Dr. John H. Watson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theblogger) wrote2012-03-11 04:33 am
theblogger) wrote2012-03-11 04:33 am
Keep Calm and...
CHARACTERS: John Watson (theblogger), Greg Lestrade (consultsdetective), Sally Donovan (cop_an_attitude), and Jilly Coppercorn (theoniongirl)
LOCATION: Community Housing 2, Flat 21
WARNINGS: None yet.
SUMMARY: They've all at least watched people solve crimes before? Surely they can make sense of this.
NOTES: None!
Flat 21 was nothing much to look at. It was empty, not just for lack of previous resident, but achingly plain. White-walled, sparsely furnished; the ambience reminded John of the one-room residence the RAMC had provided for him shortly after the war. He hated it.
Nevertheless, there was sentiment in the address 2-21, and if the prospect turned out to be that John was due to stay in this village tomorrow and for an indeterminable amount of days thereafter (and it was starting to look like that might be the case), this was where he was going to choose to spend it. If nothing else, it would remind both officers of where his loyalty laid, before this and ever after. In London, he had left behind the overflow of clutter, prepared to settle into a new life without the implication of odd hours and the saccharine stench of formaldehyde that seemed ever lurking behind an otherwise unassuming cupboard. But this wasn't London - this was an unknown territory where he wasn't certain of his status of civilian anymore. And in a crisis situation like this, this number was John's safe haven. It was a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.
John waited by the window, sitting on the edge of the sofa he'd shoved close to it. The outside world seemed so simplistic, so rural, but considering the fact that John had never asked for the vacation, he couldn't help but view it with some suspicion. A part of him knew that he was acting too on-edge about it all, that this was not the same as sitting in a bunker watching the gates in the desert, but he didn't know quite how else to act. True, there wasn't much for him back in London beyond his sister, who was beginning to show some signs of promise now that John had begun to come by and sit on her sofa every once in a while. She talked, he listened, nodded, smiled when it was appropriate. They were working on it. She'd be alright without him.
Nevertheless, he was brought here against his will, woken up unclothed and aching with a weight on his shoulders he'd never had before. John was rather sensitive about his chest, which was why he tended to keep so many layers over it - he knew something was off right away. There were wings on his back and a barcode on his neck; neither of these were very settling to find on his examination at the nearest private mirror. The wings were startling, certainly, but that barcode... that was a mark that indicated property. At least when he'd wore his tags in Afghanistan, he knew what master he was serving, and had elected for it. This was different.
John sat sentinel over the window, hoping to see a familiar face pass by or a knock on the door to indicate that he was not, in fact, alone here. His wings poked through several layers of undershirt and corded jumper, making themselves just another part of the armor as they flexed and fell tight around the curve of each shoulder, grimly consoling. As off-putting as it was to be in this situation, John didn't want to have to be by himself.
(( OOC: This is a private thread between John, Sally Donovan, DI Lestrade, and Jilly unless you have otherwise been invited in! ))
theblogger), Greg Lestrade (consultsdetective), Sally Donovan (cop_an_attitude), and Jilly Coppercorn (theoniongirl)LOCATION: Community Housing 2, Flat 21
WARNINGS: None yet.
SUMMARY: They've all at least watched people solve crimes before? Surely they can make sense of this.
NOTES: None!
Flat 21 was nothing much to look at. It was empty, not just for lack of previous resident, but achingly plain. White-walled, sparsely furnished; the ambience reminded John of the one-room residence the RAMC had provided for him shortly after the war. He hated it.
Nevertheless, there was sentiment in the address 2-21, and if the prospect turned out to be that John was due to stay in this village tomorrow and for an indeterminable amount of days thereafter (and it was starting to look like that might be the case), this was where he was going to choose to spend it. If nothing else, it would remind both officers of where his loyalty laid, before this and ever after. In London, he had left behind the overflow of clutter, prepared to settle into a new life without the implication of odd hours and the saccharine stench of formaldehyde that seemed ever lurking behind an otherwise unassuming cupboard. But this wasn't London - this was an unknown territory where he wasn't certain of his status of civilian anymore. And in a crisis situation like this, this number was John's safe haven. It was a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.
John waited by the window, sitting on the edge of the sofa he'd shoved close to it. The outside world seemed so simplistic, so rural, but considering the fact that John had never asked for the vacation, he couldn't help but view it with some suspicion. A part of him knew that he was acting too on-edge about it all, that this was not the same as sitting in a bunker watching the gates in the desert, but he didn't know quite how else to act. True, there wasn't much for him back in London beyond his sister, who was beginning to show some signs of promise now that John had begun to come by and sit on her sofa every once in a while. She talked, he listened, nodded, smiled when it was appropriate. They were working on it. She'd be alright without him.
Nevertheless, he was brought here against his will, woken up unclothed and aching with a weight on his shoulders he'd never had before. John was rather sensitive about his chest, which was why he tended to keep so many layers over it - he knew something was off right away. There were wings on his back and a barcode on his neck; neither of these were very settling to find on his examination at the nearest private mirror. The wings were startling, certainly, but that barcode... that was a mark that indicated property. At least when he'd wore his tags in Afghanistan, he knew what master he was serving, and had elected for it. This was different.
John sat sentinel over the window, hoping to see a familiar face pass by or a knock on the door to indicate that he was not, in fact, alone here. His wings poked through several layers of undershirt and corded jumper, making themselves just another part of the armor as they flexed and fell tight around the curve of each shoulder, grimly consoling. As off-putting as it was to be in this situation, John didn't want to have to be by himself.
(( OOC: This is a private thread between John, Sally Donovan, DI Lestrade, and Jilly unless you have otherwise been invited in! ))
no subject
God, would they be seeing Anderson and Sherlock next? One could only hope not. Not that they couldn't use Sherlock, honestly.
He was in his usual black and white attire, holes in the back of his shirt for his wings to settle through and a jacket just worn over top of them. It was uncomfortable as all hell, but he liked it better when they weren't out in the open (less to do with the silver and gold motif and more to do with the fact that anyone could jump straight into killing him out there if they wanted). His posture was nothing less than determinedly casual as he reached out to knock on the door.
Be grateful for familiar faces, be grateful for a real talk about all this nonsense, figure all the rest out later. Best plan he could make.
no subject
She tried not to be conscious of her wings, trapped under her jacket; they felt...safer there, less conspicuous, less a reminder of where she was and what had be done to her in spite of the discomfort. Instead, she focused on what made sense. The prospect of seeing people she knew, for better or worse. The prospect of information, with Jilly's help. Investigate. Put everything into context. She would think of it as doing her job, like always.
The address didn't take too long to find, and when Sally rounded a corner she found Detective Inspector Lestrade waiting by the door. She faltered for a moment, irrationally startled - she'd known he would be there, and yet, for some strange reason, seeing him evaporated the possibility that she might wake up in her own apartment vowing never to eat Thai before bed again.
"Hello, Sir," said Sally, finding she didn't have to force a tight smile - it was good to see a familiar face, circumstances notwithstanding. "This is Jilly; she's been helping me. But I think you might've met."
no subject
In the daylight, it was easier to see the specks of paint in her hair, as well as a fresh smudge of yellow paint along her temple...probably from going to push stray strands out of her face. She hadn't noticed it yet, or else didn't really care. From the specked nature of her clothes, this wasn't really a new occurrence.
Her wings were out of sight as well, covered by the bulky sweatshirt she was wearing. In the year she'd been in the village, she'd learned to control them enough that they lay flat against her back, barely visible except for when the occasional twitch made the fabric move. Unlike the officers, though, she'd hidden them more from consideration than comfort. They would be dealing with plenty of unbelievable explanations without having wings as a distraction.
no subject
A woman's voice - Sally Donovan, then a second. That'd be their local. And 'Sir', well, that'd be Lestrade, wouldn't it? Lestrade at the door, the two women approaching, going by the distance of the sound. John approached the door, rolling his steps to muffle them. For the moment, he listened, the only motion coming from his wings, which trembled faintly against his shoulders. John wasn't aware that he needed to hide them, just that they were sensitive at the moment and he didn't want to fuss with them much more than he had to. Later, not now.
John gave it a moment, allowing Lestrade a chance to respond and make pleasantries to the person John didn't know. As much as John would like to know what the hell was going on, there was... what he suspected would be an emotional hitch upon seeing Lestrade and, more exactly, Donovan. He hadn't given the sergeant a very kind send-off earlier that day, and having some time to think it over, he wasn't very sorry about it. Would there be a confrontation when he opened the door? John didn't know. Hopefully not, because there were more pressing things to talk about, and there was no bringing back a dead man.
no subject
"All right, Donovan?" She looked all right, at least, and she'd even said as much earlier- that was good for a start. As far as he was concerned, his officer meant his responsibility, especially here and now. John too, if he suspected he'd have to try to be a bit more on the subtle side about it. He strongly suspected Sherlock would have his head if he didn't try to watch out for him, the fact that John was sort of a friend notwithstanding. He transferred the smile to the young lady next to Sally and reached over to give her hand a firm shake. "Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector. Much as that's really worth around here. We appreciate you helping out."
Especially regarding Donovan. Lestrade held no illusions about it, he would have gotten lost trying to find her and get her un-lost.
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"If anything, it gave me an excuse to go for a walk in the woods." As for answering questions, well- all they had was each other and the guide that had been cobbled together by others like them. If Jilly had to pick how the newcomers learned about this place, she'd prefer it be from a person who could actually empathize, rather than a piece of paper.
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She opened her mouth to apologize for assuming Jilly and Lestrade had met - Jilly just struck her as the sort of person who would talk to everyone new - but decided not to start. Instead, she smiled at Jilly's excuse for a walk in the woods. "They are very nice as trees go, but I really never would have gotten out of them if not for your help."
It occurred to Sally that they were still standing outside John's door. She caught Lestrade's eye and nodded to the door, eyebrow raised, silently inquiring whether he'd already knocked.
no subject
Well, it was time to end the game of eavesdropping anyway. He was supposed to be the host of this meeting and answers weren’t going to come without him present. Drawing himself up fully, he allowed a soft shuffle to be heard behind the door before he reached for it and finally unlocked it. Opening it, he took in the form of Greg Lestrade first, then passed his gaze to Sally (it passed on quickly) and Jilly. Dark-haired thing. There were chips of paint in her hair. One didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to make a deduction about how she spent her time outside of catering to wayward newcomers. John found himself smiling at her, however slight it was under the circumstances. No reason not to be friendly to her, considering she was doing him (them) a favor.
“Thought I heard noise out here,” He announced, an excuse and apologetic. The doctor stepped aside from the door, holding it open. “Come in. Lestrade, Donovan.”
But to Jilly, he would briefly extend his right hand, “John Watson. Thanks for coming ‘round on short notice.”
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"John." Greg offered a half-grin and a perfunctory glancing once-over as he stepped into the flat- he also vaguely wondered what happened to calling him by his first name, and decided not to question it. Later, maybe, but any part of his name was his name, there was nothing wrong with a bit of professionalism, and nobody present was bleeding or missing parts (...the gained ones, well, that could be worse). He could consider it a good start in general.
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The brief handshake done, she stepped back to let Sally and Lestrade lead the way, following in their wake.
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At least Jilly seemed to be getting on with John and Lestrade. Sally decided to keep to herself as much as possible, considering the circumstances.
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His smile for Jilly is taut now, a shift from truly affable to polite. He waits for everyone to make their way in before he'll give another word, shutting the door and locking it. Speaking of people who howled for Sherlock's blood, Sally Donovan is rather uncharacteristically quiet. John's eyes land briefly on the back of her head, evaluating her stance and her silence. He's got no reason to be kind, but the satisfaction of seeing her awkward in his presence is almost warming. There's a reason John told her to come, though, beyond the fact he wished to see if she was still so strong in her ire toward the freak now that he was dead. Did she really still believe that Sherlock was a fake, or had the gravity of his suicide shocked her enough into re-evaluating her stance? Had she dug any deeper into the closed cases to justify herself? Or did she care at all?
John's wings trembled on his shoulders, twitched inward as if in a stiff attempt to fold themselves.
"Make yourselves comfortable," He'd allow. There wasn't much in the way of the flat, but there were chairs and a sofa. Any other time, John would have the kettle on, but he hadn't been far from the flat since waking up.
"I'm not sure how you usually go about this," He told Jilly, his gaze shifting to Lestrade briefly, then back to the young woman, "But I suppose the basics seem to be a good place to start - who, what, when, where, why, and how."
no subject
"I'm not sure there's a usual way, really. But I'll try."
Her smile faded then, eyes going distant with thought as she tried to sort through the most important details. It made her look older, closer to her actual age than her small frame and pixieish features first implied. "The biggest problem is that we don't really have all the answers. There's a newcomer's guide in the journals that has some, but honestly we're still guessing more often than not.
We aren't sure how we get here. As far as we know, the Malnosso aren't actually responsible for that part of it. Really, they might even be like us, rather than being natives of this world. We do know that, somehow, we end up here in the barrier, where the Malnosso are...elsewhere."
She ticked off thoughts on her fingers...not really answering them in the order of John's questions, but as her mind skipped across them. "There's a war going on between the Malnosso and another group we only know as the Third Party. They hate us, but it's impossible to know why. It could be because we're allied with the Malnosso, even if it is only by chance. Or maybe they're the natives and they think we've invaded. I don't know. None of us do. But the Malnosso like to draft people into the war when they need the help." There was no missing the distaste in her voice at that. Jilly might never have been one for politics, but the people who'd assumed she was a hippie back home wouldn't have been far from the truth if she'd bothered with it. "They don't really distinguish between fighters and civilians, or adults and children. And they don't always give warning."
She sighed. She didn't like this part of the new feather initiation. There were good things here. Magical things. But that didn't change the fact that there were terrible injustices in where they'd found themselves. "There are experiments, too. They're usually called shifts. Sometimes they're just silly. I've woken up and found myself only two inches tall, or not human, and those were harmless enough. They were even kind of fun." She gave the briefest of smiles, but it faded quickly. "But some of the experiments mess with your head. They can make you believe you're someone you're not, or change the way you feel about the people around you. It's temporary, but it's an invasion, all the same."
She shook her head. "Supposedly, the shifts are supposed to be the Malnosso trying to find a way home...but when you see how...odd...a lot of them are, it's hard to see how these could really help."
There was more. So much more. But she pauses to catch her breath and to give them a chance to ask questions.
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His eyes made the regular journey from Jilly to John (trying to gauge how he was taking it, what exactly did he look so confused about, telling himself that tension is a pretty natural reaction and at least the man is listening) to Sally (who he thinks he's possibly never seen so reserved; something's going on here, but as long as they've not been sleeping together he thinks he can handle it), and he generally finally got around to noticing exactly how cracked this entire predicament was. When Jilly pauses for breath, he nods, bordering contemplative, and doesn't find anything to question or contribute for the moment.
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"How long have people been being kidnapped here?" she asked when Jilly was done - blurted it out as a first instinct, really. "Some people claim to have been here up to three years; were their victims before then?
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"My housemate has been here for three years, though. Buffy Summers. And I know she wasn't the first one here, so it's been going on for a little bit longer, at least. Still...she could probably give you better details of what they knew, then."