because if it's not love

[costing]

Who| sherlock holmes & joan watson. then, sherlock & open.
What| a revival, a reunion, and more exploration.
Where| d11 suite and elsewhere.
When| week 7.
Warnings/Notes| to be added as needed.

joan |

He remembers pain, vivid and sharp in all of his senses. There hadn’t been time to register much of what had happened—he knew the nitrogen was coming, and therefore wasn’t surprised, but there had been no preparing for the pain. Had he screamed? He can’t remember, now. But he had felt like bursting.

And then he had. The woman had screamed, too, and then she’d held something—it all happened very quickly. The explosion was in such close proximity that there’d been no time at all to get away. Burning flesh was wrenched from his bones, and he believes he could feel his very atoms separating.

And then there was nothing for long moments, too many to count.

Sherlock comes to in his new bedroom gasping for breath like a man nearly drowned. His hands fist into the sheets as he bolts upright, eyes wide and expression frozen in a mask of shock. The horror hasn’t quite set it, yet.

open |

He gets himself together, albeit slowly and with considerable help. But afterwards Sherlock is ready to begin gathering information, to plan and to learn. It’s the only thing he knows how to do, the only way he can deal with what he’s just experienced. He has to solve it.

He makes his way out to the viewing room in the District 11 suite to watch the last few days of the games. It never looks like he’s paying strict attention, however—one day he has the contents of his goody bag, spread out at his feet while he dismantles the small skeleton of a whale. Another time he’s reading a book, glancing up at the screens at odd intervals. Later still he’s writing notes on three separate pads of paper.

He’s not ready to approach and question anyone just yet. But he’s perfectly approachable, himself.

Perhaps even later he’ll venture beyond the suite. Once he has it in his mind to explore, he’ll be found just about anywhere—examining things thoroughly, but with a hint of hesitation in his steps that has never been there before.

Comments

[formersurgeon]

She had watched him die. It felt right, that she should bear witness, since she couldn't be there for him like he was for her. Not this time, at least. Still, it was horrible. One of the hardest things she'd done, watching him in agony, then seeing him blown apart like that. She turned away before the giddy commentators could start replaying it in slow-mo.

She stopped watching the games. She didn't really care who won. She had only been watching for him.

She waits in his new room for the Avoxes to deliver his body, which thankfully is much more prompt than the other Sherlock. She moves to sit beside him on the bed, and waits. Waits for him to wake. Wonders if they always do. Forces herself not to worry.

He wakes up gasping, clawing at the sheets, bolting upright, and she grabs his arm to steady him.

"Breathe. Sherlock, breathe."

[costing]

His first conscious thought, the first thing his mind comes up with, is that Watson doesn't touch him very often. They exist in close proximity, always, but behave rather like a planet and a satellite-- connected, but never intersecting. He'll hold open the door for her or help her into her coat, but they don't touch. Not needlessly. The last time he can really remember is when they'd found Ire--no, Moriarty. And much like now, at that moment he'd been lost, floating out to sea and unable to parse what was going on around him.

Because of that, he can see her touch for what it is-- an anchor. He focuses on it, and through that can feel his body-- alive and whole. It takes another minute for that to really set in, for him to force the air into his lungs and then out again.

He takes a ragged breath, and then a longer, calming one.

"Hello, Watson," he says, finally.

[formersurgeon]

He's absolutely right, that their relationship is not a tactile one. And she keeps to that, generally, keeps those boundaries unless it's important.

Like now.

She keeps her hold on his arm for the moment, remaining his anchor. She knows this process isn't easy, coming to terms with have experienced your own death and then suddenly be inexplicably alive again. She remembers the first time she went through it. And the second. And the third. Each time she had been alone, and she doesn't want that for him.

"I'm glad you're awake," she says, her voice gentle. "We're in your room, and safe. Take your time."

[costing]

He had been determined, upon hearing the fate that awaited him in the arena, that he would not react to this as others inevitably did. So he forcibly catalogs himself and his surroundings-- the bed, the feel of the sheets, the other sparse furnishings. Then his own heartbeats, counting them slowly as he forces himself to a resting rate. It's mind over matter-- something he's well-versed in.

Eventually he swallows, almost imperceptibly, and shakes his head-- as though that might shake out his more emotional thoughts. He doesn't pull away from Watson, but his voice is carefully neutral when he speaks.

"Time isn't necessary. As you can see, I'm perfectly well."

And then he's looking her over, gaze lingering on the places she'd been injured when he'd last seen her. He's gladder than he could have thought, to be proven wrong.

this is rambly I'M SO SORRY

[alldeduction]

Sherlock watched his other's death.

He'd almost wanted to laugh, at the immediacy of it, the sudden burning flash. Grenades. They'd had grenades, when John had gotten his gun. He'd almost wanted to laugh, because as death's went, it wasn't bad. It was quick. (No death was painless.)

But he didn't laugh, because in the end, all he could think about was the myriad ways he had died, and that silenced him.

Not by explosion. Not yet. (The first had been the worst. The first had been impossible, which had been worse than any pain.)

So he'd watched, and he'd wanted to laugh but he hadn't, and then he set himself up to avoid the man. He'd already managed to keep Joan away (no matter how much he regretted it, no matter how badly he wanted to fix it), and John hadn't reappeared. He could cut all his ties, slowly, make it hurt less, because even if they had brought him back this time, he knew it was done. (God, but if they brought him back instead of John--)

It worked, possibly, for a day. Maybe two. But in the end it was impossible, really, to ignore the nagging and insistent curiosity. So he'd started stalking areas where it was more likely the man would show up, eventually. Places that he went to, when he first started to explore the city, when he wanted to get a feel for what the city was really like.

Which was why he found himself in a back alley, one of the few places that the Capitol lost it's shiny veneer, where it allowed itself to show the grit below. That's where he was, dressed all in black, when he finally lay eyes on the other again.

He knew that Holmes had been told about him, by now. Knew that he would have pieced two and two together. There was no point pretending. So he didn't.

"You really don't look anything like me," He mused, loudly enough to draw attention. "But a good deal more than Joan looks like John, I suppose."

never apologize!!

[costing]

It takes him a few days, and he may hate himself all the while. But the arena had been weeks of hunger and threat, his senses overloaded by the details he thought he needed to keep himself alive. It turned out that none of that had mattered, in the end-- he was as dead as the rest of them, and the act itself took only an instant. Verified proof, Sherlock supposes, that genius cannot outsmart morality. Vaguely, he'd always assumed that when real threat came, he'd be able to work his way out of it. But that had been a foolish thought all the while.

Alleys and underbellies are his favored stomping grounds. They are where he establishes connections and picks up leads. Watson's informed him of enough, by this point, for him to know that solving the Capitol will be no easy task. But he has to start somewhere.

It makes him feel more like himself. That, along with the collared shirt and vest, award him more normalcy than he's had in weeks. So perhaps he can fool himself into confidence. That's what he tells himself, when he notices the other Holmes-- before the man speaks. When he does, Sherlock cants his head to the side and shrugs.

"The odds of two universes replicating themselves exactly, down to an individual's DNA and the genes expressed, are minuscule," he says, waving off the other Holmes' words. "But then, I'm sure you knew that."

[alldeduction]

"Actually, I have more than adequate proof that exact copies exist," Sherlock said smoothly. "Commander Shepard, for example. This is the second time she's been here, with nearly the same face, from nearly the same universe. If there is no limit to universes there is no limit to mirrors. Thane Krios is another likely candidate, doesn't remember anything from the last time he was here, so I wouldn't be surprised if he isn't the same one." He paused, tilted his head. "And no one can forget his face."

He leaned against the alley wall, for all appearances relaxed, but he knew that Sherlock would be able to read the tenseness in his muscles, betraying the discomfort.

"In fact the rarity seems to be the versions that are so disparate. Joan was the first." He looked up. "You were the second. And I don't believe in coincidences."

[costing]

It's useful information, even if Sherlock doesn't care for the way he's receiving it. He's never thought of himself as singular, precisely, but the gulf between him and everyone he's ever met is vast and always apparent. He's thought, on multiple occasions, about what his life would have been like if certain circumstances had been different. But in none of those cases did he ever envision a life in which he'd stayed in London. (Does that make this Sherlock better, somehow? That he wasn't driven away?)

"Rather difficult to," he agrees tonelessly, "when you've see the detailed control of our hosts." Nothing they do is coincidence, not if they want to maintain their level of control.

"If you want to know why I'm here, you'd be better off asking someone else." Not that Sherlock doesn't intend to find an answer to that question for himself.

[orestes]

It's interesting to observe someone similarly dedicated to looking like he isn't paying attention. Enjolras' purpose in this is strictly protest, and even that had become insufficient motivation during the last few days. His investment ended with Courfeyrac's death, however, and again, viewing had become strictly a formality of his station. Mentors are, after all, expected to know the results and to care about their District's performance. He didn't care, not really, but he could play along while making his distaste evident.

The first time he sees Sherlock, it's with the skeleton. It's anomalous enough to note, but not enough to merit true inquiry. The second time, the book catches his attention more than the pretension. Reading during the Games had always seemed to catch him flack from his fellow Mentors, the Stylists and Escorts. The notebooks seems nothing sheer pageantry, but anyone offering such a show, Enjolras figures, is probably worth at least a conversation.

Coffee in hand, he slides into a seat near enough to Sherlock for conversation, but not anything that might seem overly familiar. He waits for a commercial to appear on the screen, advertising something or another with Hyperion's face and plastered in day-glow animated lettering across it. He doesn't recognize the product, but it's unimportant. The point is that it's a socially acceptable time for conversation and one which will not distract either of them too much from their ends.

"They frown on too much literacy here, you know." There's a clarity and directness to his voice obviously meant to pull the other man from his project, but his tone is light and sociable all the same. "They make fun of you for keeping your nose in books, and yet they will read your papers if you were to leave them out anywhere. Sometimes they even steal them from your room if they are curious enough about you. And they will likely be very curious about you."

[costing]

It has quickly become apparent to Sherlock that the true source of information is the Capitol, not the arena. The games are broadcast and recorded, the details unravelled and replayed again and again. Everything about the games is clear to see-- at least in their basest details. The Capitol, while fueled by gossip and trained to observe, is more opaque. Sherlock has decided, since awakening here, that if he's to find out anything it will be in these gaps between games. So he intends to use the time wisely.

He hasn't made it through the backlog of games just yet, but it is easy enough to recognize Enjolras as a Victor and Mentor. The various roles that people take on in the Capitol are quickly arranging themselves in Sherlock's mind, giving him a better view of the whole. Victors are survivors, resourceful and often ruthless. Mentors can afford to be more idle, but know better than any the firm constraints of their situation. In short-- this man might be useful, albeit French.

He doesn't look up as he responds. "I cannot learn anything they don't already know," he says. And it's true, since he's trying to unlock the Capitol itself. "As for the mockery-- it can't be any worse than Valentines delivered to a killing field."

[orestes]

The comment, however Sherlock intends it, burns. It's scalding, really and Enjolras can feel the protestations and explanations rise up in his throat like steam, even if they die before they reach his lips. It was a miscommunication, he wants to say, a terrible joke the Capitol had played on all of them. Then again, none of it really matters now. Intention has very little baring on reality, and nothing that has been done in or out of the Arena can ever truly be undone. Therefore, and not without a certain degree of consorted effort, he takes a sip of coffee before offering a reply. "Better chocolates delivered by balloon than mutated confectionery rabbits."

The Candyland Arena is safely behind them enough for him to at least acknowledge it's ridiculousness now. "And what is known to most people here and what they will choose to admit are two very separate things," he continues. The programming has returned and he can see a reply of Initiate on the large plasma screen. Initiate is from his District. Theoretically, Enjolras should care. "The people will be intrigue at what you say and our captors will be disturbed by what you might think. Moreover, they will be disturbed that you might cause the people to think."

Comfortably, he lapses into silence again, watching the large Troll on the screen. He still can't bring himself to care about the affairs and well-being of the violent creature, but there is a part he must play. It's almost an invitation for Sherlock to return to his notes.

"You could turn it to your advantage, I suppose. I have never had a talent for public relations, but the right man might cultivate a better image."

[costing]

“I’ve had better things to do than hone my people skilles, unfortunately.”

But he considers the words carefully. It all fits with what he’s learned so far, and with the general character of the Capitol. And it’s also reminiscent of what the other Holmes had said, in his biting way—the Capitol had punished him for poking his nose in too far. Sherlock has determined that he will be smarter, going about this. Watson is already here, after all, and they clearly know that Sherlock can be most easily punished through her. He is determined not to let that happen. So what he does publicly, now, is a test of boundaries. He really hasn’t written anything down that is particularly revolutionary—only details of the games and their combatants. If anything, it’s his own manner of “training” for the next arena.

So he continues scribbling, now, sketching out a gesture of the Initiate and jotting down notes—Alternian, the first adult he’s seen of that species.

Finally he cocks his head to one side and asks, “Your accent isn’t modern. Early nineteenth century, isn’t it?” It’s not really a question; he’s rarely wrong.

“Of course, modern would be relative, here. I can no more assume my time as an anchor point than you can.”

[aintyourdad]

Joel, on the other hand, avoids watching arena coverage as much as he possibly can. Sure, he sees bits and pieces of it on screens around the Tribute Center, since it's always playing somewhere, but he pointedly ignores it and never sits down in front of a television for more than a couple minutes at a time.

He's not jumpy in crowds, but there's a decided sort of tension in his shoulders whenever he steps back into the lobby of the Tribute Center from any kind of outing into the city. The way he holds himself, as if poised for a fight - or to run - at any moment, and his eyes constantly checking out his surroundings as though seeking exits. Essentially, he's on high alert, and it takes him a while to come down from that, even when in the relatively confined safety of the Center.

The familiar face gives him pause, however. This guy helped him -- well, okay, he bit him, but then he helped him rebandage his hands, so that's worth at least an acknowledgement, right?

"Guess you made it out, then," he says, almost nonchalantly. Like, oh, you died too, huh.

[costing]

He's always occupied with multiple tasks at a time. So today, at this moment, he's watching the screens and taking notes, along with taking stock of everyone who comes and goes. That means he's been aware of Joel's presence for a few moments at least. He supposes it might be a relief, that the faces he'd seen in the arena are now repositioned in the Capitol. It makes it easier to shrug off their deaths, however, and that is something Sherlock does not want to do.

He doesn't set aside his papers or look up. "In pieces," he says casually. "But I'm here all the same."

[aintyourdad]

Joel grimaces at the mental image - just because he's seen a lot of that shit in his life, doesn't mean he enjoys it, or likes thinking about it when he doesn't have to. Over the years, he's gotten good at compartmentalizing, at living moment to moment, at not thinking about the past.

Things happen, and we move on. It's like a mantra at this point, running through his head all hours of the day and night. Move on, dammit. Don't dwell.

"Glad you made it through, hope you didn't bite anyone else," he says, a crappy shot at a joke. "Find any of your people?"

[costing]

It's a mark of compassion, Sherlock thinks when Joel grimaces. It adds to his already considerable picture of the man. At the question, he shrugs.

"My associate Watson is here," he says, his face not revealing the state in which he'd found her nor how he'd felt about it. "The Capitol even saw fit to assign us to the same district."

Which makes it easier to spend time together, but also means that the Capitol knows far too much about him.

"Did she come back?" Sherlock asks blandly after a moment. He trusts Joel will know who he means.

[atippleoftransparency]

One of the things Lyle really hates is the lack of stairs between floors. The elevator is a tolerable way to travel, but it does make sneaking around a lot more difficult.

Like now, when he's trying to sneak onto another floor so he can get his hands on some pants that aren't made out of skin.

(He's sure that, eventually, his stylists will get sick of finding the pants they want him to wear everywhere but on Lyle's legs; but in the meantime he'll just have to sneak around stealing other people's pants in whatever shirt they've laid out for him that day and his official Chemical King boxer-briefs.)

The elevator dings open on the District 11 floor and Lyle hears the sound of the games being played on the television. It may have muffled the sound of the elevator, but it would also interfere with Lyle's ability to hear anyone moving around. And with this iteration of the game winding down, there are fewer empty rooms and more people hanging around on their floors. Sneaking around is going to be a lot more challenging.

And, you know, more fun.

Lyle steps off the elevator before the doors close and begins creeping along the edge of the wall, hoping that whoever's in the common room isn't feeling too curious and preparing to book it if it turns out that they're just as murder-happy outside of the Arena as they are inside it.

[costing]

Sherlock doesn't spend very much time in his room. The common area is more useful, the Capitol itself more interesting. He rises early in the morning when he sleeps at all and vacates the space for most of the day. Thankfully, his stylists have given him a closet full of Capitol-variants on his usual wardrobe-- slacks and collared shirts, vests and jackets. Today he's mostly in navy, crouched in a corner of the common room as he watches the games out of one eye and makes deliberate notes. They're written in a strange mix of acronyms and symbols, and might seem like a bunch of gibberish to anyone looking over his shoulder.

But he isn't so wrapped up in his tasks that he'll miss the chime of the elevator. He doesn't look up to see who it is, however, just keeps writing.

Waiting is always a good option.

[atippleoftransparency]

Lyle turns the first corner from the elevator. Whoever's in the living room (if there's anyone there at all, it's possible they left the TV on for whatever reason) doesn't seem to be curious enough to stick their head out yet. Shame he can't just keep the elevator there, but it made annoying noises when he left things across the threshold so the doors couldn't close all the way.

He creeps down the hallway to the bedrooms, and slips inside the one that's been empty so far the other times he's been on this floor. Whoever belongs to this one isn't that much taller than Lyle is, so the slacks are relatively comfortable while still not fitting him properly.

[designatedfreak]

Max's days blur together until she has created a routine that holds a certain amount of familiarity for her. She wakes far earlier than anyone her age should, trains, and watches the screen for Courfeyrac. The reasonable voice within tells her that she shouldn't expend her precious energy watching after a man who she doesn't really know, but she always manages to convince herself that this is reasonable; Courfeyrac makes a good ally. It doesn't hurt that having him around made the pain of losing her brothers and sisters sting a little less.

It's rare anyone approaches her during as she follows her daily rituals. There's something that says she's not friendly, be it her severe haircut, or the highly visible barcode on the back of her neck. Although all the Tributes are strange in their own ways, Max falls in line with those Tributes who are slightly too strange. That doesn't mean she wants to be alone.

Today she breaks her routine as she sits in the viewing room of her District and watches the quiet man who seems to have created his own rituals. The female doctor had watched for him with worry on her face. They were not lovers. Partners, a word Max was more familiar with, despite Courfeyrac's explanation of love.

She's very good at hiding her curiosity, but it's obvious that she's paying more attention to him than the screen in front of them.

[costing]

Today Sherlock's sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing the various tattoos on his arms. They are another piece of the puzzle that he is attempting to unravel-- if he was recreated, molecularly, then how does he still have tattoos? And surely he must have been recreated, there is no way the Capitol could have gathered the very many pieces he had exploded into and sewed them seamlessly back together. Each option is as impossible as the last, and Sherlock's mind runs in dizzy circles, trying to arrive at a solution.

His small observer is a much easier target to figure out. Without looking up at her, Sherlock notes the way she carries herself and the small details of her appearance. He decides she has background in something sharp and clinical-- a lab or a child army, perhaps. He's growing used to the unlikely occurring, so whenever he manages to spot the barcode he files it away, as well, waiting for a chance to discover more about its meaning.

Eventually he grows bored of their quiet game. "I'm not going to explode again," he tuts. "If that is what you're waiting for."

[designatedfreak]

It takes her a moment before she replies. There has been a few times that she'd found herself in the company of his Partner watching the Arena, waiting to see if their allies would survive another day. His time in the Arena had allowed her to study him, but that was a different world to this one; here they were all allies. Outsiders.

"I doubt they would allow you much freedom to explode." She took in his tattooed arms curiously. "What do your markings mean?"

[privilegecheck]

Slowly, over the days after his resurrection, Kankri pulls himself together. Patching things up with Venus does a lot for that. And though he finds the Capitol and most of its citizens repugnant after that awful museum, going out and finding new places to go does help him feel better, once he gets used to people recognizing him and learns how to send them on their way quickly.

Today he's found a tiny bookstore, done in rustic, weathered wood, with a small cafe at the back. Hardly anyone frequents it, apparently, so Kankri quietly asks if they have anything for someone just learning to read the local language and retires to a comfortable chair and a tiny table in the back, sipping a cup of cocoa as he pores over the pages, unaware of anyone coming in or staring at him.

[costing]

Books are useful, not just because of the information they hold but because of the information they don't. Sherlock is obsessively interested in the censorship of the Capitol, because he believes that if he can find out what they don't want him to know, he can set about figuring it out.

So he's prowling the stacks when he comes upon Kankri.

"Oh," he says. "So you are alive."

[privilegecheck]

Kankri looks over the top of his book - lots of pictures, huge lettering, childish themes, it's annoying to have to start at a remedial level fit for grubs but he has to start somewhere - and rewards Sherlock with a thoroughly unamused expression.

"You sound surprised," he says drily. "Were you expecting otherwise, or just hoping?"

It's a mean little gibe, but Sherlock hardly has room to complain about any of those.