thecapitol | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Who: || Sherlock and Open
Where: || District 2 Suites
When: || A few days after the network blackout
What: || Sherlock is sulking in the most melodramatic way possible, but he has his reasons.
Warnings: || None, save Sherlock being a brooding child

It had been nearly two days, since he had left his rooms. Longer than that, since he had been fully dressed, or spoken to anyone. He'd extracted himself carefully and quietly from daily life in the tribute tower, wallowing in the blackest mood he could summon.

Punchy was missing. Sherlock had few friends, fewer still ones he could accurately describe as having greater expertise in a subject than he did, and Punchy was one of them. Despite the bizarre dialect in which he spoke, Sherlock knew the boy was brilliant when it came to computers, and hacking network systems in particular. So when their comms had been hacked, the message of rebellion spread, Sherlock had immediately wanted his opinion.

Only to find he had disappeared.

He wasn't allowed to investigate, of course - wasn't even allowed in Punchy's room - but it didn't take the world's greatest detective to be able to deduce what had happened to him. Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Sherlock wanted to shake him, hard, if only he could find him first. But there was no point in looking. Punchy had almost assuredly been taken deep into the Capitol's crooked heart.

He only hoped the boy would still be alive when he was brought out of it.

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He smiled, his face too tight with concern for the expression to feel warm- but thankfully, Sherlock wasn't watching.
"Alright," he said. "So play one of mine instead. Come out? If you really hate it, I won't ask again. I don't even care if you come out exactly as you are right now. But you're not the only one who gets bored, Sherlock."

He let his hand drop, his eyes still closed.

For a whole minute and a half it looked as if he wasn't going to reply at all, completely ignoring the statement, and then...

"I can't be seen like this," He moaned. It wasn't a 'no'.

Edited 2013-08-30 20:09 (UTC)

"Well, I'm sure they've got a sheet or two handy around here," he teased companionably, looking around to find a suitable chair to deposit himself in. "I can wait while you get ready."

"They locked me out of my room until I agreed to clean up," Sherlock pointed out, still draped haphazardly across the couch. He turned his head to glare down the hall. He did not want to face either his escorts or his stylists.

"Well, now I know why you look quite so exhausted," John commented with a wry smile. "We could try requesting you some clothes from my place, or I could deal with your escort? Seemed quite nice last time we spoke."

Sherlock groaned lowly.

"Are you absolutely sure we can't just sit here is the dark instead?" He whined, but he slowly began to pull himself free of the couch's embrace.

Edited 2013-08-30 21:45 (UTC)

"Absolutely sure, yes," he said insistently, leaning on his stick as he watched Sherlock move. Good. He was certain Sherlock would have stayed there forever unless someone intervened. "It'll be worth it, though. I think you'll like it."

Or at least he hoped he'd like the frankly ingenious plan John had concocted. He was quite proud of himself.

Sherlock muttered under his breath but stumbled down towards his rooms.

A few minutes later, there were some raised voices and some obviously snide remarks and a door slam. Sherlock didn't reappear for fifteen minutes, showered (sort-of) and dressed.

His hair was still wet.

He looked at John like a disgruntled cat.

"Happy?"

John quite clearly was. He grinned, shifted his weight and straightened up, nodding.
"Let's go. I hope you didn't do anything too drastic to your handlers..."

Sherlock replied only with a snarl as he strode over to the elevators, slamming a finger into the button for the bottom door once they were inside.

"So where are we going, exactly?"

"Noire," John told him, the kind of smile on his face that Sherlock would probably recognise from other occasions when John thought he was doing a) something clever and b) something Sherlock would be proud of him for.
"It's a dining-in-the-dark place, quiet, private, and the food's pretty good, I'm told. I thought you'd like a break from the prying eyes, and I could do with one too."

Sherlock's face made it very clear how slightly ridiculous he found the idea, but for once in his life he held his complaints to himself. Something about John's self satisfied grin made him think there was more to this story than the man was letting on.

John didn't say much for the rest of their walk to the restaurant- his limp noticeably reduced as he led them to their destination with a purposeful, satisfied gait. Once arrived he had a brief conversation with the doorman during which the words 'for me and my date' were used, nodded, and looked back at Sherlock for confirmation before following him inside into the darkness, where they were led to their booth. John's excitement was palpable as he slid onto into the intimate loveseat arrangement, rested his cane against the side and waited for Sherlock to join him.

Sherlock couldn't help but pause, a slightly sharp look on his face, wondering if John was deliberately attempting to placate him after the last ordeal. 'My date' a little too obvious, even for him. But he didn't say anything, sliding into the booth beside John in the pitch darkness. He knew it was John (would know the man by his breath anywhere), but otherwise couldn't see a thing.

For a man that relied upon his eyes as much as Sherlock did, it was mildly disconcerting.

"So what exactly are we eating?"

John grinned, fully aware Sherlock would be able to hear it in his voice.
"Grilled portobello mushroom with parmigiano and balsamic vinegar on a mixed green salad to start, followed by a main course of marinated shrimp with herbs, served with sundried tomato risotto... and a surprise dessert," he rattled off with the air of a man who'd clearly been planning this for a while. "But it's nice, isn't it, to not have everyone staring at us?"

He shifted a little closer, his hand resting on the bench seat between them.

"Unless we were the only ones not equipped with infrared glasses upon entering," Sherlock grumbled into the darkness, squinting hard to see if he could make out any light at all. Unfortunately, they'd done and extremely good job.

He'd thought of that, which was why he took a deep breath and slid his hand across until it was resting on Sherlock's thigh. A tap, he'd thought, might be picked up by Sherlock's bracelet if it was too obvious and rhythmic, so he limited himself to short, gentle movements of his thumb and forefinger. Thumb for dits, pointer for dahs.

"Well, I suppose so," he agreed, as he began, not giving Sherlock time to pull away. dah dit dah dit and a pause, and dah dah dit dah. It was slow and slightly irregular, but the message, he hoped, would get through. CQ. CQ, CQ, CQ...

Sherlock immediately stilled and tensed as he felt John's hand on his thigh. Well that was a development. Between that and the mention of 'my date', Sherlock was quickly beginning to wonder if his forlorn campaign was actually beginning to have an effect--

And then John started moving. He didn't get it at first, wondering vaguely if this was meant to be foreplay (he wouldn't really know), when he recognized the pattern. Morse code.

Clever.

He reached out leisurely, fingers slipping onto John's thigh, and tapped out "..- .-.". UR. I read you.

He swelled with elation, barely resisting the urge to laugh. This could work! Admittedly, it had been a long time since he'd passed Morse proficiency, and he'd never been the best at it, but he had a damn good incentive to learn now.

rustw, he tapped out gently, stumbling at the last consonant, and adding a slightly fumbled but much more practiced apology. SRI.

He paused as he heard a waiter pass, but no one spoke to them and nothing was place at their table, so he relaxed.

So I see, He tapped out, then paused. This was your plan?

C, he tapped back in the affirmative after a fairly long pause- decoding was harder than trying to send. safe?

Maybe.

He leaned in, suddenly, and murmured something vague in John's ear, just before the gentle tap of a glass being set on their table rang out.

"I wasn't expecting you to... ah, bring me to a place like this," Sherlock said, his voice a little husky as his fingers quickly tapped out KN. Go ahead.

Ah. Yes, they'd have to talk, wouldn't they, if they wanted to keep this looking completely innocent- if innocent was the right word.

"Well, I thought you'd need something interesting to get you out of your room," he said, happy to tell the truth. "What do you think? Not being able to see must make things a bit more complicated, right, especially when you're all about observing."

"Complicated. That might be a word for it, yes." He hesitated, slightly, wondering if he should lampshade the fact that they were sitting with their hands on each other's thighs.

Out with it, He tapped out, before out loud he said: "Does this mean - ah, that is... You and Effie--"

Edited (fuck everything) 2013-09-03 15:52 (UTC)

He cleared his throat, fingers gingerly peeling away from Sherlock's thigh. It was odd, really, he hadn't even thought...

"Not really much change there," he mumbled, awkwardly, trying to think of somewhere else. His back, perhaps? But it would be much more obvious what they were doing. "I don't really know what's going on with anything, any more."