thecapitol | open;

Entry tags:

✘ sherlock holmes (bbc)

open;

WHO| Sherlock and OPEN
WHAT| Sherlock is back in the capitol and he is not himself.
WHERE| Choose your own adventure
WHEN| From his death up until the end of the Arena because this is a catch all okay i'm sorry
WARNINGS| Thoughts on murder, otherwise nothing I don't think

OPTION 1: Two Days After Sherlock's Death, Before John's Death (Week 6)

It takes him two days to wake up, and his first breath is a violent one - shuddering right through to the very ends of his fingers as he drags himself back to life.

He'd thought, for half a moment, that he might not come back at all. That perhaps now the Capitol would tire of him, or consider him too much of a threat, and would finally let him go. But of course they kept him now. Now that they had what they wanted. Now that they'd broken him.

He could have sulked - he was a master sulker - but he was too afraid of the own dark depths of his thoughts, in those moments, so he instead dressed himself and left his room in a haze. Out through the suite, down the elevator, out of the tower. He barely looked back.

He just took to the streets like a tall pale ghost, robed in black.

He needed to think.

OPTION 2: Common Room while John's Death is being televised (Week 6)

He'd taken to watching the Games in the common room, instead of in his suite. He sat silently, long coat pulled up around him, feet up on the edge of the chair, front row and center. Sometimes he muttered low commentary but mostly he said nothing, content to cradle the popcorn in his arms and chew slowly, mindlessly.

If anyone tried to change the feed from watching John and Joan, however, he would snap suddenly and violently.

Howard wasn't the only one who could throw popcorn.

OPTION 3: After John's Returned. Wherever you like! (Week 7 - End of the Games)

He's more himself after John comes back. The strange edgy darkness at the corner of his eyes has been beaten back. He seems, and acts, more like he did before the last arena. Flippant. Dickish. But himself. Or at least so it appeared.

He still spent a good deal of time watching the Games, but he's started to be more social again. To try to prepare himself for the next time. Because there will be a next time, and another, and another. He would say that this was his own personal hell except it wasn't - everyone else was trapped here with him.

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Relief flooded over him so thickly he didn't know what to do with himself. He burst into Sherlock's room and slung his arms around him, embracing him tightly as if it was the only way he'd be certain he was real, his chest heaving against Sherlock's and his face buried in his shoulder.

Edited 2013-12-08 19:17 (UTC)

Sherlock's eyes widened, blinking with surprise, and he had absolutely no idea what to do with his arms - hovering awkwardly as John embraced him tightly. Finally, carefully, he touched John's back with a careful fragility as if John might turn around and snap at him next.

"John-- It's fine. You-- we're both here. It's alright."

He nodded, eyes still closed and face still hidden. He was vaguely aware he was making Sherlock uncomfortable- and then his own embarrassment filtered through. He cleared his throat, patted Sherlock's back and pulled away, not quite able to meet his eyes.

"Yeah. Yeah, we're alright. Is Joan- did she make it?"

"She's still in the arena," Sherlock replied. He hadn't moved since John had hugged him, and he didn't put any extra distance between them now, letting John be the one to pull away.

"I had meant... it has been difficult, to get sponsors, and I--"

He shook his head.

"Not your fault, Sherlock. It's not." He paused, wet his lips, and shifted his weight awkwardly. "Have you... you're alright? I'm sorry I couldn't..."

"I'm fine." Sherlock said tightly. It was an obvious lie, perhaps, but not one he was ever going to let go from.

"I'm not sure how much of it you've seen, but it's over and done. So let's not discuss it." He cleared his throat and waved a hand vaguely. "Next time. We'll manage, next time."

"Haven't seen anything," he admitted with a slight shrug. "Had more important things to do. I'll catch up later. Do you, ah, I'm starving, actually, if you haven't eaten yet?"

Not that he needed to find an excuse for them to spend time together. Of course not.

"Good." Sherlock said a little too quickly. He was not exactly keen on having John see what had happened, and he frowned. "Don't concern yourself. It isn't important. But no, I haven't eaten, and I am famished."

He was all too happy to focus on something else entirely. "You must be craving having real food again. Anything particular in mind?"

"Curry," he said immediately, a smile spreading over his face. "Curry and a beer. And then, I want to sleep for a year."

Sherlock chuckled lowly, unable to help himself, and nodded.

"Curry. Very well, curry it is. I'm sure I can find us something that resembles the stuff," He said, only trying a little too hard to be cheerful before he gestured for John to lead him out into the hallway.

"A vague resemblance to curry... sounds perfect," he teased. If he noticed that he wasn't leaning on his cane, he didn't make any mention of it as he lead the way. Strangely, having all his anxiety focused on finding Sherlock alive had sheltered him from thinking too deeply about anything else.

He didn't seem to notice how closely to Sherlock he was walking, either- though in fairness, he'd never needed that much in the way of personal space when it came to him.

Sherlock noticed. He was always hyper aware to changes when it came to John - but the lack of a cane was one that he was all too happy to note, and not leave comment on it.

The elevator was swift, as usual, but Sherlock was uncharacteristically silent - doing his best to avoid looking at the small screen that was playing repeats from the games, and quickly ushered John out when they reached the bottom floor.

"You can't possibly hope for more," He murmured. "This places twists everything."

He wet his lips, the reminder of exactly where he was and why knocking his mood down a few pegs- but he was still buoyed by the relief of finding Sherlock alive.

"Even a decent vindaloo?" he asked, a vain attempt to keep everything light. "Monsters, the lot of them."

"Mm," Sherlock agreed, as if he was only half listening - paying more attention to the shrieking of the city as they stepped outside. Luckily the place wasn't far and he made some half-hearted and half-conscious conversation about how to tell the different between a decent curry restaurant and a rubbish one before they made it there and they stepped inside. Obviously the waiter recognized them, and he rushed over and took them to the table.

"We watched so closely, this arena was so breathtaking. A real first, for you, Mr. Holmes. Can I--"

"Just two of the usual," Sherlock snapped before the man could say anything else.

John looked a little puzzled but it was fairly easily explained away- the Capitol was full of obsessive fans, and it wasn't the first time they'd been recognised. Sherlock's reaction was slightly strange, perhaps...

"I don't think I'm ever going to get used to that," he ventured carefully, taking a seat at the table.

"No. Nor am I," Sherlock said a little flatly as he adjusted his cutlery.

Behind him, the excited waiter turned the television to a highlight reel of clips of Sherlock in the arena. With the sound off, Sherlock was completely oblivious to the display.

He didn't notice at first- but it didn't take long for his eyes to catch the movement on the screen. He wasn't particularly interested in being forced to watch, though, so he avoided looking at it. Mostly. It was impossible not to catch a glimpse every once in a while.

"Anything interesting happen since..." he cut himself off, gesturing instead. Since you died wasn't a collection of words he had any desire to let past his lips.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and tilted his head.

"Yes, actually. They caught the supposed 'hackers' and in retaliation someone hacked into the network system. The 'Rebellion'." He kept his tone carefully snide, even issuing a little 'ha!' at the end. He had no desire to draw any sort of attention for talking about it in anything but a derisive tone. "Otherwise, little of particular note."

On the screen behind him, Sherlock was storming off into the jungle alone after their argument about Howard. He caught a glance before focusing back on Sherlock's face.

"Idiots," he agreed, making a mental note to take Sherlock back to the Noir restaurant where he could quiz him a little more deeply in the near future. "I've got no patience for anyone who thinks blowing up a building to make a point is a good idea. Did they catch them? The second lot, I mean."

He could have always told John about how Howard threw hot coffee on him, of course, but he had absolutely no desire to spark that particular argument again.

He shook his head. "Not that I'm aware, but it will only be a matter of time." He hoped they evaded capture forever.

John was about to make some comment about how the Capitol would be more than capable of tracking anyone they wanted down despite his belief to the contrary when his eyes were caught by the scene on the screen behind Sherlock's head. Sherlock and Cuthbert, a knife in Sherlock's hand excited commentary about a first kill...

He watched, his lips parting wordlessly- and belatedly, he realised he should look away. Sherlock had clearly been trying to keep him from finding out, the exchange with the server as they entered making a very horrible kind of sense now. He wet his lips and glanced at the table.

"Hopefully before they cause any more trouble," he managed, throwing a tight smile in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock frowned, glancing at him. He knew John better than anyone else (or so he told himself) and the abrupt change in expression was obvious.

"What?" Sherlock asked, brows knit. This type of thing was usually his fault, after all, and he would rather know what he was supposedly doing wrong now.

"What is it?"

He swallowed, forcing himself to meet Sherlock's eyes rather than glance behind him. There was no use lying. There never was.

"Sorry. There's a screen, behind you. I caught a glimpse," he explained, embarrassed, gesturing at it- the scene had moved on to show the next part of the story, but John resolutely refused to let his gaze be drawn.

Sherlock snapped his head behind him, to see Karkat coming up upon him. To watch himself get stabbed - he turned his gaze back to John, his eyes dark. He knew what the man had seen.

His first kill.

"I didn't mean to," He said, sounding somewhere between a petulant child and a desperate plea of innocence from a man knowing he was guilty. "I didn't mean to, John."

John had absolutely no idea how best to communicate everything he knew he needed to, and finding himself at a loss he did the only thing he knew how. He offered Sherlock a very slight, steady smile, and met his eyes.

"I know," he said. "I know. You're not a killer, Sherlock. It's not in your nature."

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