thecapitol | because if it's not love

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because if it's not love

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.

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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.

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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."

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.

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."

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.

So like Sherlock, to experience something traumatic and insist he's fine.

"You just died and were brought back to life," she says pointedly. "It's a lot to take in."

Still, she lets go of his arm, moves her hands to her lap. He's looking her over, and it's not at all hard to guess why.

"I'm fine."

Edited 2014-03-04 08:12 (UTC)

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."

She lets go and he looks down at both of his arms for a moment. He can almost see the pinprick spot where they had injected the tracker into him. He traces his veins idly with his fingers, then snaps to attention abruptly.

"You realize that I could simply parrot your words back at you, in this circumstance." They'd both died. Or came close, because Sherlock can think of many ways to revive the nearly-dead but no way to bring back those who'd been all the way gone. It may be that he'll never quite believe it, until he has absolute proof.

He swings his legs around the side of the bed and prepares to get up. He's not going to figure anything out just lying there.

"Whatever their technology is, that allows this to happen-- I can't say I find it entirely useless." He's happy she's alright, essentially.

Edited 2014-03-04 16:01 (UTC)

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."

Edited 2014-03-04 16:13 (UTC)

She remains seated, since she's sure this is going to be an extended conversation, and she doesn't have the same need to be in motion that Sherlock does.

"I've done this three times. It doesn't get any easier, but there's less to process."

"I knew it was coming," Sherlock says, attempting yet again to deflect. He's facing the wall opposite her, looking around the room with a critical gaze. It's hard to look directly at Watson, for some reason.

"That made it easier to process. The notes helped, for verification." And also kept him sane, in a way.

She gets it, how he wouldn't want to admit to difficult emotions of he could avoid it. It's how he works. He needs talk about how he feels eventually, though.

(Of course, it's exactly how Joan works as well, and she's less likely to talk than he is. But she doesn't think about that.)

"The notes were pretty much all I could do. I'm glad they helped. Those were sponsor gifts. They're a way the fans can influence the Arena outcome. The more popular you are, the more help you get."

"They were more than enough." It's closer than he usually comes to being gracious, and he shifts abruptly after he says it-- going over to examine the window, now. His first view of the capitol offers a lot to take in, but he's still focused on the conversation.

"It's a game designed to be lost. The gifts extend time and chances, but I wonder if they can really turn the tides."

"It's a competition to see who can survive the longest. If a sponsor gift can help someone survive, then yeah, it probably can make a difference."

She watches him at the window for a moment, then continues softly.

"You probably have a ton of questions."

Edited 2014-03-04 23:19 (UTC)

"Does it?" He lifts both his brows, finally turning around. "The inevitable end, for most, is death and then... this." He waves a hand at the expanse of the room.

He takes a deep breath before he continues, speaking quickly, "If you win, I suppose extending your time is worth something. But then you would have killed, to attain the victory. So it becomes a balancing act-- do you wish to survive a little longer only to die, or kill?"

He purses his lips, swallowing a frown. When he continues, his voice is softer. "I tried to decide, you know. To figure it out. What the solution was, to that place. If living for the sake of it was a noble goal, or if a quicker death would've been more productive. But it was moot, in the end. The choice wasn't mine."

He's not sure what he means, by saying all of that. Is it an apology, or an explanation? But once it's said he straightens up, looking directly at Watson.

"You've done this three times," he says, echoing her earlier statement. "How long have you--"

Edited 2014-03-05 00:12 (UTC)

"Survived? The Arena before this one was probably the longest. I think there was only a week or two after I was out."

She shifts forward a little, her expression calm and serious. "You don't need to kill anyone to be the last standing. Back when they were using kids as Tributes, there were victors who won by hiding until everyone else died. And as you saw, the environment itself is often deadly. That's what killed me the first two times."

He shakes his head-- not disagreeing, but not convinced either.

"And what then, if you win? You are no longer sentenced to the arena, but you're still here." There's no discernible point to it, that he can see. Of course he realizes the frenzied mob pleasure that the audience must derive from the games, and the experiments in power and control the Capitol must be playing. But he needs a goal, an endpoint. Winning isn't it.

"I'm not sure what the implications are for time and physics as we know them, but I was with you just before arriving here. You were not gone."

Edited 2014-03-05 00:38 (UTC)

"Not having to be in the arena again is nothing to take lightly. But you're right, we're stuck here, and I don't think that's likely to change anytime soon. We need to work with that. Find value in what we do here."

He tells her that she was with him, and she nods slowly. "Time is strange. I don't know how they bring us here. Or what that means for what happens back home."

Edited (Gah, sorry, I hate typing on my phone...) 2014-03-05 03:00 (UTC)

"It rather supports the theory that this is all in our heads," he says flippantly. But it's not a serious allegation; he knows they aren't out of their minds. Nothing, induced or otherwise, could feel like this.

He pauses to consider the first part of what she'd said, however.

"And? Have you found any value, here?"

She pauses for a moment, presses her lips, then meets his eyes and deliberately glances up, to the side, toward a corner of the ceiling, where a security camera would be placed to best record the whole room. There isn't one there (not that they can see, at any rate), but she hopes he understands what she's trying to convey. They're being watched, and she can't speak freely.

She meets his eyes again; with any luck someone observing them will just think she was considering her answer.

"It's not New York. Or 2013, for that matter. But people here are the same as people anywhere. The circumstances are different, but there are still puzzles to solve."

She lifts her eyebrows slightly.

"People to help."

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."

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.

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.

Edited 2014-03-06 06:08 (UTC)

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.

Her meaning is plain enough, and he nods once to show that he's understood. The surveillance was the first thing he had become aware of, in the arena, and his general attitude towards it had been flippant. He doesn't know if the same strategy will serve him as well, in the Capitol. He'll have to do some investigating before he arrives. For now, he can trust Watson's lead.

He lifts his chin and lips twitch into a wry expression.

"I don't know how useful our skills will be, with everyone refusing to stay dead."

By which he means, their investigations of the Capitol will be more subtle than they've been in the past.

He understands. Good.

"People stay dead," she says. "We're the only ones who don't, apparently. Those of us who have been brought here. The people from here don't get brought back if they die. There's still murder. Execution. Genocide."

She says it lightly, even though she doesn't take any of it lightly at all.

"It's not the Arena either. The kids they used to use for the Games killed each other and stayed dead."

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because if it's not love

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this is rambly I'M SO SORRY

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never apologize!!

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