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[doctorings]

[ this is unusual at best, but john watson is the adapting sort. he has to when his best friend (arguably. loathing as he would be to admit it) is sherlock holmes. this is simply part and par for the course. for the most part, he has kept a low profile, asking questions to find out pertinent information. and even figured out how to use this little device. sort of. it's like a handheld typewriter. fascinating.

except he doesn't know it broadcasts out to everyone. w h o o p s. ]

The imagination is a powerful tool.

Except I cannot help but wonder if this is less imagination and more hallucination. Last I remember, I was at home in the study and the next moment--as if reality itself had shifted--I was covered in an unidentifiable substance. Blue in color, nearly gelatinous in texture but washed away cleanly in the showers. No visible harm, no internal damage from what I can assess. Curious, really.

From what I have gathered this is a ship in space. Seems highly far fetched to me. How is a ship able to move through air and no water? Something does not ring right about this place, as if a mystery is unfolding down each strangely dark corridor. Even some odd demon-like possessions as it were. Surely a place worthy to keep Holmes busy for at least a week.

[ on the other end of the device—and he'd INHERENTLY disagree if anyone saw. but there's almost a nostalgic sort of smile that passes over his lips. but then it's gone nearly as quickly as it came. ]

Too bad you have to miss this, old chap.

Comments

[doctorings]

[ no, if it went on for too long, that would mean something was terribly wrong. and while, let's face it, holmes is just a bit self-indulgent, he isn't—they aren't—when it comes to affection. that's certainly just absurd, isn't it.

even so, even with that thought in mind, he still doesn't really move away or push holmes' hands off. instead he crosses his arms low and tilts his head, wondering what all he should say. some are too small and pointless of note; the hat and his walking stick sit out in the open so he needn't bother with those. ]

Settled as much as one can, I suppose. [ he makes an off-handed gesture toward the corner of the room ] They saw fit to give me Gladstone—which, if you ask me, seems a bit cruel.

[saidhe]

[ Sherlock Holmes has many, many fields of expertise. Chemistry, botany, forensic sciences, the chemical effect of cocaine when in combination with several other types of medicinal herbs. Affection is not one of those fields. He's been scolded before. There's a half of him that wants the hug to linger, and it's been long, it's been so long since such a familiar sight, since stodgy posture and that telltale mustache, and were Holmes more attune to that affectionate side, he'd have certainly reveled in that moment a bit longer. ]

[ As something is most certainly and definitely terribly wrong here, with them. ]

[ But he won't allow it. ]

Gladstone! [ He chooses to focus on the dog instead of the matters he probably should be, flocking to the corner in question and propping his elbows up on his knees as he crouches in front of the poor thing. Shuttled into space. He'd had much worse. For a moment, Holmes considers the synthetic blood substitute he'd been experimenting with, but he supposed it would be pointless to try on a dog. He thinks instead to his attempted methamphetamine synthesis, which would be much easier to test on an animal. ]

[ There's probably a very familiar thoughtful expression in his eyes as Holmes skritches behind the ears of the dog. Watson should stop him. Or he should have, if Holmes hadn't chosen then to speak up of all moments, his back turned to the other man, his attention on a damned dog. ]

You know my methods.

[ It's all he offers, maybe some sort of delve into the topic he wants to avoid, maybe even almost some sort of quiet apology. But it's a start. ]

[doctorings]

[ it's an easy distraction and that's probably partly why watson even mentioned the dog do begin with. it's something to regain the footing that may have been lost in those few precious moments of intimacy, of affection. it's simply not what they do.

he watches them, suddenly tense when holmes crouches in front of the dog. he should've checked for needles of any sort. he doesn't feel like dealing with a sudden attack on the poor thing right in the middle of an otherwise stressful sort of environment. but he doesn't have much time to contemplate over that before holmes says that and everything else just sort of... stops.

it would be easy enough to expect a jab to the dog's flank or neck then. except watson knows he doesn't mean that. but something else. he's not a stupid man, he's a gambling man and his money is all in one place as to what that statement was intended for. a long exhale leaves him and he deflates slightly along with it. sooner or later this was going to happen and he'd rather it be done with. crossing over he perches on the edge of the bed and rubs his face. ]

Unfortunately, all too intimate with your methods. [ and then he's just looking up at the ceiling, as if that will provide a better answer. ] I'm afraid this time that explanation won't particularly suffice.

[ he wants to know, holmes. he wants to know what he's already suddenly expecting. ]

[saidhe]

[ Holmes lets out a careful hum of consideration, his fingers stilling behind Gladstone's ears long enough to roil over the facts he does know. It's of note that the situation is still one utterly new to Watson - not the ship, though it is undoubtedly, but his being alive. He's had months to entertain every possibility of Watson finding out, even so far as to prod John - the other John, that is - on the issue. Not to much avail. ]

[ It would be simple to stall. To bend the question around another question, to distract from the point for the time being until they came back around to it again, undoubtedly. It's not difficult to lead people afield as he so joyously does on so many an occasion, but this all seems bigger than it. ]

[ And the more he waits with Watson here and now in the room with him, the sillier it all seems, his own words crumbling in his mouth. ]

[ He shifts his footing, rooting around in a pocket and holding out a familiar enough object, he thinks - Mycroft's oxygen supply, that's been tucked neatly and long-sufferingly into his dresser in his room. Waiting for the opportune moment, probably. ] I never did get to send you your package, old boy.

[ The apology at least implied if so rarely said aloud. Holmes sniffs idly and dabs the handkerchief haphazardly under his nose with his free hand, without minding it too, too much. Bleeding a bit, still, lazily. ] I'll tell you whatever it is you'd like to know, and I easily owe you as much. Safety isn't so paramount an issue on a ship where the enemy in question isn't even present.