It's probably time for a celebration [OPEN]

[honeyedwords]

Who: The Mentor Sherlock Holmes and you!
What: Moping, skulking, being inadvisably open about detesting the games. Standard Holmes fare.
Where: The District 3 Suites
When: Post-Maximus's victory
Warnings: Substance abuse references. Will add any more that come up if needed.

If nothing else, being in the Capitol for the games has reminded Holmes of why he's spent so much effort trying to avoid having to be in the Capitol for the games. He's a practiced hand at avoiding being wheedled into guest appearances at parties or any other such drivel, but the constant commotion and celebration while he's trying to study the footage from in the arena and work out the subtleties of what's needed and where isn't helpful in the least.

Neither, of course, is the constant, throbbing headache, the sleeplessness, or the gnawing feeling that he knows exactly what would make both of those go away very quickly and how to find it.

Perhaps it wasn't the most elegant of solutions, or the best way to get sponsors, but Holmes had found that the easiest solution to all of these issues had been to confine himself to his quarters for the duration. It had been a pleasant enough reprieve from all the hedonistic wallowing that made up life in the Capitol, but with the games over he supposes he has no excuse any longer, and would prefer to leave his room under his own power instead of being dragged out by peacekeepers under suspicion of conspiracy. So he emerges, looking for all the world like some manner of groggy burrowing animal that did not adequately prepare for hibernation before going under.

Comments

[formersurgeon]

"John Watson is not my double. And his Sherlock is not your double."

She narrows her eyes, trying to figure this out. It's him. It has to be him.

"Your voice, your mannerisms, that...thing you're doing where you're rocking back and forth."

But he's not lying. She would be able to tell if he was, be able to hear that pause in his voice, see that shift in his eyes. He believes what he's telling her.

She lowers her head, closes her eyes for a moment, sighs. Then she looks up at him again.

"Okay. Let's say there are two of you. Not just two people with your name, or your basic self. Actually two of you, and you grew up here, won the games, everything. If you're like Sherlock, my Sherlock, then the other Sherlock is probably right, and you've been dealing with addiction."

[honeyedwords]

Sherlock abruptly stops doing that thing he's doing where he rocks back and forth. He actually looks a little chastened, but that passes quickly enough.

"And here I thought I'd been doing such a good job of hiding it," he says, flatly. He does not think he's been doing a good job of hiding it because people struggling with addictions don't hold staring contests with untouched glasses of wine or lock themselves inside during the height of any festivities that happen to be going on, not to mention the physical symptoms of withdrawal. "What of it? I'll have you know that I've been clean since I arrived here prior to the start of your games, and I've no intention of using again. It isn't a cause for concern."

He very pointedly does not sound as if he's trying to convince himself of this as well. Not in the slightest.

[formersurgeon]

She has no idea, of course, how well or not well he's been hiding it, and to what degree he's even been trying. But she recognizes that attitude, that he's strong enough to decide to not use and that's all there is to it. It took a lot of work for Sherlock to open up to her, to show her his struggle, even though she knew it existed.

"I believe that you're clean. And I believe that you intend to stay clean. But we both know that it's not that easy. I can help you. That's actually how I met my Sherlock. I was his sober companion."

[honeyedwords]

It's around here that the full implications of having someone who claims to know him -- another him, sure, but closer than the other Sherlock Holmes -- begins to dawn on him. He doesn't know what his counterpart has told this Watson or how much she's seen, and that's a sort of uncertainty that he's wholly uncomfortable with. With the Capitol he at least has a sense of the things they know and probably don't know, but here he has someone with whom he has no familiarity who is apparently familiar enough with his mannerisms to read them better than anyone else.

"You know," he says abruptly, after pausing momentarily to think on this. "I think I'd like a breath of fresh air. The garden on the roof is lovely this time of day."

And briefly, without moving anything but his eyes, he glances up at a corner of the room that he knows plays host to microphone and hidden camera alike. If Joan really is as savvy as she seems, he thinks, she should catch on to the gesture and what he means by it. Without another word, he then turns on his heels and steps into the elevator, waiting to see if she'll follow.

[formersurgeon]

Her own eyes flit quickly in the same direction in reply, to let him know she understands. When he steps into the elevator, she's quick to follow, stepping in beside him and turning to face the doors as they close.

"Do you have a bee hive on the roof?"

[honeyedwords]

"No," he answers, as the elevator makes its way steadily upwards. "It's in my quarters. I'd ask about letting them at actual flowers but somehow I feel like requesting the right to unleash a horde of stinging insects run amok in the Capitol would be less than well received, given my games."

There's a ding, and then the elevator doors open with the soft swishing noise of metal gliding over metal, and Sherlock walks to the edge of the roof without pausing to make sure Joan is still following him or within earshot.

"You've heard the story by now, haven't you? Insidious and well-planned traps laid to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat? All lies, of course."

[formersurgeon]

She walks with him, at his side instead of following behind. It's what she does with her own Sherlock,with people in general, maintaining equal footing instead of being a follower to a leader.

"I've heard you won your games with wasps. Honestly, I prefer to hear the story from you, since the records here seem biased, to put it lightly."

[honeyedwords]

"Tracker-jackers," says Sherlock, glancing over at Joan once he reaches the edge of the roof, then back out over the skyline. The noise drifting up from the street should block out normal conversation well enough as long as they stay moderately quiet and none of the surveillance devices have been moved. Which they haven't, he's almost certain. In any case it's not so much that they're venturing into dangerous territory just yet so much as he prefers his privacy.

"Particularly nasty variety of designer monster that the game makers like to toss into arenas whenever things get boring. Their sting is hallucinogenic and usually fatal. They also have a fondness for a specific type of berry." One that he's noticed hasn't appeared in many games since. He supposes that watching the favorite career get pelted with fruit was funny once, but not enough to encourage an encore. "I managed to survive until there were only three tributes left, and used this to my advantage."

[formersurgeon]

She looks out over the city as well, and thinks about how the way this Sherlock won his games is so like the way her Sherlock would have. She would like to know more about this Sherlock's victory, but she doesn't want to push too much right now. He's only met her, after all. This place might not be big into privacy, but if he's like her Sherlock, then letting him unfold his past and his pain to her slowly might be the best plan.

"We had a case once where a man planted a beehive in a park, near a route a particular woman would jog everyday. She was allergic, and he wanted to kill her in a way that wouldn't look like murder. That was his specialty. You...Sherlock...he was amused. I think he almost admired the guy, with his army of 'bee assassins.'"