thecapitol | (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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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."

Don't be stupid, he tapped out, a little annoyed as John pulled his hand away. Easy cover.

He let the pause between the stretch out, to give John time to decipher it, before simply saying, "I see," in as careful a voice as he could manage.

It took him a while to work it out, especially while trying to manage the verbal conversation too- but after a long moment he slid his hand back, resting it on Sherlock's thigh, gently. This time, an inch or so closer to his knee.

SRI. ABT rebel MSG. He paused. "Sorry," he said out loud. "I don't know what to tell you. Everything's complicated."

w ho?

His fingers paused, curling slightly against John's thigh.

"Fine. I won't ask again," He murmured as the first of their plates was slid before them. He tapped out Punchy against John's leg before he removed his hand and turned to his food.

His earlier excitement died a quick death. He suddenly had a very good guess as to what had triggered Sherlock's dark mood.

"I'm not rejecting you, Sherlock," he said, quietly, because horribly enough that conversation was the easier one to attempt. He felt around on the table for his fork and attempted to spear some food- not that he was all that hungry, suddenly.

"It's more complicated than that."

"John, it's fine." His voice was tight, about both conversations (neither of which he particularly wanted to have), but now he was trapped here and he couldn't just disappear back into his room.

He nodded- a futile gesture in the dark, but it was hardly a conscious action.

"Okay. So- I've never had a portobello mushroom before, so you might have to eat mine too," he said, attempting to lighten the mood a little. His hand slipped under the table, resting on Sherlock's knee.

WL pr actice, he promised haltingly. help U. Punchy.

"... Yes, because I'm a voracious eater," Sherlock said, sullenly poking at his food on his plate, his hands staying resolutely above the table. What did it matter? There was nothing that could be done - nothing that would risk his own life, or worse, John's. No help John could offer. He tentatively sniffed at his food before just making some random sounds of eating it so that John would be satisfied without actually touching it.

John gave Sherlock's knee a gentle squeeze instinctively before returning his attention to his meal- though if he'd been asked to explain his motivations, or even to pinpoint the moment when an attempt to reassure Sherlock with physical contact had become a course of action he'd even consider, he would have found himself at a complete loss.

"There's got to be something you enjoy eating," John offered as he tried to get a piece of mushroom and salad on his fork without his eyesight. It wasn't particularly easy.

"When I'm in a mood," He said, pushing his own food around like a listless two year old. It was all too apparent that he wasn't in a mood then. Whatever slight reprieve his mood had taken at John's insistence upon getting out was now lost - the black weight of his previous foul mood once more settling upon his shoulders.

Thankfully, it was a little easier getting the forkful into his mouth than it had been getting the food on the fork. He chewed, thoughtfully, and decided he didn't actually like portobello mushrooms all that much. The next time he attacked his plate, it was to try and find the mushroom, stab it and deposit it on Sherlock's plate with as little fuss as possible.

Which, it turned out, was quite a lot of fuss. Ridiculously so, really.

"There isn't anything that you like just because it's good? How about bacon?"

"Bacon is--" But whatever bacon was to Sherlock was interrupted by him waving about after John managed to stab a mushroom into his hand. "Enough! I have enough on my own plate, John, without your bungling."

Which meant, of course, that he immediately tried to put some of his food on John's plate instead. Real mature.

"Careful!" John laughed, retaliating in kind, no doubt dropping salad all over the table in the effort. "You'll stab my hand, just-- take the damn mushroom..."

"I have no interest in your mushrooms, John Watson," Sherlock said petulantly before he finally just gave up and shoved his entire plate in front of John.

Edited 2013-09-11 01:05 (UTC)

"No?" he chuckled, pushing Sherlock's plate back. "I'll have your surprise dessert if you have my mushroom..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in the dark and pushed the plate to the opposite side of the table. "Oh, yes, what a sacrifice."