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ataraxion2012-05-07 10:13 pm
doctorings) wrote in ataraxion2012-05-07 10:13 pm
001 ➺ ( accidental ) text
[ 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.
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.
why you gotta bring dicks into this
watson is thankful for it, in his own tightass victorian british sort of way. one punch was all he needed and he can feel the aggression seeping out. not fully, no, but enough that he doesn't feel like a venomous viper ready to strike when he looks at holmes.
not that he really is looking. it seems strange, unnatural. yet almost as if it's the most natural thing in the entire world. holmes and watson. together again. it didn't seem possible. yet here they are.
with a heavy sigh, he turns, holding a handkerchief (are these on the ship?? idefk. whatev) out to wipe up the blood. ]
Continuously a pleasure, Holmes. [ now he's looking and... noticing things. like how much of a mess he is. ] How long have you been here?
[ neutral start, yes? ]
i just needed to make their relationship a little less heterosexual okay
[ He'd had too long to ruminate on the aftermath of his actions back at Reichenbach. They'd festered into something far more terrified than he'd like to admit. ]
Four months now. [ His answer is quiet, and a bit wearier than it means to be, but, oh, it's been a long time. It's been time without a case, it's been time without much of any distraction other than his violin and the other John's attention. Aberdeen as well. He didn't even have his drugs here. As a consequence, it certainly shows. He has to have lost another stone still since Watson's last seen him, and his eyes sink with the sleep he hasn't been getting. ]
Five, the first number. How long is it you have been here?
[ But he finally does take the handkerchief (a peace offering) (and totally allowed in space who gives a fuck) to stifle the blood flow. It sticks attractively out of his nostrils as he makes himself at home on the foot of Watson's bed. ]
as if it needs any help in that department
right now, watson is in a current state of disbelief. nothing seems real, but it is. he knows it is but that doesn't make it an easy pill to swallow. keeping mostly to himself, only venturing out to fulfill basic needs and get the basic of questions answered, his mind wasn't reeling as much anymore. at least not on the topic of space. this had merely been an attempt to get his thoughts out... now that he wasn't afraid of using this little machine. all for naught, it seemed, as now he didn't trust the damned thing one bit.
nothing could have really prepared him for seeing holmes. it's like seeing a ghost only that ghost is actually living. so... not like one at all. he doesn't know where he was taking that internal metaphor so he stops it. and while it is holmes, it almost doesn't look like him. watson doesn't have the keen deduction skills holmes does, but he's a doctor so he takes note of the weight loss, the familiar sign of sleeplessness (now, after finding out holmes was here, the poppy plant in his locker makes perfect sense) and the withdrawal. those four months seem to have taken it's toll. it's not that he's concerned or anything, but he's already taken the first small steps to dry the flowers out to make a sedative.
he also notes the tone of holmes' voice, which is odd. displaced a bit. his eyes narrow slightly, studying him as if he could find the answers that he so easily would. ]
Four months? What have you been up to? [ that could almost be a loaded sort of question, but it might also be one watson doesn't want answered. just from the look of his friend, the curiosity is dangerously high. watson doesn't sit yet, rather just leans against the dresser, still watching. waiting. looking for something to make this not real and that perhaps this is some sort of lucid dream. (it's not, he knows it isn't. but part of him hopes.) ]
Not long. Perhaps a few weeks. [ it was sort of hard to figure the days in space and they all sort of ran together. ] A month...?
all friends argue with their legs around each other's heads!!
[ For a time in Holmes' life, a rare one to which Watson is so very rarely held privy, Holmes looks nervous. His fingers pick at each other, and he's scratch marks on the back of his hands from the other ways his anxiety has begun to take its toll on its body. With limited tobacco, with no narcotics, with no cases, the man has been inescapably and irrefutably been driving himself mad. ]
[ There's a part of him at this very moment that's not even particularly sure Watson is HERE. Perhaps there's just a portion of him that aches for the man's company so badly that he's imagining it all on his own. ]
Nothing, [ is his answer to Watson's question, and it's defeated, it's worn, it's the weariness of a ninety-year-old man who's gone to death and back, rather than his actuality. ] Absolutely nothing, and what- are you doing here?
[ At once he's hounding forward towards Watson, eyes wide and bloodshot, and he grabs the man by the lapels, shakes a bit firmly as if to check if he IS real, if he's NOT some sort of dream, hallucination, his finally succumbing to his own madness. But the cloth doesn't dissipate in his fingers, and there's warmth beneath those fingers. For the first time, Holmes' eyes meet Watson's, incredulous, a bit wounded. ]
John?
well duh. it's a natrual course of action...
so wrapped up in his own thoughts, trying to piece things together, he doesn't notice the movement until he's being shaken. for a split second his own eyes go wide, holmes' wrists are soon covered by watson's hands in a hard grip—mostly out of automatic defense and his voice sharp, ] Holmes.
[ but then he slowly relaxes, one hand dropping off. he can see the look in holmes' eyes and it's... disconcerting. unsettling. he needs to be the voice of reason that he always is and the one that holmes never really listens to. it's there, in that moment, when he has somewhat of the same feeling. sherlock holmes, the man who he thought dead, was here. real. a living, breathing thing. part of him wishes this was a dream. he had moved on and accepted that he would live the rest of his life normally. that there wouldn't be any further mishaps or explosions or dealing with the utter absurdity of holmes' crazy mind.
watson would never want to admit what a hard truth that had been to face.
his tone shifts to something different—exasperated because he needs to. he refuses to show how any of this has a near devastating effect on his nerves and emotions. ] Holmes. [ that name repeated because he just can't allow himself the intimacy of the moment and use sherlock. that would make it seem too unreal and he needs to—needs to—assure that he is real and this is happening. ] It's me.
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[ His months here on the ship without much company but him and his own thoughts. His room was a mess. His wall was hardly distinguishable as a wall anymore, it was so covered with his scrawlings - character profiles, maps, thoughts, some of it comprehensible, some of it not. He had nothing here. He hadn't the comfort of many friends, he hadn't a case, he hadn't even his drugs to take the edge off of everything. ]
[ In short, there was a piece of him that had snapped. He felt insane. He looked insane. And there were long, long nights where his mind reeled in circles and knots and traipsed into everywhere and nowhere where he'd need someone - something - to listen and he'd talk, he'd just talk and talk and sometimes, on his worse days, Watson would respond, and it was a blessing - it was - it felt as though he could breathe again for a second or two; that was until he regarded his bed and saw no one sitting on the mattress, not Aberdeen or Wichita and certainly not John Watson himself. But he'd hear the responses regardless, time to time. ]
[ Never something solid like this. There's that split moment where he's sure he's gone completely 'round the bend. But then Watson's hand grips his own, and something changes completely. ] Oh, [ is all he says, and his eyes glaze over for a moment - he looks almost as if he is inebriated, then. ]
[ "It's me." ]
[ And despite all common propriety, Holmes wraps his arms around the other man, hugs him tightly and picks at the clothing that's entirely wrong for a military man for his status, but all the other details are right, and so it doesn't matter. ] Do forgive my indecency, my good man. It's been some time, you see.
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he's being hugged by sherlock holmes.
and that is sort of a big deal. watson stands there, rigid and stiff, for those few startling split seconds. but then he's relaxing, easing himself into the embrace. this is even more unreal and he wonders how he's supposed to prove he's real when none of this feels like it's actually happening. but it is.
mirroring the action, his arms wrap around holmes, hands holding a little tighter than they should. fingers digging into the vicinity of his shoulder blades just to feel. and now that they're like this he can definitely note the weight loss and it worries him. not that he'll speak it, just rather take the steps to correct the misbehavior of the past four months.
soon. but for now he's actually going to allow himself the emotion of the moment. to let it sweep through and overtake him. there's a sharp intake of breath, he hadn't realized he'd been holding it. his heart is pounding heavily in his chest that he thinks he might have a heart attack. and if anyone would be the cause of it, it would most assuredly be the man before him now. the pain of the loss he won't ever forget but, he can set it to the side for now because sherlock holmes is here. right here under his hands.
if there's a slight dryness, a crack in his voice, it's surely just imagined, ]
I think it's been some time since you met with soap, as well.
[ and even though he smells like a certifiable barn, watson doesn't let go ]
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[ Nearly everyone else had come through. He had wondered, for some time, why Sherlock's John had made his way onto the ship, even though the two (John and Holmes, that was) had become good friends along the way. He wondered why it was that Irene, that Ms. Adler, that even, it seemed, Sherlock's Moriarty had somehow found his way onto this hellion devil's trap. But never Watson. Purgatory, he'd considered for a few blindingly idiotic moments, but he'd never particularly believed in a god; it had just been in the midst of withdrawal shakes so riotous they'd racked his entire body. ]
[ He still smelled clean, ever the military man, the prat. ]
[ But Holmes doesn't allow himself the indulgence for long; he never does. His embrace breaks off almost as soon as it's happened, and for a moment he doesn't speak, just opens and shuts his mouth and claps his hands against the man's shoulders. He is real. At least he feels real. That's solid shoulder beneath the palm of his hand, muscle and sinew and human being. ] Excellent, excellent, it appears you've survived after all. You've settled in, I presume? What sort of effects did they bestow upon you? Less paltry than my own, I should hope.
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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.
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[ 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. ]
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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. ]
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[ 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.