thecapitol | I'm Down Shouting Names at the Flickering Screen [Open]

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I'm Down Shouting Names at the Flickering Screen [Open]

WHO| Howard and anyone!
WHAT| Howard decides to get serious about the Games.
WHERE| Tribute Lounge
WHEN| Post-Arena
WARNINGS| Swearing.

There's been enough hiding. There's been enough moping. Howard knows that this feeling of motivation is fleeting, and that just means he has to cling to his productivity for as long as he can before it slips back into despair. Before he thinks about how he's going to die again. Before he wonders where Eponine is. Before he thinks about how she left him like his parents did. Before he cries.

So instead of feeling that, he's going to feel something else. He's going to feel entertained. And possibly, he'll learn something along the way; it's about time he forces himself to study. About time he moves past the squeamish feelings of seeing people he knows bleed and scream on the screen and actually starts taking notes on who to ally with and who to stab in the back, or, potentially, in the front.

He sits in a Tribute lounge with snacks, feet propped up on a glass coffee table, starving body covered in comfy clothes his stylists won't let him wear outside, a fluffy blue bathrobe and canvas cargo pants. His hand periodically moves from its path between bowl of snacks and his mouth to grab a cup of melted butter.

He doesn't care how tacky or unhealthy is it. He covers that bowl of popcorn in butter and plops down on the couch, munching away at it as he watches Wesker and Maximus attack each other.

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Sherlock didn't frequent the lounge. In fact, he didn't particularly frequent anywhere that would have a large and regular group of people that wouldn't only recognize him but would also annoy him. Unfortunately, sometimes it was unavoidable, and this was one of those times. His escort had driven home that perhaps he shouldn't spend so much time in John's suite, so he had agreed to meet him here, instead. (Though when I say 'agreed', what really happened was that Sherlock had simply declared that this was their new meeting space, and then simply expected John to show up when he needed him, regardless of whether or not he was actually informed.)

Of course he recognized Howard right away, even if he was back to his mostly emaciated state. He knew that John had seen more of him since the last arena, but otherwise Howard had fallen off his radar almost completely. So he basically ignored him as he walked in, found a seat, draped himself over it, and waited.

Maybe if Howard were in a better mood, or if he were a nicer person, or Sherlock were a different person, he would just ignore the company. He would sit there with his comfort food and his fluffy robe and the less-than-comfortable glow of the television and pretend he was alone, some timelines and universes away, watching the SyFy on a Saturday Night.

But Howard's not in a good mood, Sherlock's not a different person, and the Capitol can put Howard's body back together but haven't seen fit to fix the part of his brain that internally screams at him to be a pain in the ass. After a few moments he feels all too keenly that Sherlock's probably taking in every miserable detail, that Sherlock's probably already figured out that Eponine left him and that he's got an anxiety problem and that he's been sleeping in the streets the last few nights to avoid having to spend much time in his suite, and the silence of ignoring Sherlock just becomes too oppressive.

Howard throws a piece of popcorn at Sherlock. And then, a moment later, hops up off the couch to retrieve it off the floor and eat it, murmuring 'five second rule' under his breath.

Sherlock had, of course, taken in much about Howard as soon as he stepped in. But he'd also dismissed it almost immediately as being unimportant. The moment that a piece of popcorn hit him smack in his temple, however, everything snapped into sharp relief. He tensed, for a second immediately taken back into the arena, and it took him a full three seconds to relax before shooting Howard a glare, and watching as he picked up the popcorn.

Howard stays rooted to the patch of carpet he retrieved the popcorn from, and picks up another piece out of the bowl.

He throws it. This time he makes a little 'boop' sound, barely audible, as it hits Sherlock on the nose.

Sherlock twitches, every muscle in his body responding to the popcorn attack. It only lasts the blink of an eye, but it happened.

He takes a breath, eyes narrowed, and looks down to the floor. With a slow, careful, precise reach, he picks up the piece of popcorn...

... and tosses it right at Howard's forehead.

Howard sees that one coming, but that doesn't stop the way he lurches out of the way as it comes at him, the way he overcorrects a bit too much and loses his balance. He doesn't fall, but some of the popcorn in the bowl spills, and his pulse quickens. The next few breaths come tight and shallow.

But as he bends down to retrieve the lost popcorn, he flings another one up in Sherlock's direction. This time he doesn't have a bored, mildly-irritated expression. This time his eyes are communicating loathing.

Sherlock doesn't bother to dodge it, as the popcorn bounces harmlessly off of his shoulder. He meets Howard's glare with an intense and focused on of his own - bright burning grey eyes boring holes in Howard's general direction.

"Are you quite done."

Howard doesn't dignify that with an answer, at least not verbally. He just tosses another piece of popcorn, holding Sherlock's glare.

Then he reaches forward and dumps the whole bowl on Sherlock's lap.

The fury sparks in Sherlock's eyes, instant and chilling, and he slowly stands, raining popcorn down on the floor below him.

"How long has it been, Howard. A week? Since you slept in your bed? Do you really think popcorn fights are an acceptable outlet for your post-break-up frustrations?"

He flicked the last remaining piece (which had been clinging so carefully to his hip) at Howard.

Howard knows he should have expected retaliation, and he should have suspected Sherlock's already pieced together the last few days, but it still catches him by surprise how much it stings. How quickly it brings a flush up to his cheeks and down his neck. How readily the tears prick around his eyes.

"Low blow, asshole. Bet you wouldn't have said that with John around." He drops to the floor and starts to scoop the discarded popcorn back into the bowl.

Sherlock only smiles - cold and sharp and cruel. He kicks some of the popcorn out from under his feet.

"I wouldn't have had to. Somehow I doubt you would be flinging popcorn if he was here."

Howard would love nothing more than to turn it back around on Sherlock, to make some cutting observation that would slice him up inside. But Sherlock's cold and composed and so precisely the opposite of how Howard feels, like a person cobbled together out of multiple broken parts wearing his injuries out for display.

He resists the urge to ask how Sherlock knew.

So instead he says "Fuck you. I hope you have to watch him die again next time."

The smile disappears instantly. Sherlock's face is complete stone. It isn't the face he gives an annoyance. It's the utter impassiveness that appears on his face when he's facing a threat. When he's face to face with a serial killer, and John's in the firing line.

Sherlock has always been used to jeers about himself. Taunts of pyschopath and serial-killer-in-waiting would sting in a quiet, persistent way, but he could always ignore them.

This was different. This was about John. And he wasn't going to settle back and listen to threats about John, not after everything and certainly not from Howard who John considered a friend. Sherlock immediately crossed the distance between them, right up to Howard as close as he could get without touching him, and with completely cold toneless voice said:

"Say that again."

No one likes feeling threatened, but Howard hates it more than most, especially when someone's using their height and invading his physical space to do it. He shrinks, takes a step back, before he even realizes that he's doing it. His breathing starts to constrict again.

He wants to repeat it, but he doesn't mean it, not at all. He doesn't want John to die, but in the same way, he doesn't really want John to win and leave one less decent person taking up a spot in the Games. That he knows that's selfish and that that does, essentially, mean he wants John to die is a sort of cognitive dissonance that he can't comb through right now.

His breaths turn into shallow gasps and the trembling in his hand returns, and after a few moments of holding Sherlock's gaze, he retreats back to the couch. He couldn't hold onto that anger long enough to keep saying things he doesn't mean. With the anger goes that motivation he had this morning to set Eponine aside and not feel anything while he studied the Games, and he turns off the TV and stares into space, not caring if Sherlock's still there.

It's all pointless, this studying. Howard should know by now that nothing is ever going to get better, and maybe not coming back after the next Arena will be merciful. There's something tempting about a sleep uninterrupted by nightmares, or waking up crying, or tossing and turning.

He sinks into the robe and pulls it up around his face, even though he knows it's completely useless to try and hide the fact he's crying from Sherlock fucking Holmes.

It certainly wasn't the reaction that Sherlock was expecting, and he stood uselessly for a long moment, torn between the boiling anger he still felt and the dawning realization that perhaps Howard had only really said it to get at him.

Perhaps dealing with teenagers as if they were serial killers was a little... not good.

He turned away and turned back to his seat, brushing a few loose pieces of popcorn onto the floor before sitting down. He was not used to introspection but he couldn't help tracing back over the conversation to figure out exactly what he had done to get the reaction that he did.

He was suddenly overcome with the feeling that John would be very not happy with him making Howard cry.

So he only sat, ignored Howard crying across from him, and sulked as he stared at the door and waited for John.

John surfaced a few moments later, beginning to cross the floor towards Sherlock when he stopped, noticing Howard crying into his robe. His eyes flicked from Sherlock to the boy and back again, the wheels turning as he fitted the puzzle together.
Bit not good, Sherlock.

He cleared his throat. "Sorry I'm late, I was-" he pointed back towards his suite. "Had some things to do."

Howard glances up and out of the robe when he hears John's voice, then he retreats into hiding again - this time getting up and moving behind the couch, sitting down and out of sight. He doesn't want to talk about it, and he's glad John didn't ask or even overtly pay him mind. He curls up in a ball and breaths slowly into his hands, pausing only to wipe the tears that keep insisting on falling and his nose that keeps leaking.

He tells himself if he really wanted to hide he'd leave entirely, but some possessive, curious part says to at least stay in the room and try to glean something from whatever exchange happens next.

Or, he admits to himself, the truth is he can't motivate himself right now to care enough to go back upstairs.

Sherlock had an expression on his face that could only be described as somewhere between the look a puppy gives when it knows it has peed on the carpet, and justified righteous indignation.

He stood as gracefully as he could but still had to kick some of the popcorn out of the way as he stepped over. "Yes. Well. At least you're here now," he said, as if the entire exchange was really John's fault in the first place.

"I wasn't really aware I had to make sure I was around constantly to stop you picking fights with teenagers," John told him, an eyebrow raised. It was entirely obvious that Sherlock was going to get a talking to later.

"Are you ready to go?"

Sherlock's lips thinned and his eyes darkened as the complete injustice of John claiming that he picked the fight washed over him, to the point that he was angry enough that he didn't even bother to explain himself. He simply glared and then immediately went for the door.

John sighed, just about restraining himself enough that the urge to roll his eyes stayed just that, an urge. There was clearly something Sherlock felt he was being unreasonable about, and he didn't want to even try unpicking it in front of an audience.

He followed Sherlock out, making a note to catch up with Howard later and make sure he was alright.

Sherlock marched in silence, right to the door and out through it, not bothering to look back to see if John was following him. The oddly cut, slightly iridescent long coat billowed around his legs as he stalked into the capitol, ignoring the lights of the city and making a beeline straight to the park, which was his sole place of refuge, these days.

John caught up easily enough this time, wetting his lips and clearing his throat.

"Alright, so what did he do," he asked, resignedly.

"Nothing. Obviously. I felt like a fight," Sherlock bit at him, bitterly. He turned his collar up as if against the wind, but it was too warm to really warrant such an action.

John did roll his eyes then, shaking his head.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Sherlock, did you want me to defend your honour from the crying teenager hiding behind the sofa? I'm sure whatever he did, your retaliation was completely measured and proportionate."

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