thecapitol | [open]

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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.

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.

"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.

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."

"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.

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?"

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.

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?"

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?"

He wet his lips, similarly unsure of where to look.

"I don't know, Sherlock, is there? All I'm saying is, I saw- I know it was hard for you. I've had people die on me. Friends, colleagues, people I couldn't stand, too, come to think of it. And it's always hard, especially if you can't do a damn thing to help."

"Don't be ridiculous. You're not dead now."

If Sherlock had feathers, they would have ruffled, and he started walking again, even if it was at a much slower pace than before, conscious of John's limp. The statement was less of fact and more of a mantra that he'd just had to keep telling himself. If the result of the action never actually happened - if John was here, alive, and breathing, without a scratch on him - did the action count for anything at all? Couldn't Sherlock just pretend it never happened in the first place?

"No, I'm not. But I remember dying, and you remember watching it happen," John pointed out, following. In for a penny, in for the whole goddamn pound. "And I think of anyone I might know a bit about what things you remember can do to you."

"It's done nothing to me!" Sherlock snapped, the sudden abrupt anger more than enough indication that he was lying through his teeth, but he was getting desperate to avoid the topic. He turned on his heel, finally finding John's eye. "I'm fine. We have to be fine. The likelihood of one or both of us dying in each others presence again makes that imperative."

"Okay," he said after a moment. "I'm not. Alright? I'm not."

Sherlock's jaw snapped shut abruptly and he immediately looked away. The feeling that ripped through his chest was something completely unknown to him - painful, unknown, and therefore completely terrifying. He had prided himself, once, on being able to separate himself from emotion, from caring for people, for being able to look at situations in a rational and detached manner. But he simply couldn't, here, and that terrified him more than he would ever be able to admit to anyone. His fingers flexed, then balled into a fist, then flexed again.

He looked at the ground.

"... No, you're fine." He said, rejecting John's terrifying emotional reality and pushing his own forward. "You're - You'll be fine, John. I won't let it happen again. I will not fail you, again, and you'll be fine."

"Sherlock, listen to me. You didn't. I got myself lost. I didn't see her coming. It wasn't your fault. God knows I'm perfectly capable of getting myself killed without your help."

He shifted, uncomfortably. He hated that there were cameras trained on them everywhere else, that there was nowhere quiet and private and separate.

"And I didn't find you." There was a finality to the statement, Sherlock's fingers once again balled into a fist until his knuckles are white. "But it doesn't matter, John, because it won't happen again, so you don't--" He tripped over his words, there, shifting as he made a stern face. "-- So you don't have to be not fine. Alright?"

There were a whole host of things he could say to that, most of them unhelpful. He doubted Sherlock much wanted to hear how grateful he was that he hadn't had to die alone, and that was far as he was concerned he had found him.

"Alright," he said, slightly dubiously, fully aware that it was more than likely it would happen again. And again. "Alright."

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