thecapitol | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

John clears his throat, a little uncomfortably. Having had a diagnosis of PTSD himself, he's more than a little aware of the common elements between his condition and the symptoms Howard is presenting. Frankly, he's surprised more of the returning tributes aren't crippled by it.
“That... definitely makes sense to me," he offers carefully, not sure what else to say. He's no psychiatrist, even if Howard was asking for one- which he's sure he's not. "I'd probably do the same."

Howard grits his teeth in the back and takes another gulp of coffee. "Yeah, well, I guess I'm just supposed to get over it, here. What happens in the arena stays in the arena, right?"

He wants to believe that it can be that way, at least. He feels shaky, and he tries to shrug it off, because there's no need to seem any more vulnerable in front of a relative stranger. John hasn't done anything too suspicious yet, although Howard's noted the reluctance to sit facing the wall instead of the door, but Howard's in no position to be trusting these days. "Anyway, it was the guy I went to for help with my ankle. That's why I'm trying to learn to do medicine on myself, so I don't make the same mistake twice."

He nods, beginning to understand. It seems that he's only just begun to grasp the full horror of this place, after all, though he doubts any of the tributes would accept psychological care from the Capitol, even if it were on offer. He'd had enough trouble trying to accept help from his therapist back home even when it'd been a compulsory condition of his army pension, and for all her faults she'd never been part of a culture that actively enjoyed his suffering and found it entertaining.
"Can I ask a question? What happens to whoever wins the arena- do they get their injuries healed too?"

"Yeah, they don't want a corpse as their Victor, you know? It's only after they're old news that they cut their tongues out and stuff."

Howard drains the rest of his coffee and searches through his pockets for some cash. He's been pickpocketing most of it, so he has enough to feed himself outside the training center in spite of having run up his credit limit long ago, but he still waits to see if John will offer to buy more.

"Cut their tongues--"

He cut himself off, not quite able to mask the horror quickly enough. Clearly, this was an aspect of Capitol life Sherlock had yet to inform him about.

"Wait. If you win, they cut your tongue out?"

"Sometimes. As like, a bonus prize." Howard watches the horror with a sort of satisfaction, no longer feeling like the only one at the table off-balance. Keeping John on his toes means Howard can back away from the memory of Aunamee on top of him with a knife, punching holes through his clothing and through his gut with a seven-inch blade.

Wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy

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