thecapitol | (no subject)

WHO| John and you!
WHAT| John didn't wake up in the capitol following his death in the museum arena until today. He has no idea how long he's been gone. He's about to find out.
WHEN| Before the crowning
WHERE| District 7 suite
WARNINGS| None yet, though some mentions of suicidal ideation may crop up.

It was always strange, waking up after dying, gasping, blinking far too rapidly as his mind screamed a message to his body that made no sense. Once the skin-crawling horror of knowing he was dead even as he steadied himself and focused on his very definite pulse had subsided, John supposed the day it stopped being strange would be the one he'd have to throw in the towel completely. There'd be no going back from that.

He staggered upright, rubbed at his eyes and slumped towards the bathroom to splash some water on his tired face, sending a message to Sherlock and Joan on his communicator to let them know he was back in the Capitol once he was done- I'm alive- a brief skeleton of a message, because there was a possibility that Sherlock hadn't been brought back- and while he knew that perfectly clearly on an intellectual level, he couldn't even begin to process it emotionally. Short, mostly impersonal messages that took as little effort as possible were just about all he could bring himself to potentially fling into the void.

He supposed he should check on Howard, too- he'd still been alive, last time he'd seen him, though in a pitiful state. Clutching his communicator, he limped slightly into the common area to check on the Games and wait for Sherlock and Joan to catch up with him.

If they were here.

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He sighed. "It's her job. I think she's mostly given up on me- which I don't really blame her for. I've kind of given up on me."

It was mostly a joke. Mostly.

"Well, I can't exactly apologize for not being immune to electrocution. I wouldn't put it past her to tie me to a tree during a thunderstorm if she thought it would help."

Julian looks at John carefully--he's no psychologist, but he does pride himself on his ability to determine physical ailments at a glance, and the other man just looks incredibly tired.

He can't blame him.

"After so long...I can't really blame you. But I don't think I have to tell you that's not a good state of mind to be in."

He looked up with a tired smile. "No, I know. I do. I had therapy back home for a while, after getting shot."

It's testament to just how far he'd fallen, he thought, that he was willing to talk about it at all- though it wasn't like Julian hadn't worked it all out already, most likely; he'd given him more than enough for a diagnosis with his bloody inconsistent limping, insomnia and night terrors, the intermittent tremor in his hand. Doctors were infuriating like that. He knew. He was one.
He wet his lips and tried to recover some dignity, at least.

"Though that was more about readjustment, really. Not sure I want to adjust to this, even if it is possible."

Julian wasn't about to judge. He'd dealt with sensitive issues in the past, and despite his prodigious ability to plant his foot firmly in his mouth, he was just as capable of being aware of what he was saying, when he put his mind to it.

"I've had to as well. It's nothing to be ashamed of." Despite the fact that the awful experiences he had in mind hadn't lasted nearly as long as this thus far.

"Adjustment...no, I don't think any of us can expect to truly adjust." Bide their time, sure. But to get used to this? Julian couldn't imagine.

"Trite as it is, I've been keeping track of my thoughts in a journal. We all have our ways of coping, I suppose."

John laughed. "That's what my therapist back home had me doing. A blog. I never much enjoyed it, but then again I didn't have anything to write about until I met Sherlock."

He paused, taking a sip of his tea. "And I don't really want to write about dying."