[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

[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."

[drpsychosomatic]

This was where being in a life or death situation made things easier, he supposed. When you were dying, it didn't really matter what it looked like, or what it might be mistaken for, or anything like that. If he'd been dying, he could have demanded the physical contact that he was almost certain he wanted, the confirmation that both of them were alive- a good, hearty hand on the shoulder, something like that. As it was, he wet his lips and nodded, fingers curling at his sides.
"Yeah. Yeah, it's-- it's really good to see you, too," he said, lamely. "I- can I get you something?"

[alldeduction]

Sherlock was never one to think of physical contact anyway (beyond the abrupt, the necessary, and the ludicrous - comfort was never the leading factor), so he did not reach out or make any motion save shaking his head. "No. Perhaps dinner, later, but not here." He paused. "You've been-- ah-- occupied?"

[drpsychosomatic]

"Watching, yes," he admitted. "And I went swimming, just to- you know. Take the edge off it, like when you fall off your bike. Not much else."

He didn't mention Effie, or his nightmares. There was little point.

[alldeduction]

The nightmares, he could see. The troubled sleep was written in almost every corner of John's face - but there was no point addressing it. John had the same look to him the first time they met, and Sherlock had erased it. He would erase it again.

Effie, on the other hand... That would be a hard secret to keep, given how obvious it was (she hardly skimped on the perfume, for example) but that was not a discussion for today.

"I trust there were fewer piranhas, this time," Sherlock said a little flatly. Small talk had never been his forté, not even with John, and now that he was satisfied that John was a) still alive and b) assure that he was alive, he had run out of the dialogue tree he had previously set himself. But while if they were at home, back on Bakerstreet, he could just ignore him and settle into comfortable and companionable silence, here there was no where for Sherlock to go - no where to be where he knew John also vaguely was, that was still his space. So he shifted, awkwardly, narrowing his eyes.

[drpsychosomatic]

"Didn't see a single one," he assured him, similarly at a loss for what to do. Back home, there was a warm, comfortable pattern to fall into- a chair, the newspaper, mugs of tea, navigating around the piles of Sherlock's books and knocking on the floor when the violin kept him up late at night, a routine that could always be relied on to set things right.

"I'm not exactly hungry," he offered carefully, "but- honestly, Sherlock, I'm crawling the walls, here. We could go out?"

[alldeduction]

"Yes, Fine." Sherlock said a little stiffly, backing up a step and glancing around the suite. "Now, or--"

[drpsychosomatic]

"Now," John decided, grabbing his jacket. "Let's get out of here. Was there anywhere you wanted to take a look at?"

[alldeduction]

"Several places, but not tonight." He needed out, he needed to get away from the rest of the tributes and away from the building, but because both of those things were based on feelings he could neither mention nor explain them (even to himself). So he simply strode to the door.

"The park, perhaps."

[drpsychosomatic]

He nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
There was a slight limp, at first, as he made his way towards the door- but John either seemed to notice or compensate unconsciously, straightening himself out and clearing his throat.

"The park. It should be quiet, right?"

[alldeduction]

"Quieter, yes."

He noticed the limp and frowned, eyes on John's leg, but waited until John was out into the hallway and then made for the elevator at his side.

"Less cameras per square meter," He added in a slightly sarcastic undertone.

[drpsychosomatic]

"Bit rich, with us coming from London and your bloody brother having every single one trained on us," he pointed out with a slightly awkward laugh. "Still, I think I'd prefer the park. I found a few cafes, too, quiet ones, while you were gone."

Gone. Maybe not the best word for it.

[alldeduction]

"As if I enjoyed having my brother as the spy master," Sherlock scoffed.

He fidgeted, visibly, when John said while you were gone, but shrugged it off quickly. "Cafés?"

[drpsychosomatic]

He nodded. "I've been exploring, a little. I even found a few places that serve decent tea- but I think they'll be closed by now."

[alldeduction]

"The park's fine, for now. You can show me later." He couldn't quite look directly at John - the memories of his death being much too fresh in his mind, and he fell silent as they took the elevator down to the bottom floor and exited.

[drpsychosomatic]

John watched Sherlock avoid making eye contact with him, a sick worry settling in his stomach. Sherlock wasn't doing so well- he could see it, in the slump of his shoulders. He hadn't seen him look this bad since Irene had died.

"You know, if you want to talk about it, that- it's fine," he offered, lamely.

[alldeduction]

"Talk about what." The words snapped out harsher than he meant, and he instantly regretted them - but didn't apologize or take them back. Instead he cracked his neck and started walking at a brisker pace down the street.

[drpsychosomatic]

It was a little bit of a struggle to keep up- but he did, wetting his lips anxiously.
"Or not. It's fine, Sherlock, it's all fine. I just wanted- I'll talk about it, if you ever want to."

[alldeduction]

"Talk about what," Sherlock reiterated sharply, though he did very, very slightly adjust his pace when he realised that John was struggling. Not enough to look like he was adjusting it, of course, because that would be ridiculous.

[drpsychosomatic]

His voice was careful and measured, though his limp seemed to get a little more aggressive the more stressed he was. "Sherlock, we both died. They made me go through months of therapy for nearly dying, back home. Don't you think it makes sense that we both probably need to talk it through?"

[alldeduction]

Sherlock finally just came to a stop. He disliked John's limp. He really, really disliked it, and the fact that it had come back...

The fact that not only had it come back, but that it was his fault...

He frowned, deeply, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"It wasn't therapy that helped you," He pointed out, lowly.

[drpsychosomatic]

John shook his head. He really, really didn't want to go into it, but sometimes with Sherlock you had to just explain, no matter how awkward it was.

"No. Sherlock, listen. I appreciate-- you know I appreciate what you did, what you do. Or at least, I hope you know. But what you have to understand is that when we met, I'd been in therapy for a while, and if I hadn't had someone who forced me to talk when I really, really didn't want to, we never would have met at all. I would never have left that awful bedsit. Do you understand?"

[alldeduction]

Sherlock tsked under his breath, pulling his eyes away as he suddenly found it difficult to keep them on John's.

He disliked being wrong at the best of times, though it was better coming from John than anywhere else. But that didn't mean that he wanted to believe it.

"Yes." He didn't understand, not really, because in his mind the world was designated into Before John and After John and he'd always assumed that John delineated time likewise. Before John, Sherlock was not well. Afterwards, he was better. It had always been obvious to him that the same was true in John's case. He did not like the thought that it wasn't.

He let out a short breath, still looking away. "It seems pointless. You died, I was there, it's broadcasted almost daily. Is there more to say than that?"