there is nothing more deceptive

[costing]

Who| sherlock holmes & open.
What| an arrival, an exploration, perhaps more than one encounter.
Where| the basement & fourth floor.
When| the beginning of week 5.
Warnings/Notes| to be added as needed.

His first thought is that the entire situation is ludicrous. The outfits, the setting, the very premise. After entering the arena, Sherlock’s first thought is to wrap his head around the entirety of the situation, but that proves easier thought of than done. He takes to rubbing his forearm where the tracker had been implanted, a gesture he knows comes off as a nervous tick but one that he can’t help.

The need for cover doesn’t seem real to him, yet, but he bets on the fact that the explanation he was given was true. So when he finds an overturned car in the basement, he ducks around it for a moment. He tries to take stock, listens carefully. If he hears anyone approach, he’ll try to observe them before making himself known. He isn’t much of a runner, but he’s counting on his ability to distract if it comes down to it.

--

A little while later he can be found at one of the doors to the staircases. He knows that the elevators would be faster, but they’re also more easily controlled. He doesn’t have any of his lock-picking tools with him, but he’s good at improvising. So for several long minutes, Sherlock toys with the locks with bits of thin rubble, trying to rig them open.

He looks as though his concentration on the lock is absolute; he doesn’t turn his head or even pause. But his senses are acute, trained to notice if anyone comes at him. He knows of his own tendency to get lost in his own head, and so tries his utmost to be as alert as he can.

--

And finally, he’ll grow tired of the door’s lock and abandon it. That’s a tough pill for him to swallow—failing at something—but compared to all else going on around him, it’s the smallest on his list of grievances. Instead, now, he turns to the elevators and picks a random number once he’s inside.

He ends up on the fourth floor. He lifts a brow, as he prepares to exit the elevator. A museum. He supposes that’s fitting, given the atmosphere of the arena. A museum is a place of past spectacle. They’ve just now combined it with a live, present one. It’s almost too fitting, in a campy way that makes him feel like he’s being mocked. But he takes a deep breath, rubs at his arm again, and prepares to explore.

( ooc: feel free to encounter him at any point; i'll edit things if anything major occurs. i have a permissions post for deductions here, if there's anything you think i/sherlock should know. and if you'd like any more specific scenarios or want to plot a bit further, please let me know. )

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[costing]

“Sherlock Holmes. And if you do curse it, you’ll undoubtedly be in good company.” He doesn’t have a lot of friends, and he is more or less alright with that. He takes a step towards Joel and holds out a hand.

“It can’t be easy to do that properly with one hand. Let me.”

[aintyourdad]

Joel is a little wary - touching strangers for reasons other than self-defense is kind of a no-no where he comes from, for obvious reasons. But hey, it is Sherlock's fault he now has to change his bandage, and it's true that he just wouldn't be able to do as good a job himself with it.

Finally, he hands over the bandage and offers the other man his injured, blistered hand - it's healing, but it still looks pretty ugly.

"Joel," he finally offers. "My name's Joel. And, uh. Watch the sprinklers. They don't spit water. They spit dry ice." Hence, his injured hands.

[costing]

Sherlock looks at the wound perfunctorily—he can tell it’s an ice burn before Joel says it. When he takes the bandages and begins wrapping the hand, his technique is near perfect but brusque. He doesn’t waste any of the gauze and binds it tightly. It’s all very clinical, but lacking a doctor’s bedside manner.

“I appreciate the warning, Joel.” He seems like a good man, and Sherlock does regret the circumstances of their meeting. “If it wouldn’t put you at too much a disadvantage, would you answer a question for me?”

[aintyourdad]

It's no more than Joel wants or expects, to be honest. He's not interested in comforting words, or being all buddy-buddy with anyone. Sherlock's skill is obvious, and his silence is a relief. The last thing Joel wants is anyone to think they can go asking him personal questions, or feigning concern, or playing shrink.

"Shoot," he says with a shrug. He's not really too concerned about giving others an advantage over him. A guy who bandages your hand is probably not gonna turn around and kill you in the next breath. It's a total waste of effort.

[costing]

Sherlock steps back, after his task is complete. He steeples his fingers in front of him and presses down on his knuckles, in a nervous and constant gesture. After a moment, he says, "Have you been here before? In an arena."

[aintyourdad]

Joel focuses on his hands, flexing his fingers experimentally. It's good work. Maybe he'll even thank Sherlock for the help.

Maybe.

"Got here a few weeks ago," he says by way of response. "I hear every arena's different. Someone told me the last one was a jungle. With dinosaurs. Living ones. But this is the only one I've seen, personally."

[costing]

He purses his lips, but nods. "So you'd have no personal experience with resurrection, then."

He can't believe it. But everyone seems so convinced. Of course, they are probably not as smart as he is.

[aintyourdad]

A brief, sharp look of raw, animal pain crosses Joel's face at that, and his fists clench reflexively, despite the lingering pain in his hands.

"No," he growls out. For a moment, he doesn't intend to say more. But somehow, on some level, he gets that this guy is asking the same question that's burning through his mind right now.

He can't answer it, but he can offer something up. Even if it's personal.

"I lost someone I cared about," he finally said, hesitantly, picking his words with care. "I was there when she died. Then some machine snatched her body away. Few days later, I got a package of food, with a note. Supposedly from her."

Even saying that much - to a perfect stranger - feels like it's being ripped out of him with knives. "She believed it. Told me she'd died before, and come back."

[costing]

"You have my condolences. This is not a scenario I would wish on my gravest enemies, let alone those close to us." It's a tricky situation, for him, given that the great love of his life also ended up being his greatest enemy. But no, he can't imagine putting Moriarty through this, let alone the people he can care for without regret. Gregson, Bell, Alfredo. Watson.

"If you have faith in her, then I assume you'll take her words at value. Given this place, it isn't an entirely horrible assumption. At least, until proven otherwise."

[aintyourdad]

"She was a kid, but she wouldn't exaggerate about somethin' like that," Joel says quietly.

He pauses another moment, and then offers one more thing:

"Back before we - came here. She drowned. She couldn't swim, and she got pulled under, and I pulled her out. I was tryin' to bring her back, but she wasn't breathin'. I got knocked out, and that's the last thing I remember, until I showed up here, and she was fine. So... Take that however you like."

[costing]

"Whoever controls this game has shown themselves capable of a great deal. They might have taken her moments before," Sherlock suggests. "Or perhaps they have unlocked the secret of human life. Bottled it for consumption-- they seem fond of capitalist cliches. In any case, you can hope for a best-case scenario until you're faced with a different reality. I suggest you take that chance."

[aintyourdad]

Joel snorts faintly. "Pretty fuckin' hopeful of you," he says. Hope is largely alien to Joel's experience, these days. He has a little - enough to keep going on, anyway. Enough to keep driving him forward, putting one foot in front of the other.

Ellie had enough hope for the both of them, really.

"Our odds were never good," he finally points out. "Even before we showed up here. Thanks for the help, though." Even if he was the cause of it.

[costing]

"That's a qualitative assessment of a neutral statement." Sherlock doesn't really hold with hope, or at least wouldn't admit to it. He shakes his head, taps his fingers against his thighs as he rocks on his feet. "I was merely stating an option that is open to you, and that may soon be gone. The typical response to fleeting opportunities is to chase them."

He shrugs off the thanks. "I should thank you for not trying to murder me horrendously for a televised audience." He doesn't say that he thinks he could've maneuvered his way out of a situation like that.

[aintyourdad]

Chase them. At this point, Joel is pretty much done chasing anything. He doesn't necessarily want to die, but people in his experience rarely have a choice in those matters anyway. He's been too lucky, for too long. Maybe he's as ready as he'll ever be.

He glances at Sherlock at his final statement, though, and brushes it off with a grimace. "That ain't what I do. Not for an audience, not for fun, not because I can. I kill if I have to, to stay alive. That's all."

[costing]

It's not death as he knows it at all. It isn't brought on by fits of passion or perverse predilections. Usually, murderers are easily identified, analyzed, predicted. This place tosses all of that on its head, forces people to act outside of their normal parameters.

He doesn't like being so caught out.

"I hope your integrity remains so focused." He honestly means that, too. He's familiar enough with people being twisted beyond recognition.

[aintyourdad]

Joel has to laugh at that - it's a low, humorless sort of chuckle, because integrity is just not a word that he would use to describe himself. Not after twenty years of killing, torturing, maiming. Everything he's done, he's done to survive, but he doesn't delude himself into thinking that he's any kind of good person, or has any particular personal integrity.

We're shitty people, Joel. It's been that way for a long time. Tess was right, of course, Joel just prefers not to deal in moral absolutes. And he's so far from the man he was. If Sarah could see him now, she wouldn't even recognize him, and not just because of the lines on his face and the gray in his hair.

"Sure, pal," he says eventually. "Good luck out there."

[costing]

"I highly doubt luck will have anything to do with the outcome, now," he says easily. "But I thank you for the sentiment all the same."

The thing of it is, while Sherlock doesn't like most people, he knows how to tell the normal from the evil. Intentions are just as easily read as anything else. If Joel's universe was a harsh one, and this one even harsher, does that make him a bad person? Sherlock's not sure, when it comes to shades of gray. Issues of morality are messy, for him, and hard to parse in relation to himself. So he goes with what he feels will be most reassuring-- he doesn't do the best Watson imitation, but it's passable.

He lifts a hand, like a wave goodbye, and prepares to walk away.