thecapitol | 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 could kick herself. She should have realized that he probably had the same problems with drugs as her Sherlock. He had the same brilliance, doubtless the same desire to quiet his mind, for oblivion. And if there are more than one Sherlock, and more than one Watson, it seemed likely there would be more than one Irene Adler. More than one Moriarty.

"Have you been having issues with substance abuse here?" Better to come out and ask, she had decided.

"I'm clean," He bit out, defensively. Unjustified, perhaps, but the effort had taken him to remain to made him desperate to cling to the fact. He sucked in a breath and straightened.

Another difference. John hadn't even wanted to entertain the idea of his past drug use, when they had first met. (Later, much later, he knew it all too well.)

It was an odd feeling, perhaps partially shame, having her hone in so easily upon something he managed to hide, especially here. Especially after meeting the other Sherlock.

"Not even cigarettes," He added with a bitter melancholy.

"I believe you." His reaction was of course confirmation of her suspicion that he had in fact had troubles of his own. "I ask, because that's how I met my Sherlock. He had just left rehab, and I was his sober companion. He hasn't used since I've known him, but he struggles. All recovering addicts do." Left unsaid was the implication that she understood if he did struggle, that it didn't mean he wasn't clean, nor that he wouldn't stay clean. And that she was willing to help him if he wanted. Needed.

If the attitude toward drugs was as Sherlock said, though, working as a sober companion might not be a viable option.

He didn't want to talk about it. He never did. But he set his jaw.

"John met me well after." Was all he said about himself. All he was willing to say. It was enough of an admission in itself and he cut himself off abruptly after that. "I can't say the same for the other one." He said, in a rush, before letting out another breath. "The other Sherlock. The Mentor."

He paused, chewing over his words.

"Perhaps it would be best if you spoke to him yourself."

She recognized and appreciated the difficulty he was having talking about his own drug use. He mentioned the other Sherlock, though, and she tilted her head.

"I didn't know he's a Mentor. I'd be happy to talk to him. I take it he has problems with addiction, too. The Morphling you talked about?"

"Morphling... yes. I believe so. I won't speak to his condition. We've met only once." He clenched his fingers at his side, released them, and clenched again.

"Victor. He won the 60th games."

He hadn't really spoken about the other to John. Had attempted to push the man almost completely from his mind in the meantime, soldier on as if he was a moderately fascinating but ultimately inconsequential problem.

But it wasn't the same, when one was drawing lines in the sand. When differences and similarities were being made much too obvious. It unsettled him. And Sherlock Holmes did not like being unsettled.

He sucked in a tight breath. "With a wasp."

His discomfort was obvious, although she wasn't exactly sure of their origin. Maybe thinking about his counterpart's difficulties made him more cognizant of his own. Especially considering the similarities between Joan and John; he may have more in common with the other Sherlock than he formerly admitted.

She raised her eyebrows and blinked. "A wasp. Okay, that's weird. How do you win with a wasp?"

"Well. I should say wasps. Tracker-jackers. I'm sure you're aware not of the... specially bred animals tailor-made for the arenas." He shifted again, and waved a hand.

"You can find the records of his victory if you're interested further," he said quickly. He couldn't get away from this topic of conversation fast enough. "However, he may be... interested. In your expertise." It was a stiff admission, more from his own experience rather than from Holmes'. If their places were changed...

"There's no Watson. Here." He added after a moment. "I expected there to be one, when I learned about him. There are-- It is not exactly my area," He complained, when he found it difficult to explain. "But Danny expected me to be from approximately 1905. Didn't believe that I was who I am. But he knew about John."

"As they say, once is an incident, twice is a coincidence. We don't have a third example to make it a pattern. He could be a Sherlock without a Watson. Or maybe he hasn't met his Watson yet."

She didn't believe it, though, which probably came through in her tone.

"Do you think I'm supposed to be his Watson? That that's why I was brought here?"

"I won't speculate without data." He said quickly, despite that he basically already had. But he drew the line making the statement 'There is no Watson' before drawing a conclusion from that statement.

"Danny wasn't the only one, however. Multiple universes is fast becoming an area I've been forced to take interest in but hardly one I have a sufficient knowledge base for. I'm sure there are worlds where there is one of us, both of us, or neither. There may, indeed, be a Watson here. Eventually. All I am saying is that there isn't one yet."

He hesitated. Did not say what he was thinking. Would not. He knew what his life had been like, before and after John. As he was fairly sure, did she.

He didn't have to. She could draw the apparent conclusions. She remembered, very well. Remembered Sherlock's loneliness, his pain. Remembered how he told her that she made him better. She'd be willing to bet that Sherlock felt the same way about John.

Even without some sort of mystical connection, though, it was clear that Sherlock thought he needed help. Particularly with an addiction. And regardless of his name, or any parallels, if she could help him, she should.

"Where can I find him?"

"District 3 suites," He said immediately. "Well, that's where he should be. I found him in the park. At the very least, they should know where he is."

"I'll start at the suites, then."

She hadn't been sure what to do, alive again in a city, in a world, she didn't know. She had too many options and no direction.

Now, though. Now she had a direction.

Sherlock nodded, and then abruptly turned to leave. He'd never been good at social niceties, or small talk, and having covered everything he had meant to cover and then a good more besides, he felt he was more than done - but before he stepped into the elevator he stopped, turned.

"District 2. I'll be keeping a close eye on John. If you later find yourself interested."

But he didn't wait for an acknowledgement or a goodbye and simply slipped into the elevator, the door closing behind him.

"Thank you," she called after him, not entirely sure he actually heard her. When he was gone, she went to find one of the attendants, to ask him what she needed to carry with her should she leave the center. Then she headed out to find the Capitol's Watsonless Sherlock.

Holmes and Watson, mismatched

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