thecapitol | (no subject)

Who| Aunamee, John, Howard
What| Howard has been staying with John Watson, and Aunamee decides to leave him a gift.
Where| District 7 suites
When| Prior to the crowning.
Warnings| Creepy sociopathy.

There is nothing unique about the glass bottle Aunamee placed in secret on the nightstand near Howard's temporary bed. There is nothing orante about its lid, no patterns worked into its glass. The inside is the curious part, a flourishing terrarium of brightly colored plants, moss that covers the entire floor, thin vines that curl and twist like locks of frizzy human hair. There is only one living thing inside the bottle that isn't a plant, a small insect no larger than an ant, its body flecked with blue and orange and red.

Hollow insect corpses dust the floor, former grasshoppers and spiders and moths.

After dropping off the bottle, the gift, Aunamee waits in the lounge of District 7 with his legs crossed and his eyes buried on the lastest newspaper. ARENA SEVEN: WHO WILL WIN?

Who indeed?

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Howard's insisted over and over on taking the floor, flatly rejecting most of John's attempts at further hospitality. He relented on having a blanket and a pillow, only because it didn't take anything from John; the Avox provided them. He's made a little nest, as is his tendency, with the pillow and his backpack and the blanket, and he sleeps with his jacket hood pulled over his head and his sleeves pulled down over his hands, looking for all the world like a lump of fabric that happens to be wearing shoes.

For the first time in a long time, for the first time since Eponine left, Howard's been able to get to sleep without too much agony, and has slept in solid six-hour chunks. They aren't perfect slumbers, and he's been embarrassed to wake up shaking, sweating and talking to himself. The nightmares that have become a regular occurrence to him don't seem to have let up even in the presence of others.

Sometimes when John's asleep, Howard wakes up and watches him. He knows it's creepy, but he can't help it. There's something comforting in knowing that John isn't disappearing into thin air, that he's alive and well and snoring softly. There's something comforting in being there, having refilled a fresh glass of water on the nightstand and left a warmed, wetted towel for when John, himself, wakes up sweaty and shaky, and then not mentioning it in the morning. To have made hot tea that awaits John upon waking.

He tries to wake up early so he can do that. One morning his eyelashes flutter and he sits up as the sun lances through that slit in the curtains. His clothing is slightly damp from sweating, but other than that it's a better morning than most to get up. He stands and sees that John's starting to stir.

And then he sees the bottle on the nightstand, and tilts his head to the side when he realizes that he doesn't remember that there earlier. He leans over and peers at it, brushing sleep-crust from his eyes with his fingertips.

His heart starts the agitated thump-thump of terror. He moves over to the door as quietly as he can and cracks it open, peering at the figure reading the newspaper. He closes the door quickly, a bit more loudly than he wanted to, loud enough to wake John entirely, and winces.

"John?"

John wasn't sure when it'd become normal, having Howard sleep on his floor huddled up like a tangle of laundry- but it felt right, somehow, to be able to provide something like safety for him. To be someone unfazed by the occasional shout or curse in the dark when a dream strayed a little too far into memory. To be useful. In return, Howard's displays of gratitude in the form of tea and and towels and unspoken camaraderie were an almost painfully welcome salve- someone else knew without being told, like Sherlock had done, back home. It staved off the stubborn remnant of the loneliness at finding himself without the constant awareness of Sherlock's presence, if it didn't quite eradicate the nightmares that had sprung up to fill the void he'd left.

He woke with a start as the door slammed, sitting bolt upright in bed, eyes wide. It took a few breaths for him to steady himself, offering Howard a careful smile.
"You alright?" he asked, doing his best to radiate calm despite the bitter taste of sand persisting in the back of his throat.

"Sorry, sorry-" Howard says quickly, trying to calm his own unsteady breathing. The jar of bugs hangs in the corner of his peripheral vision like a noose. He's shaking, his whole body is shaking, and yet it's instinct to try and fix that he scared John, but the tea isn't ready, the towels aren't-

He shakes his head and gives out a low moan. "He was in your room, John. While we were sleeping."

He wet his lips, settling himself upright (breathe in, breathe out, he was whole and unharmed) and cast his eyes about the room, trying to work out what had spooked Howard so thoroughly. It didn't take him long to notice the jar.

"Right," he said, calmly. "Stay here, and I'll handle this, alright?"

He slid out of bed, straightened his PJs, smoothed the sheets down automatically and picked up the jar.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry, I just, he was..." Howard takes shallow, quick breaths and cups his hands over his mouth, trying to keep his fear from spiraling, escalating. Trying not to remember the blood, or the blade in his stomach, or suffocating on the fluid in his lungs. "Please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He doesn't want to give himself a fit in front of John. He doesn't want to feel humiliated that way. So instead he opens the door to John's closet and hides inside.