thecapitol | Holmes and Watson, mismatched

Entry tags:

Holmes and Watson, mismatched

Who| Joan Watson and Sherlock Holmes
What| Joan and Sherlock meet their companions' counterparts
Where| Starting where she wakes up, then in the District 11 apartments common room.
When| The day after Joan's death
Warnings/Notes| Mention of Joan's death by snake, will update if anything else comes up.

Joan gasped back to life, her eyes opening wide. It took a moment of deep breaths for her to remember what was going on, for her to realize that the agony of succumbing to snake venom was now just a memory. She sat up and immediately examined her ankle and her calf. The puncture wounds were gone, the skin smooth and unmarked as if the bites had never happened. She sighed with relief, dropping her head to rest it on her knee for a moment before straightening and pushing herself up from the bed.

Some time later, after being informed of her district affiliation and given a rundown of the Training Center, Joan arrives at the District 11 apartment. She stops right at the entrance, the elevator door sliding silently closed behind her, and spends a few moments just staring at the opulence. "Oh my god," she murmurs under her breath as she catches sight of the large window along the living room, and the expanse of city beyond it. She'll explore the apartment later. For the moment, she pulls one of the chairs over so she can sit and look at the Capitol skyline, her brain whirring. Dying, coming back to life, going from a rough, deadly desert to this building in a futuristic city she's never seen before...it's going to take time to process.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She stayed where she was as well. He was looking at her sideways; she looked at him straight on, taking in everything she could. He was different, very different. And yet. There was this odd resonance between him and her Sherlock, as if they existed on the same frequency, even if the amplitude was different.

"No. Not mine."

The physical differences aside, she's fairly sure "her" Sherlock would not have waited until she was in the district 11 apartment. He would have found some way to be at her side when she came back to life, waited until she'd caught her breath, then go into his latest theory of what was going on, how they had been brought here, and by the way, your survival skills are rubbish.

"And I'm not your Watson, obviously. Do you know if he's okay?"

Sherlock had clearly been watching them, so it was a good bet that he was still watching his friend.

"He's alive." He said, quickly. Then he paused, tapping his fingers one last time on the back of the couch as he made up his mind on what to say.

"Which... is entirely thanks to you." The words were measured, slow, as if they surprised even him. (He was not used to saying thank you.) His hand fell back to his side. "As for the rest..." He raised an eyebrow. "I'm not certain the term 'okay' ever applies when one is in the Arena."

His eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting further. "You have questions," he assumed, flatly.

That was similar to her Sherlock, that reluctance to show gratitude.

"I'm glad he's alive," she said, leaving alone what she had done to keep him alive. It was the only rational thing, and her death had been agonizing, both reasons enough to justify not discussing things in detail.

He asked if...no, stated that...she had questions, and she smiled faintly. "I doubt there's anyone in our situation that doesn't." She tilted her head slightly as well. "You said in one of your notes that you had...judged correctly." She was paraphrasing, not remembering the exact wording. "Did you mean you thought I'd be a good ally for John? Or did you mean you had figured out I'm John's...whatever. Counterpart."

Sherlock knew exactly what she had done. Had seen it. (Had known, instinctively, that his John would have done exactly the same thing. If he'd had any doubts, they were destroyed then.) But he didn't pry further. He didn't need to.

"Both," He answered immediately. "John's already informed you that there are... others. Versions of us. Beside you, there is also one other 'Sherlock Holmes' living here in the Capitol - born in this world," he clarified quickly, as if to dismantle any hopes she might have that the other might have come from her universe. "I admit that you... defied my expectation, slightly, but only for approximately thirty minutes. Once I'd had time to make complete observations I concluded - correctly - that your name was not the only thing you shared." He took a breath, paused, and glanced out the window before looking back at her.

"Not that it guarantees anything, of course. It's reasonable to assume there is a universe in which John and I are both serial murderers. But as I was unable to help him, I judged that you could."

Another pause, as his bright grey eyes caught hers and held them, unblinking. "And again, I was correct."

She did raise her eyebrows when he mentioned another Sherlock here, but lowered them again with a faint expression of disappointment when he clarified.

"I don't think there could be a universe where you're murderers, actually. There are differences between you and my Sherlock, and John and me, but there's still something basic that's the same. I think being serial murderers would violate that."

For John more than Sherlock, honestly, but she didn't say that.

"Thank you for sending me to him. He helped me as much as I helped him. Probably more."

He didn't bother to mention that there were already many people who did think he was a murderer, in Universe.

It wasn't really the best impression one could make.

She was right about John, though. He wouldn't be himself without his moral code.

"He is an incredibly useful individual," He said, his lips twitching into a slight, lop-sided smile. As restrained as he was, it was still easy to see the faint trace of pride. He shifted, then, his weight moving from one foot to the other unable to decide what he wanted to say next (which of the hundred thousand questions he wanted to ask, whether or not they would cause John to glare at him and tell him off later).

Or, he supposed, if it would cause her to glare at him.

"You did well. Unfortunately I can't claim that the dying gets any better."

She was likewise not about to mention the fact that Sherlock had come very close to torturing and murdering Moran. Better to just be aware of the potential for violence that likely lies in both men.

She saw fondness in that expression as he spoke of John, and that as much as his praise was what made her smile slightly.

"There are better ways to die. Worse ways, too. How many of these things have you been in?"

"This was my third," Sherlock said, raising three fingers.

"Ice Arena, sub zero temperatures culminating in bifurcation via a sword conjured through thaumaturgy," he lowered the first finger, "Disney Land, was forced backwards into an armed pit-trap," he lowered the second finger, "And this one. Candy-land. Throat slit."

He lowered his hand.

"The first was the worst. I've still yet to be able to understand what reason or device allows for magic here--"

"Magic. Right."

But here she was, in this place and alive, and there stood a Sherlock that was Sherlock but wasn't Sherlock.

Okay. Magic.

"What about John? Did you arrive together?"

The look that Sherlock gave her made it all too clear what he thought about the 'Magic' but it was a rant he'd had several times and would probably be a better one to take on something other than a first meeting with the other world version of your best friend.

He shook his head slowly.

"... No. I came alone. He appeared in the capitol between my first and second arenas." He paused, ground his teeth, but then decided it was best to elaborate, before she heard it from someone else. "... As punishment. They brought him here when they decided that I was unlikely to behave without leverage." He raised his wrist, flashing the silver band there.

His expression darkened slightly.

"As far as I am aware, your appearance is entirely unconnected."

She frowned, took a step closer, better to see the metal band. The very premise of this place and why she had been brought here was deeply problematic, of course, and she could imagine people fighting against that alone, demanding to stop the killing.

"You don't have an attachment to me," she said, and held out her hand, asking for his wrist, assuming that he can't just take the bracelet off. "Can I see the band?"

"No, I don't. But this place isn't about truth or logic. I imagine that they would think the addition of a second Watson would be an interesting story."

He made a low noise but held out his arm, twisting his wrist to show the band.

"It tightens when there is any attempt to remove it," He mentioned lightly.

"Makes for good television," she answered wryly. "I'm sure they loved my self-sacrifice."

Her hold on his wrist was firm but gentle. She examined the band closely.

"What did you do to misbehave?"

"I disabled half of the cameras in my suite," He said, as flatly as he could possibly manage though the corner of his lip quirked.

He did try so hard to feel bad about that one, given the consequences, but he often couldn't manage to. He stood completely still as she examined it, but didn't pull his wrist back.

"I suppose as a deterrent it worked," He added, a little bitterly, after a moment.

She glanced up and around the room before looking back at his wrist.

"Cameras. Of course."

Her Sherlock would have a field day if he were here, tracking down and disabling every single camera. Chances were good he'd get more than just a silver wrist band.

"Bringing John here?" she replied. "I'm not surprised."

Sherlock bit back what he was going to say. They were always watched. He couldn't let his guard down, even here, even now. The truth was something that he would never be able to detail to John or Joan, no matter how bitter it tasted. He sucked in a breath.

"Futile endeavor as it is. Their surveillance technology, while not that far advanced from ours, is pervasive. Impossible without access to equipment to be able to disable an entire room at once, let alone hack the system to send a feedback loop." The words tumbled out at an incredible rate, but he shifted and paused before continuing.

"The bands were given before this arena, after Ariadne's execution. To 'remind us of our place', as it were." His eyes caught hers, then, sharp and hard. "It would behoove you to be careful."

She held that gaze, swallowed but didn't look away.

"They executed someone. One of the people they brought here? What did she do?"

The fact that they felt the need to execute someone spoke volumes. They were afraid. The people who were "misbehaving" were probably more powerful than the people in charge likely wanted to let on.

"Attempted assassination using an explosive device," He said, his voice emotionless. "I'm sure they're still replaying the execution on the television screens. You can likely watch it there." He didn't need to warn her that it was brutal.

Who would expect anything less?

"Knowing what these people consider entertainment, I think I'll be avoiding the TV, thanks."

These people were sick. And had all those they brought here at a distinct disadvantage, a minority in a foreign land brought here as toys to break again and again. Still, she couldn't imagine that there wasn't opposition among the natives as well.

Joan considers for a moment, then puts her thumb on the band. "Were people working with her?" she asked as she pushed it against his skin and looked up to meet his eyes, hoping she had made clear the true question, whether he was working with her. She hoped the cameras would miss the indications.

Oh. Good. Not a complete idiot. He'd smile if he wasn't hyper aware of the cameras.

"... In a sense. One of the Mentors, from this world. Eva Salazar. Conned her to trusting her, and betrayed her on the night of the attempt." His voice was dispassionate, but there was a warning. No one from this world could be trusted. Not even former tributes. To her unspoken question, he added: "No one else. Not sure who would want to be tangled up in such idiocy."

He lets the implication hang. It would have gone down a lot differently, if he were involved.

Edited (fff one day i will not be a moron!!) 2013-08-05 18:52 (UTC)

She had to be careful of those who lived here. Good to know. She raised her eyebrows, glanced back down at his wrist, and again pressed the band before releasing it. She understood.

"So, apart from always changing my clothes and going to the bathroom in the dark," she said, wryly thinking that the cameras probably had infrared, "and not trying to blow up leaders, is there anything else I need to know about surviving in this city?"

"Surviving? No. Coping?" He paused, shrugged, as he fiddled with the band at his wrist before dropping it back down to his side. "Yes. This entire place is dedicated to opulence and hedonism. To secure gifts in the arena, one must appeal to the natives - most specifically, the Sponsors."

He managed not to give a look of disgust, knowing he was on camera, but the temptation was massive.

"The city is something better experienced than discussed, however."

"Yeah, I got that sense, if this is where they keep the people they want to see die. John also told me that everyone here dresses like Lady Gaga. But...I don't understand. Sponsors? I mean, it's a TV show, so I get if it's like, this show brought to you by corn flakes. But why would I need to appeal to them?"

"If you want to live, yes." He said flatly. "If you've no interest in surviving in the arena you can ignore them, but..." He trailed off, walking to the window and looking down at the city.

"Not everyone comes back. They seem to prefer 'favourites' - the more interesting, the better the story, the more likely that you'll be revived in the capitol after your death." He frowned, looking down, before turning back to her. "The Sponsors are the money. They pay for the gifts that are sent to tributes in the arena. The gifts I sent you and John? Entirely paid for by begging." He couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of the words. "Without them, you would never have received the anti-venom."

She watched him go to the window, heard that bitterness in his voice. Sherlock is not a man who begs. That he was forced into it for the life of his friend spoke volumes.

"If they don't find me interesting, I'll die in the arena, and they won't bring me back to life," she said, more for her benefit than his. "Okay. What interests them? I'm guessing sex and violence, since as far as I can tell, they're human, and humans are the same everywhere."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject