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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Pepper had slipped outside needing fresh air. She was actually distracted by something she was flipping through and almost crashed into Dr. Watson.

"Sorry," She made sure she hadn't bumped him too hard at least... Pausing she remembered him from in the arena. "Danny's associate right?" Hey give her credit she was still trying to get past the Death by turtle thing.

Sherlock was at the entrance to the District 7 suites, absolutely furious and arguing with the Avox that was blocking his way, stoic and silent.

"I don't care if he's asleep," Sherlock snapped, "I will wake him now let me--" But he cut off abruptly as he saw John, and suddenly stood up straight.

"There. See. Not even asleep. Now if you don't mind--"

He offered her a smile, tight but not unfriendly.
"John Watson. I think- we met, didn't we?"

"Pepper Potts, we met kind of in the arena, I was with Danny. Though it wasn't that long." She closed the book she was reading and held out her hand. "Pleased to formally meet you though Mr. Watson."

John didn't quite know where to look or what to say. Shame overwhelmed him in a sudden, bitter wave.
"Sorry," he said, his weight shifting, awkwardly. "I was coming to see you..."

He shook her hand firmly. "That's right. I am sorry, about the Arena- there was nothing left when we came back, we didn't even know what had happened..."

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--"

"It's okay, I figure can't really blame you guys. Not like we wanted to be in there in the first place right?" Okay maybe Harley... Pepper still wasn't sure what to think about her, but she wasn't going to hold grudges outside the arena.

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."

"Have you seen Danny since?" he asked, wetting his lips- he didn't particularly want to discuss blame, the lack of it, or anyone's desire to be in the Arena. "People don't always-- I assumed he'd come back here."

Joan couldn't watch it.

It was on all the screens, of course. The last flurry of deaths before the victor was crowned. She knew how it happened, or how it started, anyway. Saw the bear trap snap onto his leg. And couldn't watch past that.

She felt almost guilty, like she should have watched. He had watched her die, after all, maybe it was the proper thing to do, to witness his death, even if she wasn't actually there. But she couldn't.

She also found that it took her more time than she would have liked to go see him afterward. She wanted to see if he was okay. To let him know, let him see, that she was okay. She hesitated, though. Surely he'd want to see Sherlock first. Surely he'd want to rest. Surely...

Finally, all her "surelies" exhausted, she made her way to John's District suite. She told the attendant that she was there to see him, and had a seat in the common area to wait.

"I haven't yet, I was actually planning on searching for him today. Do you want me to give him a message when I find him?" Because she hates to think he hasn't shown up yet. Though the silence from him on the coms... Well just another reason to look for him right?

"Maybe we should try and find him," John suggested. It would be something to do, after all, and God alone knew John needed that. "I don't have anything I need to tell him, really, it's just good to check up on the people you can trust, in here."

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 hadn't quite been sure how he'd approach his alternate universe counterpart if and when they both found themselves in the Capitol, and so was slightly relieved to see her in the common area waiting for him when he limped in. He offered her a smile.

"Made it back, then," he observed, companionably, crossing the room and settling in the chair opposite, leaning his cane against it almost automatically. "It's good to see you."

It was, surprisingly. He wasn't quite sure what that said about him.

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.

She had been nervous about how he would react to seeing her again, but the smile was good, and she offered one in return.

"I did," she answered. "It's good to see you, too."

She glanced at the cane, her smile fading ever so slightly. Huh. She had been under the impression that when people were brought back to life, all of their wounds were healed. But John didn't have a limp in the arena.

"Did you hurt yourself?"

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 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?"

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