thecapitol | Wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy

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Wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy

Who| John Watson, Sherlock Holmes and anyone they encounter
What| Exploring, complaining, all that wholesome stuff
Where| Throughout the Capitol
When| After John's introduction as punishment for Sherlock messing with the cameras
Warnings/Notes| No warnings as of yet. This post can also be used for meeting just John or just Sherlock, we can engineer them splitting up for fact-finding a la Scooby Doo if you prefer!

Having been given a quick crash course on everything Sherlock had learned during his stay in the Capitol and his rather unpleasant experiences in the Arena, John had asked if Sherlock wouldn't mind showing him around some of the more interesting places in the sprawling, decadent city. He felt like having a rather stiff drink, actually- something to wash down the hideously confusing day he'd had- though he doubted he could convince Sherlock to join him in destroying a few braincells at whatever passed for a pub in this ridiculous place.

"So, where's next?" he asked, as lightly as he could manage as he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

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Howard sheds the last of inconspicuousness when comes to a dead stop, skidding a bit on his heels. He looks as if he'd torn between standing his ground, pretending nothing's up, and just turning and running.

"Morning." Howard's smile back is tight, close-mouthed, clearly fake and nervous.

"Can I help you with something?" he asks, cooly polite and certainly not overtly confrontational. If anything, he's curious- back home, being followed half the way to his front door meant it was probably a Wednesday, and his tail was most likely a client of Sherlock's or one of his network. Here, though, he's not sure what it means.

Edited 2013-03-02 17:17 (UTC)

The smile falls from Howard's face. He doesn't have the energy to play sweet and innocent.

"You can not be standing where I'm walking, for one." Howard jams his hands in his pockets and moves forward as if to push past John.

Edited 2013-03-02 18:49 (UTC)

John clears his throat and refuses to move, his eyebrows raised.
"I think you could at least tell me why you were following me, seeming as I was 'where you were walking'- for the last ten minutes, at least. I'm not going to give you trouble, I just want to know. You're one of the tributes, aren't you? Do you need something?"

Howard stops a little out of John's arm range, far enough away that if John makes sudden movements Howard can bolt. He knows he's the one who introduced a tense element to this encounter - who initiated the encounter at all - but he doesn't feel any guilt for following John around.

"Curiosity. Satisfied?"

"Are you?" he asks congenially, slipping his hands into his pockets. A threat, he is not. "You could just ask. It'd save you a lot of legwork."

Howard doesn't seem to relax any when John puts his hands away. He's jumpy, tired, running on empty though he's trying not to look it. The memory of being stabbed in the last arena by someone he'd discounted as a threat is still fresh.

"Whatever. I needed the exercise."

He lifts one foot slightly, then puts it back down, deciding not to make a run for it. He tries to read John's expression and body language, try to piece together an idea of the man in front of him. Someone who doesn't respond to being spied on with anger: either someone with nothing to hide or who's good enough at hiding it that the cracks don't show. Vigilant enough to keep track of the people around him. Probably not in the last arena. John didn't immediately check his pockets so he hasn't pegged Howard as a pickpocket, or is comfortable enough in his own situational awareness to not need to reassure himself - or isn't carrying anything on him.

Criminal? Police force? Military? Howard can't tell.

"What's your District?"

"Seven, apparently, though I haven't a clue what that actually means. It seems like they just picked numbers out of a hat- I don't know anything about lumber," John supplies easily enough, watching Howard's face. The young man seems far too tired and twitchy for someone being pampered by the Capitol.

"I haven't seen you with the other Tributes. Which District did they stick you with?"

Seven. Howard doesn't know anyone from Seven.

"Yeah, well. I don't know a ton about luxury goods, but it's easy enough to get used to." That's a lie, and it shows in how Howard carries himself. The nice Tribute clothes seem awkward on his hungry frame, and he seems to shrink away from the bright lights and noise of the Capitol. "District One."

John nods, thoughtfully.
"I think I'd choose lumber over luxury goods, come to think of it," he muses. "Considering what the people here seem to consider luxury. I thought it was supposed to make you comfortable, rather than uncomfortable..."

"Oh, good. You're someone who's got a tiny bit of a problem with the big elephant in the room." It's the people who find the deathmatch A-OK who creep Howard out most.

"You mean there are Tributes who don't?" John replied, unable to hide his incredulity. "Well, that... shouldn't surprise me, I suppose. This place is ridiculous."

"At least two or three every arena, yeah." And he glances over his shoulder so quickly it may as well be a nervous spasm more than a conscious movement. The memory of dying is too fresh. He bites his lip and it cracks along the center, deep and bloody.

"Some of them advertise it." Some of them don't.

"Great. Bloody great."
John sighs, pushing a hand through his short, army-regulation hair- though he doesn't miss the nervous twitch, or the blood welling up to fill the crack in Howard's lip.
"Look, I was going to try and find somewhere to get breakfast. Would you tell me a bit about who I should be avoiding over whatever they have here that's most like a croissant and a cup of tea? I'm a doctor, and I can look out for you in turn."

Certainly, Howard didn't expect that following the guy and being cagey was going to net him breakfast, but he won't refuse. He's in no place to be looking for allies - not after getting stabbed in the back, literally, by the last one - but Watson hasn't set off alarm bells yet.

He wipes his lip on the back of his hand. "I don't need a doctor, I'm fine. But yeah, there's a cafe a block over. I could use some caffeine." Sleeping in alleyways isn't all that recuperative.

He nodded, deciding that explaining to Howard that he'd meant he could look after him in the arena might end up being more of a reminder than a relief.
"Coffee drinker, then?" he asked, amicably. "I'm sure you're not the first person glad to find they produce it here. I'm John, by the way."

"I'll drink anything. Not big on alcohol, though." He doesn't reach out his hand to shake. He's not big on touch; he's sure John understands. "My name's Howard."

John didn't give a last name, so Howard doesn't either, out of a desire to mirror up to John rather than any conscious intent. He starts walking. "Uh, if you're a doctor there is something you can help with, though. I kinda been studying first aid from a book, and there's bits I don't understand."

John fell into step with Howard, more than comfortable not to shake hands. He wasn't much of a adept at physical interaction himself, after all.

"I'm really not much of a teacher, but I can have a look for you," he agreed. "Decided not to take the classes they offer in the training centre?"

"I try not to spend too much time at the training center. Besides, I don't like classes." He glances over his shoulder again. No sign of Alpha or Aunamee.

He points towards a smaller nook in the wall down the road. He's gotten familiar with most of the cozier places in the Capitol lately, the secluded ones where he's not going to be gawked at and there's less chance of running into other Tributes. "That one there. So do I call you Dr. John?"

He cracked a smile, glancing over to Howard and back to the cafe they were headed towards. It looked pleasantly quiet, and he felt his spirits begin to lift a fraction. It would be so good, not to feel like he was being watched and scrutinised, all the time. He'd never thought he would ever miss Mycroft's Big Brother all-seeing eye- at least his was one that for the most part was observing in order to act in their best interest. Or Sherlock's, at least.

"It'd be Dr. Watson, but no, it's fine. John's fine," he assured him. "Is there something I should know about the training centre?"

"I just don't want to run into a few people from the last arena. Besides, the TVs there show the last Games a lot. It's not really good for your appetite, you know?"

The cafe, on the other hand, is quiet. Apparently it's supposed to be about looking at the fashions, and the baristas wear powdered wigs and white leather. Big art books of popular designers lay on the glass tables, and the chairs appear to be made of mannequins covered in plush cloth. A sort of tuneless piano music plays in the background.

"You paying?"

"The Capitol is, isn't it?" John said, pulling the card out of his wallet and examining it thoughtfully. He'd been told it would be good for practically everything he could want- and having done precisely nothing to earn either it, or, of course, the bizarre punishment holding such a card was meant to compensate for, he felt more than justified in using it. "Coffee, please," he asked one of the strangely costumed staff politely. "Make it a large one. Tea, and a couple of biscuits, if you've got them, thanks."

He gestured towards a table.

"Trust me, I've seen enough of the Games already and I haven't been called into one yet. Sherlock insists on studying the playback, as if it's good for anything beyond appetite suppression."

Howard takes a seat where he can see all the entrances to the cafe. He wants to know if anyone he's trying to avoid comes in. Unfortunately for John, that means if he wants to sit across from Howard, he'll have his back to the doors. And secretly, Howard's looking to see if John minds that.

He takes the coffee and loads cream and sugar into it until a few drops spill over the brim and into a ring around the base of the cup. "No, he's got the right idea. You need to watch them, know what to look for, know what you're getting into. If you go in blind you're not going to last long, probably."

John's fingers curl and uncurl uncomfortably for a moment, and there's a slight tension in his shoulders- but he sits anyway, clearing his throat as he settles himself into the strange plush chair. He wets his lips.
"No, you're right, he's right. It's important, and to be honest, I've seen worse."
He looks up with a tight but politely grateful smile as his order is placed in front of him and pulls the cup close, curling his fingers around it as if for warmth. A sip of tea that's really still a little too hot to drink seems a more palatable option than continuing on that line of thought, so he lifts it to his lips.

"Yeah, me too." Howard doesn't drink from the coffee yet, waiting for it to cool a bit, because he wants to guzzle it and he knows it'll burn his mouth. He frowns and sighs. He thinks he's too young for all this crap, but then again, maybe if you get a load of trauma when you're fifteen that just means you have more years in your adult life to get over it.

"Okay, so." Howard pulls a basic first aid 101 guide out of his backpack. "I been reading this book and it mostly makes sense, but a lot of it seems to be about not moving the body or keeping people calm until an ambulance comes. There's no ambulance coming out in the Arena. What do you do then?"

Kind of a broad question, but.

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