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

"At times I find myself unconscious, yes," Sherlock said, still pointedly facing inwards to the couch. It was as much of an answer as she was going to get.

To head her off, he added, "I even take nutrients and relieve myself in the designated area."

"Good to see you're also just as much of a smart-ass," she remarked wryly. "I'll sit with you for a while. It's not like I have anywhere to be."

Sherlock groaned something completely incomprehensible, shoving his face further into the couch. He was so beyond wanting to be helped that it was impossible to even say so.

Finally, from the depths of the couch he managed to mumble out: "I'll be fine, Joan."

"Of course you will." Which meant we both know that's not true. "You keep being fine for the next half hour and I'll be on my way."

Sherlock grumbled again but didn't say anything more. If she was going to sit there and watch him sulk, fine.

She didn't say anything, just settling in to be with him. She knew how important it could be, knowing that there's someone who won't be pushed away, who won't leave him alone when he's like this. That even her presence alone could be reassuring.