thecapitol | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Who| John Watson and open
What| Venturing out after waking up in the Capitol
Where| Tribute Tower, possibly other locations later
When| Before date auction

It hadn't been a particularly glorious or sensational death, and John was almost glad of it. He woke in the Capitol as if from a particularly vivid nightmare, but his leg would no longer reliably support his weight no matter how hard he sat in his room and hated himself for being unable to just think through the psychosomatic injury. He'd had to accept the arm of an avox to get himself safely there, and he hadn't left since.

He'd have to get a cane, again. Sherlock would hate it.

Speaking of Sherlock- he hadn't avoided him exactly, but he hadn't sought him out either. Hours seemed to slip past like breathing until the idiotic futility of it all was too much and he knew that he'd never, ever get out of his room unless he forced himself to, right now. Right this instant.

Asking for a stick was one of the hardest, most humiliating things he'd ever had to do in his life. Once he had it, he heaved himself upright, took a deep, steadying breath, set his jaw- and stepped out.

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He had not expected the awkwardness, or the sudden tension between them. He had forgotten, perhaps, in the weeks between, of how exactly they had left off. Had replaced their last parting with the usual steady current of their friendship. (Though he hadn't forgotten the death. Couldn't.)

The awkwardness hit him like a hammer and he sniffed, straightening.

"Yes. Well. I'm here. Would you prefer to be here, or--"

He smiled- a tight, thin thing that only really qualified as a smile because there wasn't another word for it. His fingers curled around the handle of his cane.
"I need to get out of here," he said, because if he couldn't be honest with Sherlock, who was there left? "Get me out of here, Sherlock."

He moved out of the way, hitting the button for the elevator and watching the door slide instantly open - (How gratifying) - before gesturing John through. Only once the man was in the elevator, the door closed behind him, did he speak again.

"You have a cane." He said, with the same tone of voice one would point out the weather.

John glanced up at the ceiling, wet his lips, and returned to staring straight ahead at the closed elevator doors.
"I don't want to talk about it," he said. "Alright? I don't. So-- so don't."

He didn't.

Didn't utter a word, in fact, even as the elevator doors opened, even as he strode out towards the massive doors toward the city. Though he did pause, waiting for John to catch up.

He could feel the gulf between them like a deep and endless canyon and he was quickly shutting himself away from thinking anything about it at all.

John didn't say anything for a long while- fully aware that the old rhythm of his limping gait at Sherlock's side said it all for him. He hated the idea of being right back at the beginning, of having undone Sherlock's work, of having disappointed him.
And he wasn't too proud of how he was acting now, either.

"Sorry," he said, eventually. "I'm sorry. I'll be fine, in a bit. Let's just get somewhere quiet."

He didn't blame John for his limp. Much the opposite - it was proof of his failure to keep him safe. That despite everything he had to watch John die. Again. Twice. And there was little he could do about it.

He had a plan, of course, he always did, but that was not something to speak of now.

"Quiet," He repeated, quickly running through his mind a list of where the best places would be, and made a decision. A small coffee shop at the edge of the park. It never seated more than six people and was usually extremely quiet.

One his decision was made, he made a beeline there.

John didn't attempt to strike up conversation again until they'd arrived and he'd lowered himself into a chair, nicely tucked away in the back of the tiny coffee shop, his cane leaning against the wall beside him.

"Thanks," he said, finally looking up and meeting Sherlock's eyes.

He'd already ordered them coffee as he took the seat opposite, meeting John's eyes with a calculating, observing gaze. There was no warmth in his look, though there was the faint trace of concern.

"Gaining sponsors became increasingly difficult as the arena passed and prices were raised." He paused, frowned. "... I had meant to do more, John."

He shook his head. "No, I know. You did more than enough, Sherlock, it was-- thank you. I lost it, once Joan-"

He cut himself off, glancing up and swallowing, hard. "Is she here? I didn't check."

"Yes, she's here. We - ah - had a chat." It was surprising, how oddly uncomfortable it was to mention her in front of John. He'd had no qualms the other way - speaking of John to Joan was only natural. But the other way around...

If he was at all a man who reflected on the feelings of others, perhaps he would have reasoned that John must feel the same way about the other Sherlock.

But he wasn't.

Which also meant he felt completely out of his depth when faced with a John who had not only reverted to the depression that Sherlock had originally found him in, but indeed seemed to be worse.

Edited 2013-08-16 20:46 (UTC)

He nodded, relieved in a way to hear that his counterpart had been brought back to life, though he wasn't sure whether that was a cause for celebration or not, all things considered. It depended, he thought, on what happened to those who didn't come back. Anything was better than death, it really was- but if they got to go back...

"Who would have thought I'd make such an attractive woman," he joked, cracking a smile. "She's definitely me, though, isn't she? She really is."

Sherlock frowned, actually starting to look uncomfortable than simply feeling it, and he plucked at an invisible loose thread on his knee.

"You certain share a wealth of similarities," He acknowledge as noncommittally as possible. "As do the worlds we come from. But honestly, I don't think it really matters--"

He tilted his head to one side, watching Sherlock curiously.

"You know I don't mind, right? That you talked to her. I'm not jealous, or worried, or anything. You don't need to... I'm fine."

Sherlock gave him a flat look. "You are not fine." He stated, clearly, and bluntly, and too quickly. He was more worried than he let on, but he was done talking about... whatever they were not talking about, and quickly changed course.

"I've been doing some research, into the petition system. I believe we could make a fairly strong case for your release from the games."

John swallowed, pausing as they were brought their coffees. It was a good reason as any to buy himself some thinking-room.

"They don't need me," he pointed out, curling his fingers around his mug. "They don't need a doctor with my skillset, Sherlock. They bloody clone people and put memories from the dead body into a new one. You think they need an invalided army doctor?"

"They clone us." He pointed out, clearly. "Whatever technology works on us doesn't extend to their population, and even then, they don't use it on the victors. They have some advanced methodology, true, but hardly anything you wouldn't learn to work with, or around." He reached out, found his cup, tapping along the edge of the rim.

"You're more useful to them out of the arena than you are in it, and that is the extent of the requirement. I'm sure they would actually see having a tribute doctor to work as a liaison between the tributes and the Capitol as a boon."

"No, actually, I'm more useful in," he said with a slow, artificial calm. "As long as I have a medkit, and even without, that's what I'm good at. Field medicine. I'm completely useless out here."

"More useful to what. Prolong the game?" The question was blunt, his eyes hard. "It isn't a team sport, John, Katniss and Peeta winning together was an anomaly and not one they are like to repeat. They don't want doctors in the game. They want death."

"So what. We all go in and kill ourselves in protest to stop them from having their Games? I suppose that would make it a team sport, too."
He put his coffee down, staring him straight in the eyes.
"Being a doctor is always useless, in the end. You can't win forever. Everyone dies. But that doesn't mean you don't try, alright? It means you do your damnedest to make sure that day isn't today, for anyone who asks you, whoever, wherever they are. I'm a doctor, Sherlock, I'd go on being a doctor in Hell itself, and I am not going to run away from this. No."

"You say that as if the Capitol isn't just as dangerous a place to be," He said bitterly. He flashed his bracelet, just to remind him. Death, out here, was permanent. Unlike in there.

"But don't you lecture me about death," He said darkly, his knuckles tightening on the grip of his coffee mug. "When you're forced to watch me die right in front of you multiple times then you can lecture me about the 'inevitability of death.'. This is not 'Everyone dies'. This is 'Everyone is brutally murdered, repeatedly, for the sake of entertainment'."

Edited 2013-08-16 22:06 (UTC)

"I'm sorry, alright?" he hit back, raw and irritable with shame. "I'm sorry. I'm not doing it to you on purpose, Sherlock, it's not like I've been deliberately getting myself killed to spite you. I'm doing my best."

"I'm not asking you to be sorry," He hissed, glowering over his coffee. "I simply don't see why you would want to continue a pattern where both of us inevitably die. Since I don't exactly see you becoming a stone-cold killer in the arena, and nor am I about to, the chances of either of us winning are effectively 0."

He sucked in a breath, his eyes hard. "Dying in there is pointless and inevitable. I am never getting out of them. They've made that all too clear. Even if they did have work for me they would never trust me to touch it. But you have a chance, John. And if you honestly believe that the tributes need more help in the arena than they do here, then you are less perceptive than I thought."

The frown deepened, but his eyes dropped, glaring into his coffee. "I pride myself on my general ability to be unaffected by death, but even I have limits."

"I'm not letting you go in there alone," he said, simply. "I can't, and I won't. You can't ask me to do that. So either we both get out or we both stay in, and that's final."

"It's not like I haven't done it on my own before," Sherlock said petulantly, convinced that John was missing the point completely. "What's the point of all of this if I can't even--" But he cut himself off, abruptly, biting down on his own tongue and looking firmly out the window.

"Fine."