Holmes and anyone they encounter
What| Exploring, complaining, all that wholesome stuff
Where| Throughout the Capitol
When| After John's introduction as punishment for Sherlock messing with the cameras
Warnings/Notes| No warnings as of yet. This post can also be used for meeting just John or just Sherlock, we can engineer them splitting up for fact-finding a la Scooby Doo if you prefer!

Having been given a quick crash course on everything Sherlock had learned during his stay in the Capitol and his rather unpleasant experiences in the Arena, John had asked if Sherlock wouldn't mind showing him around some of the more interesting places in the sprawling, decadent city. He felt like having a rather stiff drink, actually- something to wash down the hideously confusing day he'd had- though he doubted he could convince Sherlock to join him in destroying a few braincells at whatever passed for a pub in this ridiculous place.

"So, where's next?" he asked, as lightly as he could manage as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. 

Comments

one or both c:

[downbeat]

Katurian lives indoors.

He does not wander. He does not explore. He ventures out of the tribute tower now and again, but only so that he can slip into the bars, quiet and anonymous. He's in one of those bars now, wedged into a corner booth that is too small for more than two people. He rests his elbow on the wall beside him, his fingers curled around the edge of his glass.

[alldeduction]

One of the things that Sherlock never fully appreciated was the need for a pint. Alcohol was not his drug of choice, but it had a relaxing effect on John, and after a day like today he decided John needed to relax. So he brought him here.

It was not meant to be part of a scouting mission. It was meant to be a quiet hour before they headed back to the tribute tower and separated for the night. But half way through John's pint, Sherlock caught a familiar face out of the corner of his eye, and grew very still.

It was impossible not to remember the last time he had seen his face. It had been impossible to tear himself away at the time, and he had watched Katurian's death at least once more since they had come off the ice.

Without even saying a word to John he slipped from his side and back through the bar up to Katurian's booth.

He stood, tall and dark, his hands deep in his pockets and his eyes narrowed. Since the ice, he'd learned the man's name.

"Katurian."

[downbeat]

Katurian had learned this man's name as well, but he didn't believe it. Sherlock Holmes. It was a moniker, certainly, an identity crafted for these 'games' and these games alone. He was not a character come to life, not the words whispered by Katurian's parents when he was too young to read on his own.

He was, however, the man who watched him die. He was the memory that Katurian replayed in his head again and again and again. He was the tower of flesh that kept him from freedom and hoisted him into the most agonizing moments of his life.

He blinked rapidly, his mouth opening and closing. This was not a speech he had prepared for. This was not something he was ready to revisit.

"Mr. Holmes." He trailed his arm down from the wall and onto the table. "It's a-- It's nice to--"

Nice to what? He couldn't think of it. He didn't know.

[alldeduction]

Sherlock watched the man flounder and let him, for several seconds, before it was completely apparent he was not about to finish the sentence he started. Something that wasn't quite a smile spread across his lips, but his bright grey eyes were hard and inquisitive rather than warm and welcoming.

"Quite. You know, Katurian, I consider myself a - how shall I say - student of the human condition. Especially in regards to murder and the motivations therein. But I admit your motivations have a habit of eluding me completely."

[downbeat]

"Because I'm not a murderer," he said all too quickly. He had murdered, yes, but he was not a murderer. Killing his parents was necessary self defense; it was the desperate decision of a soldier, not the sadistic musings of a sociopath. "B-Because I don't -- Because I would rather not hurt people if I do not need to hurt people, and that's all there is to it. You didn't deserve -- "

He glanced behind him as though Grey were still there, still sleeping with the harpoon clutched tightly in his gloved hands. He shuddered.

He practically needed to pull the words from his throat.

"You did not deserve to die because I was too much of a fucking coward to say something."

[alldeduction]

"Interesting." The word was flat and indicated that he considered Katurian's statements anything but.

Long, thin, fingers slowly move along the back of an empty chair across from Katurian, knuckles turning faintly white as the stroke turned into a firm grip.

"And when you originally tried to murder me on the ice? Was that a fluke? Or cowardice."

[downbeat]

His eyes followed Sherlock's fingers as they dragged along the chair. He flinched, jerked as the grip tightened, his own hand hitting against the wall next to him as the jolt nearly lifted him out of the seat. He was a mouse, small and cornered.

(There were always wounds that couldn't heal. Katurian would always be a prey animal. He would always be frightened.)

"I don't know," he said. It was the same thing he had said to Grey right before the other man shoved a harpoon into his gut. A failure to commit. Paralysis. "I don't -- I didn't -- I didn't really know what I was doing." Yes, that sounded right. He forced himself to look at Sherlock. "I didn't know what I was doing."

[alldeduction]

It felt useless, attempting to understand Katurian. As useless as it felt trying to understand anyone who didn't behave rationally and especially when he didn't have a vested interest in attempting to work them out.

Normally he wouldn't try. Normally he would give up and grumble to himself about the generalised idiocy of man kind and of this man in particular and go to his rooms and fiddle with his violin darkly. Here, however, there was no violin. And Katurian remained a wild card that he wasn't sure what to do with if he should meet him again in the arena. So some sort of conclusion was necessary.

Time to fake it.

He threw up his hands, shaking his head. "Fine. Fine. It doesn't matter. Let's make a deal. You don't directly try to kill me, I won't try to kill you, and you don't need to get yourself killed horribly."

[downbeat]

“Yes,” Katurian said, watching Sherlock with his wide eyes. Did he mean it, that yes? Could he really guarantee that the next time they crossed paths he wouldn’t harm him? The choice he made the last time, oh, that was simple enough. He knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he was responsible for someone’s death. But death was not permenant, death was a temporary inconvenience that could be made quick and short and relatively pain-free, and the death of others was the only thing separating Katurian from freedom. From his brother.

“That is most definitely a deal.”