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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There were a few things, none of which he could state in front of cameras. Lonestar's network hack, Punchy's discovery-- but those could wait. They didn't really seem to matter as much, in this particular instant. John was alive, and that was what was important, and it was terrifying for him to realise just how much of an affect the man's safety (or otherwise) had on him.

He seemed to shrink slightly into himself, frowning.

"... No. Nothing of any importance," He murmured, agreeing with Joan.

"So they probably just wanted to spook us a bit," John suggested carefully, watching Joan's face- Sherlock, the last time he'd seen him, had been on the edge of suicide, and he had to admit he hadn't been far off it himself. Had this been some kind of lesson? Joan looked worried enough that he rather suspected Sherlock had been in a pretty bad way the last few weeks.

"Your, ah- the other Sherlock. I met him. He's here too?"

"He is. He died and came back. They put him in my district."

She moved forward a little. He's talking to both of them, so she doesn't feel like she's intruding.

"I saw you meet him. I was watching to see how he was doing."

It was a change for her. She usually refused to watch the Games.

Sherlock made an extremely disgruntled noise and turned his head away, glaring off in another direction.

"He is incredibly irritating."

Said the pot of the kettle.

"He seemed alright to me," John said carefully, well aware of how confusing Sherlock found the idea of having alternate version of himself wandering around. "It's nice that they put the two of you together," he added for Joan's benefit. "Makes things a little less complicated."

Joan rolled her eyes at Sherlock's assessment, the comparison to pots and kettles in mind as well. Sherlock wasn't looking at her, so it was mostly for John's benefit.

"He's totally going to take over the suite. I'll be surprised if he doesn't manage to get an indoor beehive by the next arena."

Her tone was wry, but there was an undercurrent of fondness to it.

Of all the things that Sherlock wanted to talk about, his double certainly wasn't one of them, and he prickled, visibly, at John's comment of he seemed alright to me.

"Of course he would seem alright to you, you're a Watson," He snapped dismissively, instantly regretting it the second it was out of his mouth. He wasn't usually inclined to give in to jealousy.

The fact that a beehive sounded fascinating only made him bristle more.

"I'm a what, now?" John asked, steadily, his tone of voice indicating that Sherlock was on fairly shaky ground. The idea that he considered the two Watsons as good as interchangeable was unexpectedly unpleasant.

She shifted, stared at Sherlock, startled. She glanced at John, then narrowed her eyes at Sherlock.

"You're not him," she said lowly. "He's not you. And John and I are not the same. You can go ahead and have your identity crisis. Leave us out of it."

He thinned his lips, looking hard away. "I merely meant, given our histories, that if you were willing to put up with me that you'd be willing to put up with him," Sherlock said, backtracking quickly.

He knew a fight he was not going to win when he saw one. He wasn't going to admit he was wrong, of course, but he could quickly steer this somewhere else.

"About as solid as telling me that given our histories, he's just as likely as you to be a complete and utter prick," John told him, folding his arms. "He's not you, but he seemed like an alright human being to me. That's all. As much like an alright human being as anyone can be in a bloody murder game, anyway."

"He is," Joan confirmed, shifting her eyes back to John. "I'm obviously biased, but he's a good man. Better than he gives himself credit for."

She glanced back at Sherlock, raising her eyebrows slightly. It's something the Sherlocks have in common.

He is a complete and utter prick, Sherlock thought to himself, vindictively. And he knew better than either John or Joan just how far he was from a 'good man', these days.

Not that he'd ever been particularly close to it.

"I would really rather volunteer for another arena than have to talk about him," He said petulantly. He really had no interest in drawing comparisons where he knew he would lose.

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Ack! I didn't get this notif! Sorry!

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