thecapitol | open;

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It wasn't unusual for new Tributes to be living in his suite when he returned from the arena. In fact, it was so common place that suddenly catching sight of someone he didn't know in a compromising position was almost old hat.

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?"

It takes Albert a moment to realize he'd been asked a question and he manages to stammer out a response in lightly accented English, hands curling around the superficial carpet burns on his palms unconsciously. "Ja, this past arena."

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."

Sherlock looks at the hand as if deciding what to do with it, whether or not the necessity of conforming to strange rituals was worth it, but decides that it's too early in his return to start antagonizing people off the bat. So he takes the offered hand and gives a crisp, short, shake.

"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."

"Yes, I... District 3, actually. Apparently." He drops his hand to his side, not having missed the pause before his handshake being accepted. He can't blame the man for hesitating, not after everyone had been expected to kill one another and would be expected to do so again. And there's the man's unfortunate name. Not that it's all that bad to be named after a literary character or historical figure - he shares his own name with a nineteenth century prince after all - but Sherlock... Well. Albert decides not to mention it.

"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.

'Friends'. It was so obviously a half truth that Sherlock nearly called him out on it, but he didn't. The man had offered nothing in the way of hostility, so Sherlock would let him keep his 'friend' in peace.

"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.

From the sound of it, Sherlock didn't hear what went on the night before despite Jet's inability to keep his voice down, which gets Albert to relax a little. "They've pulled several of us, though why we were chosen I'd like to know, if there's any rhyme or reason to it."

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?

Sherlock didn't need to hear it to know (it was obvious) but he wasn't in the business of shaming people unless they pissed him off.

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."

A year... that's how many arenas? If they're all as long as the one they'd left that could be in the double digits if there's only a little rest between. Albert feels a sudden upswell of sympathy for Sherlock and though it doesn't show on his face there are traces of it when he speaks. "Weeks is long enough. A year I can't even fathom."

He drops his voice low, unsure of if they're being watched or listened to but fairly certain it's at least likely. "Hasn't anyone tried to escape in all that time?"

"Of course," Sherlock says, evenly. He's certainly not to give away his own plans, his own conspiracies, but there was enough on public record to make chit-chat about.

"There was an explosion, even. There have been executions. If you want my advice, keep your head down and do as your told."

It was, of course, the exact opposite of the advice he would give, if every word they spoke wasn't being recorded.

Executions. He'd suspected whoever ran this place could control the manner in which the tributes were revived and to hear of executions confirms it. They'll have to be careful... though with an uncomfortable twist in his stomach, Albert has to wonder if a permanent death is so terrible an outcome, after everything.

He'll keep that thought to himself.

"That seems to be everyone I've spoken with's advice."

That's because everyone's an idiot, he thinks to himself, even though it isn't bad advice. He just wishes he didn't have to give it.

"It's the best advice you'll get, if you're interested in your continued existence, at least."

He gives a nod, but Albert's thoughts are clearly elsewhere and any hope he'd managed to scrounge in finding Jet again after the harrowing experience in the arena is clearly dashed. He should do something productive, he knows, but all he has the energy for at the moment is to crawl back into bed and stay there for as long as he's able.

"It was nice meeting you, Herr Holmes," he's polite, but any animation has gone out of him and he quietly makes his way past and back to Jet's room.

"Likewise," Sherlock says with a soft snort, watching the man go before returning to his own room.

open;

not at all c: <3 i am pretty canon blind though, lol, bear with me

I'll try to put enough to deduce in here for you, then!

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