Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective (
alldeduction) wrote in
thecapitol2014-03-02 03:48 pm
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Entry tags:
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WHO| Sherlock and OPEN
WHAT| Sherlock wakes up in the capitol, a week and a half late
WHEN| Now
WHERE| District 2 Suite, elsewhere*
WARNINGS| Depression, possible mention of suicidal thought
((OOC: *I'm totally willing to use this as a catch-all post for threads with Sherlock over the next week or so, just pm me or hit me up on plurk and I'll make a new opening for you in the threads.))
He was late.
It wasn't that he knew it. Not reasonably, not intellectually. He could just feel it, as if he'd missed time and felt the hole it left. So when he opened his eyes and he was back in this room in the capitol, he knew in that very second that he was later than he'd ever been. He sat up, and the pain was gone. He'd lived with that endless pain for weeks, and here he was, brand new. Impossibly perfect.
Except that he wasn't. The scars where just invisible, criss-crossing deep under his skin where no one could see them.
He scrubbed his face with both hands before peeling out of bed, and immediately froze.
"Joan."
Later
He walked mutely to the closet so dutifully curated by his stylist, and picked out an outfit that was the least atrocious thing he could get his hands on. Something simple and black, high necked, long tailed. Everything he put on was black, he didn't feel like colour.
He wasn't supposed to be alive.
He stepped to his door and opened it. Emblazoned across it read the word Sadist in big, angry, spray-painted letters. He knew immediately who it was from, and reached out to touch them with a kind of muted disdain.
Disdain for himself, not the word. He had to work with the available evidence, and the evidence was giving truth to the statement.
WHAT| Sherlock wakes up in the capitol, a week and a half late
WHEN| Now
WHERE| District 2 Suite, elsewhere*
WARNINGS| Depression, possible mention of suicidal thought
((OOC: *I'm totally willing to use this as a catch-all post for threads with Sherlock over the next week or so, just pm me or hit me up on plurk and I'll make a new opening for you in the threads.))
He was late.
It wasn't that he knew it. Not reasonably, not intellectually. He could just feel it, as if he'd missed time and felt the hole it left. So when he opened his eyes and he was back in this room in the capitol, he knew in that very second that he was later than he'd ever been. He sat up, and the pain was gone. He'd lived with that endless pain for weeks, and here he was, brand new. Impossibly perfect.
Except that he wasn't. The scars where just invisible, criss-crossing deep under his skin where no one could see them.
He scrubbed his face with both hands before peeling out of bed, and immediately froze.
"Joan."
Later
He walked mutely to the closet so dutifully curated by his stylist, and picked out an outfit that was the least atrocious thing he could get his hands on. Something simple and black, high necked, long tailed. Everything he put on was black, he didn't feel like colour.
He wasn't supposed to be alive.
He stepped to his door and opened it. Emblazoned across it read the word Sadist in big, angry, spray-painted letters. He knew immediately who it was from, and reached out to touch them with a kind of muted disdain.
Disdain for himself, not the word. He had to work with the available evidence, and the evidence was giving truth to the statement.
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He didn't. Not that day. Not the next day. Or the day after that. And John didn't return either. With each day the dread grew, hard and cold in her heart, that they would not return. That somehow she had been given one friend for the price of the others. She watched Sherlock, her Sherlock, as he moved through the Arena, her heart heavy as her hope faded and grief took its place.
Then, a week and a half later, the Avox appeared.
She immediately went to Sherlock's room, and entered. He was still asleep, and she stood for a moment, looking down on him, his body whole, even if she knew he was not. After those moments of silence, she pressed her lips, went to a chair, and sat, watching over him.
When he woke, she let him get his bearings. When he saw her, said her name, she raised her eyebrows in acknowledgement.
"Sorry to surprise you. You took a while. I wanted to make sure you're okay."
Her voice is smooth and calm, only a tension in her expression betraying her worry and relief.
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"I'm fine," he said, though his voice was incredibly hoarse. "How long...?"
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"John?" He asked immediately, ignoring the sentiment. Obviously Joan was fine, beyond the small signs of stress, so he didn't need to ask. "Is he still in the arena?"
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"He died right after you did, but he hasn't come back yet either."
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Ignored the nagging voice in the back of his mind that told him they couldn't let him die if they only wanted him to suffer, instead.
"... And the other?" He asked quietly, refusing to use his name.
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"Sherlock," she said firmly, naming "the other." "He's still alive in the Arena, for now. Making more enemies than friends, which is not even remotely surprising."
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As if nothing had happened.
"I'm sorry. For failing to reach you in time."
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Hi hope you don't mind >.>
Albert finds himself suddenly self-conscious, making his way back to Jet's room in yesterday's clothes even after a shower, showing all the signs of a typical walk of shame. He doesn't go so far as to blush, but it's only through sheer force of will. At least his pupilless gaze is steady. "Ah... Sorry."
not at all c: <3 i am pretty canon blind though, lol, bear with me
What wasn't was the fact that the man he was faced with had no pupils of any sort.
That was new.
"Not at all," He said, raising an amused eyebrow. "New tribute?"
I'll try to put enough to deduce in here for you, then!
He shuffles awkwardly from one foot to the other for a moment, then decides he's being incredibly rude and squares his broad shoulders, offering his hand to shake. "Albert Heinrich."
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"Sherlock Holmes. District 2, obviously. I'm guessing you're not," He said, smirking slightly. No one looked quite so caught out when they were somewhere they were supposed to be. "So I'm going to assume you're visiting another new tribute which I've yet to meet. Seems I had better turn on a television screen."
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"A have a friend who was assigned to this district. We arrived at the same time, mid arena. As you can imagine it's been somewhat harrowing, so we've decided to stick together when we can." He sounds almost apologetic about it but also quietly defiant and frank. It's entirely possible he's intruding, but obviously that's not going to stop him from spending as much of his time here with his 'friend' as possible.
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"Allies are always for the best," Sherlock agreed easily enough. "I also have a friend from home, though he lives in District Seven."
And had yet to return.
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It's one of the big questions and he furrows his eyebrows in its asking but lets it drop readily enough. He doubts it's something any of the tributes have an answer to. "But I do agree, it's best to have allies in situations like this. If I may ask, how long have you been a tribute?"
How long should he be expected to be trapped in this cycle of inane violence?
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That didn't mean he didn't file it away for later, though.
"There's no rhyme, nor reason," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "Not usually. I... I have been a tribute now for little over a year." He was unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Long enough, I think, for anyone."
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He has a tattoo of a red dragon crawling up his neck and over his eyebrow, and it's just starting to peel. Other than that he looks the same as always, and he helps himself to District Two's suite while he waits to see if Sherlock's home. That means feet on the table, something from District Two's fridge already stuffed in his mouth, and TV playing something with a scantily-clad woman on top of a car on it.
"What's that mean?" he asks when Sherlock comes out, pointing at the red letters splattered across the door.
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"Howard's been signaling my stomp," He replied vaguely, motioning at the door. He knew exactly what it meant but that didn't mean he wanted to get into it.
As he walked around and caught sight of the other side of Punchy's face, he paused, eyes falling on the peeling tattoo. His lips opened, closed, and then opened again, wordlessly, but seemed after a moment to give up on whatever question had been on his lips and simply ignore the tattoo completely.
He couldn't exactly say it seemed out of character.
"Stoked you's still up to run," he said instead, honestly glad simply to find Punchy still alive, ridiculous tattoo or no.
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Punchy understands anger, but he doesn't really understand revenge. When he turns his anger on someone it's temporary, a small eruption at the immediate moment of injury. To hunt someone down, to simmer on that rage, is something he doesn't understand. It reminds him of Hyperion, holding Enjolras against the wall to taunt him. It reminds him of Aunamee, running Topher through.
It's not a good look for Sherlock, and it unsettles Punchy's guts.
"You wanna roll? I'm jonesin' for some chuck."
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Because he knows he would do it again.
(And he can't give up on himself. Not yet.)
"Hungry for it," He says instead, a lie, but only half way. He needed to get out of here, needed to stop thinking, and Punchy was as good a distraction as any.
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But he gets serious when they get to the elevators, which he still doesn't like even since the Avoxing. He scratches at his tattoo, and little scab flakes come off on his fingertips.
"So you gonna do anything about that tag on your door, dawg?"
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"Nothing," He said, bluntly, with a shrug. "Bitch'll just case it again. Let him have a run so I don't be chasing lights."
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"Dawg, I ain't the first to take you to church on this, right? That shit was out of pocket."
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And he had, of course, conveniently not told John or Joan.
"I had to lay it down straight. Ain't no one fuck with my crew without shit going off the chain."
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/wrap