[open]

[alldeduction]

Who| Sherlock Holmes and OPEN!
What| Sherlock returns from the dead and isn't very happy about it, and the events that happen leading up to and after the interview with the capitol. He'll basically be wandering around scowly-like so feel free to run into him anywhere. District 2 mates feel free to pounce on him when he gets in, and he'll also be showing up in District 7.
Where| Wherever!
When| From Sherlock's death up to current
Warnings/Notes| Might have graphic description of his death in the arena, if it comes up, otherwise none.


Sherlock half-hoped that he wouldn't wake up this time. That perhaps after all, the world still made logical sense and he couldn't return from the dead, perhaps that after the second time of feeling his life leave him he would be left to rest in a semblance of peace.

But it wasn't to be.

He woke up with a shuddering start, breath slamming into his lungs as he sucked it in like drowning. His hand immediately went to his chest but there was nothing there - no bruise, no shattered sternum, no broken bones. His lungs functioned normally. He was clean, again, and the ravenous gnawing hunger in his stomach was gone. He sat up. Exactly the same as he was the first time he had been brought here. The first time he had died.

He scowled, darkly, at nothing, and threw himself from the bed. Fine. This time, he would be prepared. This time, he would have a plan.  And he did have one. Oh, but he did.

Comments

District 7 suite

[drpsychosomatic]

John was pacing. He hadn't meant to, but it had been a few hours since Sherlock's death and he still had no confirmation that he was back in the Capitol. While participating in the Games was horrific, the idea of having to compete in them alone--

But he wouldn't let himself think about that. He was just about to go down to District 2's suite to check in again when the door opened- he spun round immediately at the sound.

[alldeduction]

He'd headed straight to John's suites, as soon as he was able. The chance of John simply not being there was too intense a point to miss, and had to be solved immediately, before anything else could be attended to.

He didn't so much knock as throw the door open, and when he saw John on the other side he visibly relaxed, though he would have liked to think he came off completely unaffected.

"John."

[drpsychosomatic]

The relief rolled off him in waves as he sucked in a sharp breath and exhaled, slowly. Sherlock. Thank god. Thank god, they'd brought him back.
"Took your time," he commented, as coolly as he could manage- but the shift in his shoulders and the stillness of his hands would tell Sherlock everything he needed to know. John was out of purgatory.

[alldeduction]

It was hard to push from his mind the image of John, torn to shreds, dying in his arms, and for a moment he looked exceedingly uncomfortable. He wanted to apologize. He never wanted to apologize, but he did now. He did now, and yet, the words stuck in his throat and would not come out, churning behind his jaw until finally he simply said: "It's good to see you."

[the_hit_list]

There was a slight break in Tim's stride when he entered the common room. The man that was in there was not of District 7. Tim had made an effort, through watching the Games and daily life in this apartment, to learn the faces of those from his 'home district.' The man did not belong on his floor.

Despite having spent the better part of three days wandering, sneaking, borderline breaking into to District 4's suite, Tim found that he did not appreciate others doing the same thing. He particularly disliked it when the person in question had apparently arrived while Tim was in the shower.

The water had covered all the noise, if there was any, and he'd only heard a bit of muffled, far-off conversation as he then hurriedly dried and dressed himself, leaving his hair to eventually air dry. The suite had been silent when he'd returned from a training session, but he hasn't spoken with everyone yet.

Tim crossed the room to the table in the corner and plucked a pear from a large crystal fruit bowl, before sitting atop the table to observe this arrival. The man was tall and lanky, with dark hair and eyes. He didn't look particularly pleased to be here, but that alone meant nothing.

Tim took a bite of the pear He might have been a fresh Tribute, but Tim had seen how fiery those tended to be when they were brought directly to Capitol life and not immediately thrown into an arena as Tim himself had been. There was a faint familiarity about him. He had been in the Arena, but most likely was not one of the frequent killers. The deadly ones had more airtime, as did the young.

Just because he wasn't one of the most deadly doesn't mean that Tim wanted the man strolling around their floor. There was already one murderer on a floor half full with teenagers. Still, when he spoke his voice was quite cordial, "This isn't your suite."

[alldeduction]

Sherlock had slumped down onto the couch, waiting for John to do whatever it was that he had to do in order to get ready to go have dinner. He had noticed Tim entering, of course, but had not looked up - even after he could feel Tim's eyes boring holes into the back of his neck.

He was forced into recognizing the presence of the teenager when it spoke, and he let out a breath and tilted his head back to meet his gaze.

"What an astute observation," He said flatly.

[the_hit_list]

Tim just quirked an eyebrow at the man, at first. The tone read like a peculiar brand of sarcasm. He couldn't decide if the man was lethargic (and that was literally the most bite that he could put into the statement) or lazy (and couldn't be bothered with answering). One implied that he'd been here, involved with the Games, for far too long, and the other could possibly mean that he thought Tim didn't rate.

That didn't really bother Tim. He would rather be so unassuming that he escaped all notice, but it wasn't the best strategy to have. He wasn't sure what had kept some of the Tributes from being returned to the Capitol - that stylist hadn't gone into detail. It was more prudent to not be boring.

And so, he argued the statement. "Only if you have radically low expectations. I've been living here for over a week. It's hard to not notice who has a room on this floor."

hope this is okay?

[themediator]

Since recovering from her own death in the arena, Suze had been putting most of her time towards exploring the Capitol. Her search for any exits or escapes had, much to her frustration, come up fruitless. After another stint of search, Suze returned back to Training Center. She didn't like lingering in the central commons, what with all the guests who showed up there, looking to chat with a tribute.

When she spotted Sherlock, or rather, spotted his scowl, Suze knew he couldn't have been one of the locals. She had decided it was better to talk to as many other tributes as possible before another arena. She wasn't much a team player, but she figured that if they were going to get out of here eventually, teamwork would be a necessary evil. To that end, she approached Sherlock.

"You're another tribute, right?" she frowned, as if she'd eaten something sour, as she said it. She didn't like the term one bit.

Works fine for me c:

[alldeduction]

Sherlock rarely spent time in the training center but that wasn't to say that he avoided it - just that its particular brand of usefulness wasn't something in which he often partook. However, freshly awoken, he was curious to see what new tributes had been dragged to this place, and they often slipped to the training center with no where else to go.

So he stood, arms clasped across his chest, watching with narrowed eyes. At least, that was until a voice broke him free of his reverie. He turned his head, taking in the teenage girl at a glance. He'd seen her on the television, though hadn't rendered her of much importance, but he was sure a name would come to him soon if he just-- Ah! Yes, there it was. He offered a slightly reptilian smile.

"Susannah Simon," he said, recalling the title card on the screen. "District 11."

[themediator]

Suze was still getting used to people knowing who she was on sight, so she looked surprised when he knew her name. Another aspect of her new surroundings that she loathed was the lack of privacy. Anonymity was something she had grown used to working with and now that was all gone.

She frowned at him, but nodded. "Suze, actually."

While she recognized Sherlock's face from the television, she wasn't as fast to recall a name, which she was regretting. It felt like he had the upper hand.

"And you?"

District 2 suite, when Sherlock first gets back.

[danno_williams]

It'd been a bit since he and John had watched Sherlock die. He'd tried to put it out of his mind, but it just didn't seem to be happening. There were rumors that people sometimes didn't come back... and it was always a worry.

Danny groaned as he got up out of his bed and went to find something to maybe help him. Just this once. Upon entering the kitchen he settled on one of the bottles of what passed for beer around here.

He was still in battle mode, actually he found himself in battle mode far more often now than he'd ever been before. It was because he was on edge, that when he caught a shadow out of the corner of his eye, moving in a human like fashion. He turned and threw the just opened bottle of beer at it without much conscious thought.

He's throwing shit in the middle of the night while in his boxers. God, how has this become his life?

[alldeduction]

Sherlock had gone to John's first, of course, but eventually he made his way back to his District with the intent of making sure that Danny had also not suddenly disappeared.

He was not expecting, however, to have a bottle of beer hurled at his face as soon as he stepped inside. He swung himself around, the bottle clattering past him, and by some miracle not shattering as it fell.

It did, however, manage to leave beer everywhere - including a fairly large splash on Sherlock himself. Sherlock blinked, for a moment, then narrowed his eyes and looked up.

"Well, I see your still alive. The aim could use improvement. And perhaps the judgement."

[danno_williams]

Before anyone could say anything else, Danny rushed over and grabbed Sherlock in his own brand of a short stocky bear hug. "Oh, Shut up asswipe."

Capitol Zoo and Aquarium | Post-Arena

[the_marshal]

The Capitol Zoo prided itself on bringing all the exotic specimens of the districts right here to city. From their own backyard of one, to outlying twelve.

For ten they had a number of the west's most impressive on display. A trio of wild paints - the handsome stallion and his harem of two. A pack of dusky coyotes. A whole field of chirping groundhogs.

But it was the buffalo Wyatt returned too most often.

There was a bench just outside their enclosure and he could sit and watch them. The sunlight gleaming off their dark, curved horns and their the wide, wet noses. As they shook their great, shaggy hides and bellowed low to each other as they grazed.

Once upon a time, in a world long gone, he had hunted them. Had valued them for the coin their skins and their meat could put in his pocket. Now,...now he was just happy to be near them. To know something had survived.

Today he sat on the bench, hunched forward, his elbows on his knees, his jaw shadowed with several days growth and working gently as Howard's rabbit's foot worried between his fingers like rosary beads. His eyes tracked the newest member of the herd - a calf that hadn't been there when he'd been sent to the last arena - as it gamboled about, bouncing on stiff-legs.

[alldeduction]

Sherlock had made it a mission to understand more of the curious biology (specifically, the mutttations) that happened in Panem and in the Arena, so he had brought himself to the Zoo. John had not come. He was off, presumably, with Effie for the afternoon, no matter how annoying Sherlock found it, so his mood was not particularly bright and he spoke to himself in a low, constant voice as he took mental notes. There was no way, without a microphone against his throat, that anyone would be able to make out his words, and that was exactly how he wanted it.

He passed exhibit to exhibit, cross referencing each species with his memory and lingering at those that didn't exist in his world. Every moment that passed in this Zoo reminded him how he hated this place. He was about to give up in an annoyed flurry when his eyes fell on Wyatt. He recognized him, of course - it was difficult not to. He had been here for the last five arenas, and his face was common on the televisions that surrounded them all.

As a rule, Sherlock was not what one would call 'social'. But when looking into the mechanics of a system, trying to understand and to crack said mechanics, it was always helpful to hear from those who had been submerged in said system the longest. So it was with Wyatt.

He forced a smile to his lips, though even at his best it wasn't quite friendly, and strode over.

"Wyatt Earp. District 10. Correct?"

[the_marshal]

The rabbit's foot stilled, chain pinched between his fingers, but it was a long moment before Wyatt responded.

Eyes narrowed, he seemed to way the brisk greeting, chewing over whether or not he wanted to encourage the attention. It'd worked well so far, the well-placed stretch of silence more than enough to deter most of the more determined fans... but this one either didn't notice, or didn't care.

As the footsteps continued to approach, the stride steady, he exhaled heavily and turned, leaning on his elbow to peer up from under the brim of his hat-

Not a citizen. Not with that understated getup.

Not with those eyes.

Or at least, not the average one.

"Just Wyatt'll do, friend."

Elevator

[celebrityskinned]

Venus can't stop touching her face. Thankfully, she's camera-trained enough that she doesn't succumb to the desire to pick her nose and lips, even though she wants to so badly it makes her fingers itch. She wants to feel everything about her new skin, the soft and the sensual along with the gritty, the crusty, the pragmatic but uncomfortable machinations of nature. Thankfully, the way her indelible grin makes her cheeks sore gives her plenty of an excuse to rub them with her fingertips.

Fingerprints. She has fingerprints now! In the elevator, she leaves as many of them as she can on the shiny metal surface. And on every button surface, because she wants to check out every floor in her new pad.

She should probably find her Escort and talk to them about her medication. No need to let her head spoil a perfectly nice new body.

She's in such a gleeful mood that she can't help notice that the other man in the elevator with her clashes with her like polkadots on plaid. He looks cranky, withdrawn, surly. If he were at a press conference, she'd tell security to keep an eye on him to make sure he wasn't packing a gun.

She looks up from where she's smearing her fingerprints on the automated doors. "Wow, why so down?"

[alldeduction]

He had been attempting to ignore her.

Her constant movement was making his own skin begin to prickle, as if she would soon give up on touching herself and the elevator and then start in on him - he's pressed himself into the corner of the Elevator to be as unobtrusive as possible. But it is impossible to ignore a direct question (or at least, John has told him time and time again that it is rude, and that they don't need to encourage people to kill them in the Arena). So he looks up, pale eyes hard as they catch hers.

The grammar grates.

"I am not 'down'," He said, his tone revealing just how much he despised the use of the word down in that context. "I was thinking."

And trying to avoid fingertips.

[celebrityskinned]

"About what? You look like you're planning ways to blow this tower up, face like that." Her face hardens a little, a small crinkle forming above her lips, pulling up from her teeth, indicating that she doesn't especially like being talked to that way unless it's by someone she's getting to shoot in the face.

Crankyface McSullen's attitude is enough to dim her glow a little bit, but not extinguish it. The only thing Venus doesn't seem enamored by is her hair. It's not that it's bad hair, she thinks, it's just that her suit before had hair just like it, and while the locks are perfectly fine to tug at and twirl around, doing so just doesn't give them same thrill as running her hands over her face and neck. She pauses when she feels a little flutter around her collarbone. Her pulse. Amazing. The smile comes right back to her face.

Up until the elevator jerks and a screeching sound announces that they're about to have technical difficulties. Her face falls and crumples like wadded up paper. It doesn't matter that she has nowhere to go; she smacks the elevator door with an open palm.

[tis_allgood]

Since waking up alive Cuthbert had been avoiding thinking about how he died despite having seen it several times in replays. He had been hiding from it in plain sight, training and socializing normally while he pretended nothing was wrong.

But the moment he saw Sherlock walk into the training area it all came back to him in the worst way. For the sake of not wanting to get into more trouble he dropped the throwing knives he'd been practicing with and stalked up empty handed.

"You! You made a fool of me!"

[alldeduction]

Sherlock rarely went to the training center, but part of his plan this round was keeping a closer eye on the other tributes and what their specialties are, so he had made a point of it.

What he had not exactly intended was to walk into a room and immediately get yelled at.

He'd since watched the video of their death, of course, numerous times, and had felt more than a little vindicated that his murder had also resulted in Cuthbert's death, so he couldn't help the smug little smirk that pulled at his lips.

"Cuthbert Allgood. District 3. Settling in well?"

[tis_allgood]

"Better than one might expect, considering."

But he couldn't keep his thoughts to himself for very long. This was someone he was both eager and not so eager to see again. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

"And thee? How are you enjoying your new lease on life?"

There was a lingering threat in those words, but nothing he wanted to voice directly. All of his muscles were tense.

[nunpunching]

Punchy, by contrast, seems to be thriving here. He loves the lights and the ladies. Even his stylist has a banging little body, and he's perfectly willing to let her dress his face up in sequins and dye his hair blue and tell him his freckles are 'uncivilized' if it means that he might be able to grind some ugly up in her in the future.

Clearly, Punchy is the classiest motherfucker in this joint.

So when he sees Sherlock, he's not in the dour mood of the nearly-revived, but decorated in the peppy attitude of a teenage boy getting everything he could ever dream of and totally unaware of how stupid he looks with a blue mohawk.

"Sherlizzle Holmesboy!"

[alldeduction]

"Punchy."

A slight smile traced his lips even as his eyebrow arched, taking in the very different aesthetic that Punchy had here versus in the arena.

"Rollin' with the high-ballers?" He asked, in an approximation of Punchy's dialect, though still in his own crisp accent.

[nunpunching]

"I be flossin' with all the gangstas in this joint, dawg. What's the vertical with you?" Punchy's lunatic grin widens when he sees that Sherlock seems almost pleased to see him, too.