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 stiffened- just a little. Enough that an observant person would notice his discomfort at attention being brought to it.
"It's from before I was brought here," he said by way of explanation, as lightly as he could manage. "Shot, in Afghanistan. Plays up sometimes. I'll be fine."

"Oh."

She noticed his reaction, of course, and suspected that the problem with his leg was likely more significant than he was letting on. Right then was clearly not the time to talk about it, though. And as much as she wanted to ask him how he was doing, she also suspected they might need to talk about something else first, lest they just deepen the discomfort.

"I went to go see the other Sherlock...the one who lives here? And he's exactly like my Sherlock. Right down to his mannerisms. It's beyond weird."

That got his attention. He frowned, his head tilting slightly to the left.
"But he's not your Sherlock. Right? Obviously. ...You're saying he looks identical?"

He sat forward, obviously thinking hard.
"Did he recognise you?"

She leaned forward as well.

"He looks absolutely identical. But no, not mine. He didn't recognize me at all, and there are plenty of records of him winning the games when he was younger."

He shook his head. "That makes even less sense than the two of us being here. I don't understand. Did he-- you know. Did he pick it apart and tell you what was happening? He wasn't very friendly with me and Sherlock when we met, but then again I imagine he wasn't exactly at his best, that day."

"He wasn't exactly friendly with me either, but that's very him. I mean, mine pretty much hated me when we first met. I think he was just as confused about it as we are, though. I mean...different version are one thing. I've really enjoyed getting to know you and Sherlock. But actual copies?"

"Hated you?"

He smiled, relaxing back. Well, that was different.
"Didn't mean to get side-tracked, but you have to admit, it's odd, thinking about how different our lives are. Sorry. You said he was confused, too- do you think they're doing this for some reason connected to him?"

"At very least hated having me there. I was forced on him, and he didn't like what I had to do for my job."

She tilted her head, considering that.

"Maybe. Obviously, though, bringing me here won't have the same effect on him as bringing you here has on your Sherlock. They can threaten me all they want. As of now, I really doubt he'd care."

"He was going through withdrawal of some kind when I saw him," John noted, quietly. "I haven't really gone out of my way to see him, and I think he's avoided me. It was almost like he felt attacked by our existence- Sherlock and me- though I don't know how much of that was just his condition. Just something you should probably know."

"He's obviously struggling, even though he doesn't want people to know just how much. I know that my Sherlock was incredibly lonely. Maybe this Sherlock reacted badly because he doesn't have someone like you. He doesn't have a Watson."

He smiled, a little awkwardly. "Yeah, I- I think that was what I was getting at. I'm never going to tell you what to do, partly because I think if we're as similar as I think we are you're already thinking it, but- he seemed in trouble, to me. Even compared to the rest of the Victors, here."

She smiled back.

"We're definitely on the same page, then. I'll do my best to help him. As silly as it sounds, maybe that's why the universe brought me here, even if the people in charge had no idea."

He looked her straight in the eyes, measuring her up for a moment as if marvelling at how different they could look and yet be, at their cores, so similar. Perhaps more spectacularly, he found he liked her. It was an oddly comforting thing, to be confronted with yourself and to find a great deal to respect.
A timely thing, too.

"He won't thank you for it," he warned, cheerfully.

"No, he won't," she responded, amused. "But that's very like them, isn't it?"

She met his gaze, thinking as well about how much she liked him. It felt more than a little narcissistic, finding herself so fond of someone who was another universe's idea of her. But she liked him even in the ways that he was different. Or ways that he expressed their similarities differently.

She suspected one of those similarities was a tendency to bury pain, soldier on with a brave face, and she suspected something like that might have been going on with his leg.

She slid forward in her chair, to sit on the edge, so she was as close to him as possible.

"How are you doing?"

He smiled, wryly. Of course they would have that in common, too. Of course.

"I'll be fine," he said, knowing full well she'd know exactly what that meant. He was far from fine but there was nothing to do but keep going until he was.
"I just need something to do that isn't waiting to get killed, that's all."

"Tell me about it. That was only my first time, and I'm already so done with it."

Her voice was quiet and light, but still with an undercurrent of concern.

"I haven't had much of a chance to explore the city. Are there things you like to do between arenas?"

He looked straight at her for a long moment, something resembling amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You know I know what you're doing, right?"

She was glad he seemed to be taking her polite subterfuge with amusement instead of annoyance.

"Yeah, doing it like that doesn't really work with us, does it? Okay. I'm worried about you, and I'd like to take you out somewhere we can both take our minds off what we've been through. I also would like to spend time with you, because I like you and enjoy your company."

She smiled.

"Better?"

"Better," he agreed, a grin spreading over his face. "I don't really know what to suggest, though, really. I don't know if you were any better than I was at actually keeping up hobbies and a social life, back home, but..."

She laughed.

"Social life. Right. I keep standing up my friends, I have absolutely no romantic life, and I spend all my time analyzing blood spatter and learning about cryptography. I'm sure you're the same way. It isn't a job, it's a lifestyle. Sherlock lives and breathes the Work. It's impossible to live with him and not do the same."

From her expression, though, it was clear that she's absolutely not complaining. She loved her job and her life with Sherlock.

He smiled, broadly- warm affection softening the deep lines around his eyes.

"Sounds... horribly familiar," he laughed. "You and your Sherlock, ah, you're not... obviously, you're not. Romantically, ah, involved, that is."

"No. Partners, friends, definitely not romantically involved."

Her voice was firm but not offended. There had been people that assumed that the only way she could possibly be with Sherlock was that they were sleeping with each other. She knew he didn't mean that.

He nodded. It was good, somehow, to be able to understand someone else's intentions implicitly- if a little bizarre.

"Partners, friends, definitely not romantically involved, but would do just about anything for the mad bastard," he confirmed with a wry smile. "It's... good, to know there's someone who gets it. I haven't found a word that works for other people, yet."

"It is," she agreed. "And I know what you mean, not being able to really explain what he is to you. Surprisingly enough, I think my mother came the closest to 'getting it.' She realized, before I was really admitting it to myself, that Sherlock makes me happy. And considering she hasn't asked me if we've set a date for the wedding yet, I think she understands we're not romantic."

Of course, Joan had spoken to Sherlock already, and recognized that there was some romantic tension going on there, perhaps entirely for the benefit of the narrative, perhaps not quite so simple. She wasn't sure that Sherlock was even entirely aware of which.

"My parents are so desperately avoiding having to ask me whether I'm gay that they haven't even spoken to me about him," John laughed. "We're not... we're not very close. I haven't actually been to visit either of them since I invalided out. Never seemed like the right time."