Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
honeyedwords) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2013-05-11 12:32 am
honeyedwords) wrote in thecapitol2013-05-11 12:32 am
[OPEN] If the sun don't come you get a tan from standing in the English rain
Who| Sherlock Holmes
What| Midnight mopery
Where| In the park by the shopping district
When| Right about now
Warnings/Notes| References to (kind of ongoing) drug abuse
Sherlock had spent much too long avoiding the Capitol. It had seemed reasonable enough to take whatever excuses he could to stay away from the place; after all, what was the point of marching all the way out to the killing fields just to watch two children from his district get slaughtered by careers, year after year? (Well, he supposes it's not necessarily children anymore, but uninvolved bystanders from across time and space isn't much better.) Drugging himself into a stupor and allowing Beetee or one of the other competent ones run the fool's errand of trying to bring someone home always seemed the better option.
That particular dodge wasn't an option anymore, though. Not if he wanted to actually get anything done ever again. There isn't anything useful about hiding away from all your problems forever, anyway. Might as well stop being a coward and go already.
He's seated on a bench towards the edge of the park, as the fountain is too much of a gathering place for his likings and he'd prefer not to be gawked at today. Anyone who passes by receives a particularly severe scowl and precisely zero eye contact for their troubles. His manner of dress is characteristically shabby, from the fraying sweater to the worn jeans. This on top of the thin sheen of sweat on his brow despite his shivering and the dark circles under his eyes all contribute to making him look like an absolute wreck.
What| Midnight mopery
Where| In the park by the shopping district
When| Right about now
Warnings/Notes| References to (kind of ongoing) drug abuse
Sherlock had spent much too long avoiding the Capitol. It had seemed reasonable enough to take whatever excuses he could to stay away from the place; after all, what was the point of marching all the way out to the killing fields just to watch two children from his district get slaughtered by careers, year after year? (Well, he supposes it's not necessarily children anymore, but uninvolved bystanders from across time and space isn't much better.) Drugging himself into a stupor and allowing Beetee or one of the other competent ones run the fool's errand of trying to bring someone home always seemed the better option.
That particular dodge wasn't an option anymore, though. Not if he wanted to actually get anything done ever again. There isn't anything useful about hiding away from all your problems forever, anyway. Might as well stop being a coward and go already.
He's seated on a bench towards the edge of the park, as the fountain is too much of a gathering place for his likings and he'd prefer not to be gawked at today. Anyone who passes by receives a particularly severe scowl and precisely zero eye contact for their troubles. His manner of dress is characteristically shabby, from the fraying sweater to the worn jeans. This on top of the thin sheen of sweat on his brow despite his shivering and the dark circles under his eyes all contribute to making him look like an absolute wreck.