thecapitol | (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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

"Well, my mother doesn't give me much of a choice Honestly, encouraging me to work with Sherlock was the first time she actully approved of what I was doing ever since I left medicine. She didn't like me being a sober companion. Called me a 'babysitter.'"

Her relationship with her mother was not an easy one, but there was still clear affection in her voice.

"How long have you been out of the army?"

"It was about two and a half years when I was brought here," he said. "A different life, really."

But Joan's mention of having left medicine caught his attention. His head tilted a fraction to the left as he observed her.
"Must have been something serious, to make you give up on medicine," he commented, carefully.

She lowered her eyes to her hands, clasped them in front of her, took a breath. She could have lied. She was sure he'd know. And if he was going to trust her with his pain, she had to trust him with hers.

"I killed someone. My license was suspended, and I let it lapse. I didn't trust myself anymore."

Well- that, he supposed, would be about the equivalent of getting shot, if she was as similar to him as he suspected she was.

"Christ, Joan, I'm sorry," he said- because what else was there to say? Everyone would have already told her it wasn't her fault or any number of the other platitudes people hid behind when there wasn't anything worth saying. He knew himself well enough to know she wasn't going to be convinced.
"So... the sober companion job was a way to keep on making a difference?"

She looked up and gave him a nod with a faint but grateful smile, that he didn't try to explain away the significance of the fact. She hadn't expected him to, of course.

"It was another way to keep healing people. I had someone close to me who was an addict, so I knew a lot about how addiction and recovery worked. It seemed a good fit."

He nodded. "My sister, Harriet- alcohol. It's a good job, Joan. People like that don't always get the help they need."

"Oh, I'm very proud of the work that I did as a sober companion, despite the opinion of my mother. And my friends. And my ex..."

She laughed wryly.

"But no, I was good at it, and I helped a lot of people."

She tilted her head.

"How is your sister?"

"Loud, obnoxious and in denial," he told her with a wry smile. "Harry split up with her wife and is busy pretending it's the best thing that ever happened to her- none of us can get through to her at all, least of all me. She'd slam the door in your face if you offered your help, put it that way."

"That's not unusual," she said, her voice soft. "It can be very hard for people to admit they need help, sometimes especially to family." She leaned forward a little. "You mentioned that your parents are avoiding asking if you're gay. How did they take your sister's marriage?"

"Pretty badly," he admitted with a sigh. "Don't get me wrong, Joan, Harriet's got plenty of reasons to be hurt, and I sympathise. She's my sister. I'm just the last person on earth she's ever going to accept help from, and she's done a pretty thorough job of cutting off anyone else who might want to. I'm sure you know how it is."

"Unfortunately," she agreed. "And I'm sure you would help her if she would accept it. But she has to want to change. It's such a cliche, but it's true."

Again, a faint smile.

"I'm not telling you anything you don't already know, though. Maybe we should talk about something else. Tell me about a case that you worked on with Sherlock?"