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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John breathed out, slowly. So there it was, the core of it all.

"I don't agree with you," he said, quietly. "I don't think it was the work that made us what we were. And I don't think that just because your work isn't here that we can't-- I'm your friend, Sherlock, and that's not because we solved crimes together. That's what we do. It's not what we are."

"It is what I am." Sherlock stated bluntly. "I was very careful to rid myself of anything that wasn't the work. There is no possible way for me to be the man that you knew, back home."

"Alright," John said, simply, the quiet disappointment in his voice something he no longer had the reserves to try and hide. "Alright. You're the work, you can't do your work, you don't exist. Alright."

This conversation had not gone how he had meant it to. John had been meant to see reason, not... Not whatever this was. Hadn't realised he had completely meant what he had said until after he had said it, and then there was nothing left.

He pushed the cup away from him, completely uninterested. Whatever little apatite he had before was gone, replaced by the awkward, hollow knowledge that he had broken something he could not replace. So he said nothing.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do, if you really believe that," he said after a long, miserable moment, getting steadily more and more angry. "Because I'm pretty sure, Sherlock, that the work doesn't give a damn about John Watson. Sherlock Holmes, my friend, my best friend, is sitting right in front of me and if you're going to be a complete idiot about this--"

He cut himself off, fingers curled into fists on the table.

"I don't know what you're playing at, Sherlock, but you'd better bloody stop it. Right now."

"Don't be an idiot." It wasn't quite a snap - the tone too resigned to be a retort, but it was hard anyway.

"If what you've taken from everything that has happened is that I don't give a damn--"

"Right. So you're a human being with feelings and emotions, no matter how hard you'd like to pretend otherwise, and there's a lot more to you than your work. Glad we've got that one sorted out."

"You are missing the point." Sherlock said, but was starting to get honestly flustered and so could not explain the point if he tried.

The point where he knew what he had been like, before the work. Before John.

When the only way to cope with the boredom was to fill it with anything he could get his hands on, anything that would take the edge off for a moment or more.

Knew that the work gave him the only piece of value that society actually wanted. That the Work is why he was tolerated. He even knew why.

Because, even now, despite the precarious nature in which he found his dearest friendship, his brain was still calculating how to twist it. Telling him to say 'feelings that I'm not allowed to have' in a bitter tone.

But something held him back.

Edited 2013-08-17 00:22 (UTC)

"Yeah, I think I probably am," he agreed, his anger cooling and a mixture of confusion and weariness washing in to take its place.
"I just don't know how to help you, Sherlock. And I want to. That's all."

Sherlock bit his tongue rather than let the bitter retort out, staring down into his cup.

"I'm fine." He said instead, quite done with feelings and the mess associated with them. There was no point arguing. John had already turned him down romantically, which was the only way he could see them being allowed to win as a pair in the games, and he'd also turned down the only mission that Sherlock had managed to create for himself.

No matter how hard he worked, he would never be able to petition for John's removal without his cooperation.

Edited 2013-08-17 00:37 (UTC)

John didn't know what to do with that lie.
"Sherlock," he said, quietly. "Tell me the truth. Not what you think I want to hear, or what you're supposed to say. Tell me what you need me to do."

Sherlock raised his eyes to meet John's, and held them.

"Exactly what on earth could there be that you could do?" He asked, quietly, but firmly. "Every plan I've devised to somehow make it better isn't suitable. I need something on which to focus and the only thing offering itself is endless, pointless death, and I'm fairly sure that can't be healthy in the long run."

He cleared his throat and straightened up.
"Alright, so plan A was to petition me out of the Games. Which- I'd rather not be in them, all things being equal, but I'm not ever going to be okay with me being out and unable to help you. So we need a plan B, or you need to tell me the second half of plan A."

Sherlock offered a flat look but didn't say anything, only raising his wrist so the little metal bracelet around it glinted in the light.

The one he was almost certain was completely bugged.

He didn't bother to mention that the dating had been plan A.

John sighed. God, he hated that damned bracelet- almost as much as he hated knowing exactly how proud of it Sherlock was.
"Is there one. Just tell me that, Sherlock. Is there."

"Do I seem like the kind of man who doesn't plan ahead?" Sherlock asked, non-committaly.

There were plans, and then there were plans he knew John wouldn't like. Really, really knew.

"I just... Need you to trust me."

"Alright," he said, calmly. "If you can look me in the eyes and tell me you have a plan that gets both of us out of the Games, and that both of us survive it, I'll do whatever you want- as long as you trust me when I tell you, I will never forgive you if you are lying to me right now. I am not exaggerating when I say I can't do this without you."

Sherlock looked away, unable to make the promise that John wanted.

"I don't want to die," He said eventually. "I will do everything in my power to have us both removed from the games in a safe and relatively risk free manner, but John surely you understand that one goal is much more difficult than the other--"

"Let me put this a different way, Sherlock," John said, calmly. "As far as I am concerned. Me being in the Capitol and you dead is worse than us being in the Games together. It's not a solution. It's a failure."

"Fine. No petition until I can remove us both," Sherlock said, miserably. "Happy?"

"I wouldn't go that far," he said wryly. "But- thank you."

He didn't really acknowledge the thank you except to finally pick up his coffee and sip at it - long gone cold. He made a face and set it back down.

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