Shot Through The Heart

captain-three-continents-watson:

mrsigerson:

There was a number of ways to respond to John’s predictable commentary (at least five), but none of them would lead to a desirable or tolerable resolution. So Sherlock stayed silent, pulled the sheet back around his shoulders, and took another sip of his tea.

The milk and sugar were cleaned up and put away, leaving the kitchen as unnaturally bare, clinical, and sterile as it never was before he returned home from the hospital and John followed after him. The space felt entirely too empty and big and ridiculously unwelcome without any of his work equipment or even the customary kitchen inventory being scattered all over the counter tops and table. Sherlock looked around the room, until his eyes settled on John and took in the tale-telling details he carried within his appearance (different pair of loafers, recently cleaned, already worn outside, same clothing as yesterday, bags upstairs, keys in the left back pocket of his jeans, shaved with his regular blade, skin red around the wedding ring, fiddled or twisted or tugged and pushed back and forth or both, - went home early in the morning to pack his bags, but encountered Mary, did not have time to change there, only packed bare minimum of his things, left in a hurry, keys still in the pocket where he put them in a haste and without conscious thought, fiddled with his ring the entire time after the encounter, Mary tried to initiate a talk, possibility of emotional manipulation and provocation, John probably did not respond or did not give a response she wanted, left the place in urgency, is still disoriented, packed his toiletries last, unpacked first, shaved, but did not change, did not finish unpacking, deep in thought, distracted, got sidetracked by Sherlock’s fiddling in the kitchen.) Sherlock looked back at his cup, feeling the unfailing scrutiny of John’s stare. The man did not look exactly welcoming either, nor was he exactly hostile in his body language. Just infinitely angry, probably. He should have settled in the sitting room, after all.

"Morphine’s wearing out," Sherlock decided in favor of replying, voice rough and quiet from medicated sleep and the words scratching at his throat as his vocal cords tried to make do. John wouldn’t have appreciated his silence and would certainly take it for either Sherlock purposefully ignoring him or lack of complete awareness and ability to respond, when addressed. Or both. Neither options presented themselves as appealing and he settled on something neutral and helpful to divert John’s attention into a slightly more peaceful direction. 

Tea was gradually cooling down and Sherlock took a bigger drink from his mug. He should enjoy his independently brewed cuppa while he can, since John was probably about to send him back to bed and administer another doze of morphine, which was an acceptable development of events. There was no benefit in the pain he felt and no reason to tolerate it more, than absolutely necessary. 

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That didn’t answer his question but John let it slide. He didn’t have to imagine the pain Sherlock was feeling, John himself had gone through the same thing. Granted, Sherlock’s surgery had been cleaner then John’s and he hadn’t had to live through a fever with few supplies to aid his recovery.

However, they had needed to restart Sherlock’s heart because the idiot had taken off from the hospital in an attempt to prove Mary was not who she seemed. Of course, he had succeeded but the cost had left him drained physically and barely alive when they rushed him back to the hospital. Had the ambulance been any later, Sherlock might not be alive and breathing before him now.

But he was resilient if anything.

John remembered the shock that surged through him when one of the nurses came out to tell him that Sherlock’s heart had stopped. It felt like his entire world had gone up in flames again. As if the idiotic genius had thrown himself off the roof for a second time. He’d barely been able to stand, knees weak as the words penetrated his mind and he grasped the entirety of what he had been told. Of course, the world had gone foggy with this realization and John was barely aware of the nurse being called back urgently to the surgery. There was a commotion in the background and all John wanted was some sign that this had all been some bad dream.

He’d stayed at the hospital never leaving Sherlock’s side, sleeping in an uncomfortable position in one of the waiting room chairs. The rest of the time, he sat in Sherlock’s room (provided by his brother of course), watching him sleep in a drug induced coma. It was when Sherlock first drifted out of sleep and mumbled Mary’s name that John realized he had completely forgotten to inform his wife what had happened and where he was.

Not that he needed to. She had known.

At the time he was just so relieved that Sherlock was alright that he didn’t even notice the lack of messages and calls from, Mary. Usually she wanted a constant update just to make sure they were both alright but at the time that didn’t seem important. Now it just irked John.
Now he was back at Baker Street looking after the detective because he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as his wife. What was wrong with him to have been attracted to her of all people? He was so angry that he’d blocked her number on his mobile. There was no way he wanted to read her pathetic plea’s; he couldn’t even talk to her without getting upset.

Shaking the thoughts from his mind, knowing that he was once again letting his mind fuel the anger he was trying so desperately to get rid of. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table, across from Sherlock.
"Your morphine is wearing off so you decided the best course of action was to get up out of bed and make a cuppa?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. How did the thoughts in Sherlock’s head find that in any way the logical course of action? "And what happened to your clothes? You were wearing sleeping trousers and the gray shirt before I went off to fetch my things." he rested his elbows on the table before resting his chin in his hands.

John watched Sherlock cataloging his ever move, knowing that the sleuth must have been bored out of his mind without a case. But what was happening in John’s life at the moment was not something he wanted to have Sherlock deduce and pick apart.

"You really shouldn’t be up, Sherlock. You had a very invasive surgery and then before it was able to heal, broke out of the hospital. You’re not doing yourself any favors pushing through the pain and trying to act like you’re okay. I don’t want you to strain yourself unnecessarily," he explained, feeling utterly useless.

He’d let Mary shoot his best friend. He’d let his best friend walk around after being shot just to find out that his wife had been lying to him all this time. He should have seen it. He should have stopped himself from getting involved with a woman that obviously couldn’t be trusted, rather then get swept up in the whirlwind of it all. And now, he wasn’t even useful as a doctor because Sherlock would never listen to his advice. What good was he to anyone?

"Come on then, finish your tea and then we’ll get you back to bed."

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I know, John, I was there, Sherlock wanted to say, but didn’t, filling his mouth with another portion of now comfortably warm tea, aware of the repercussions that would follow, if he back-talked.

"If I wasn’t ok I would still be at the hospital," He muttered into the half-empty mug anyway, letting his overall discomfort and dissatisfaction escape his restrain and shape into words of exasperation (which was a stupid thing to allow. John most certainly caught his comment, sitting this close. He hasn’t been developing any hearing problems, despite the extensive exposure to the sounds of explosions and gunfire and many other no less loud, damaging noises of war zone. He does need reading glasses, however.)

"Sweat," He spoke up after a moment of unpleasant suspense, before the other shoe could drop (or be thrown at his head as a likely alternative, if he wasn’t recovering from a bullet wound.) "I need a change of clothes, preferably after I take a shower. If I have your permission, of course, doctor."

Voice neutral, he did allow a small smile pull at the corners of his mouth, trying for some humor to release the stifling tension that kept their interactions from progressing any further than a small talk (which still wasn’t his forte, despite the redeeming constancy of John’s presence and friendship) or strictly medical talk (tedious and repetitive, save for the moments when John’s clinical approach slipped into something less professional and more caring and warm and intimate- no, stop, don’t think about it now.)

Sherlock finished his tea and left the cup where it was. No point in being tidy since his efforts would be reprimanded anyway. He rose from the chair carefully, very aware of how he handled his body and the duress it was undergoing. His wound was almost healed on the outside, - John was going to take out the stitches sometime soon, perhaps in a few days from now. The damage was all on the inside now, hidden, unseen, throbbing, disabling, and much slower to dissipate (damaged muscle tissues, fractured rib, nicked liver, IVC, diaphragm, right lung, and internal thoracic artery, shock, and finally blood loss. By all accounts he was a dead man walking, even if his heart and respective nerve bundles were spared any lethal damage by sheer chance and collision of circumstances.)  

"John?" He turned to look at his best friend, inquiring cautiously (softly, gently, with consideration and regard for the man’s life-saving opinions) and waiting for a verbal response to confirm what he saw in his body language. 


Shot Through The Heart

captain-three-continents-watson:

mrsigerson:

Someone (who? Too many candidates to name) hit a Pause button on his life, putting its every aspect into what seemed like a single frozen frame, distorted at the edges (like morphine sleep) like an old VHS tape. Moving through every (same, repeating, dull) day in a slow motion was mighty irritating. It was perhaps the biggest source of irritation and restricted restlessness at this juncture in his life (the one he allowed himself, at least, if he was careful not to stray too far away with his thoughts and think about matters he resolutely did not want to (couldn’t) touch just yet, at least not all of them, not like this.) 

Waking up was a painfully (literally and figuratively speaking) vague and evasive process, stripped of a clear line of awareness that divided dream from reality. If it wasn’t being horizontal and unconscious in his bed, it was certainly very taxing on his body, more taxing than Sherlock could have predicted. No injury has ever put him in a condition this disabling (he had a rather fascinating collection of wounds and illnesses and their lasting remnants to raise to this bullet wound.) Then again, he was never shot before, was he? Shot at? Grazed by a yet another “close one”? Sure. Taking a shot with his body opened up for a clear hit was a first.

Then there were people. People he knew, but more annoyingly people he didn’t know. An abundance of anonymous attention from faceless mob of strangers, cluttering his hospital room with obnoxiously smelling and looking flowers and balloons and some such. If he hoped his home would stand strong and untouched by this nonsense, he was in for a big and unpleasant surprise (Mrs. Hudson met him with another pile of flowers and “Get Better” cards and gifts at the door of 221b, chipper as ever.)

Even the tea was taking longer than usual to steep (which was not a case of tachypsychia, but the very dull hyper-awareness of the vacancy of his time, a skewed perception of it at its best.) Sherlock drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table top (bare, empty, cleaned), his left hand holding the sheet around his shoulders. Standing was not an option (even if John wasn’t there to bully him back to bed every time he tried to get up without permission or support), but sitting seemed like a good compromise. Whatever pain he was supposed to feel was eased away by the generous doze of morphine (made him loopy and slow, but was ultimately better and more fruitful than trying to function through pain.)

You should be in bed, you idiot. If you keep putting pressure on the wound before it heals properly, you’ll never recover.

Shut up John, I know. I’m not stupid.

You are right now.

Sherlock scowled at his tea. His feet were getting chilled by the linoleum floor (also cleaned) in their kitchen, the chair he sat on was solid wood and hardly comfortable even in his current state (or any state, for that matter), and his head was still foggy with morphine (which did not improve the sensation of flat hard wooden surfaces supporting his weight), though not to an extent where operating autonomously was not possible. 

He looked out into the sitting room, which seemed undisturbed from its usual state of disarray. Nothing to betray another presence settling into the abundant (empty, cold, incomplete) space of the flat. Well, nothing that would tip off a regular person, at least. The signs were laid out in plain sight and obvious to Sherlock (tea mug, set and turned by left hand, laptop charger still plugged in, disturbance in the dust over shelves and coffee table, imprints on the carpet around John’s chair, creases in the fabric of the blanket thrown over the back of John’s chair, coffee table moved to the right, hit his foot on the wooden leg, second dent growing on the couch, the union jack pillow resting on the other side of the couch, John taking a quick nap.) Would’ve been obvious even if they haven’t previously discussed the matter (John merely stated it as a fact, Sherlock had little objection or strength to argue, though he did try to reason with the man, which didn’t change a thing, obviously.) John traveled with few and necessary possessions, his shirts being already packed and put aside into a bag long before the catalysis of the recent events took place (don’t think about it, don’t think about implications, not right now, not like this.)

The tea had finally steeped and Sherlock pulled the teabag out by its string, holding the paper piece with the label between his thumb and index finger. He let go of the sheet in favor of picking up a spoon, depositing the still damp and steaming bag in the deep of the utensil’s bowl, tying the string around the tea bag and spoon, and pulling the string, squeezing the remaining hard-steeped liquid into the cup. Discarding the teabag into the bin he’s previously moved next to his current seat, Sherlock kicked the plastic bucket under the table and focused on adding milk and sugar to his yet incomplete cuppa. 

There were noises coming from outside, leaking through the slightly opened window in the kitchen. There were also sounds (and smells) coming through the ventilation, announcing Mrs. Hudson’s cooking project for that day. Then there were muffled sounds (no crude remarks, so far) coming from upstairs bedroom: closing and opening of the drawers and footsteps traveling around the small bedroom above. Suitcase, bed, wardrobe, desk, and then back to suitcase. John had more belongings to unpack than when they first moved in together, but it still didn’t show outside of John’s bedroom. John’s presence in the living space of 221b was marked by other little things, incorporated and integrated in the spaces between and around Sherlock. Things they shared sat squarely in the middle, space divided strictly between the two (it felt stricter than it used to be, product of accumulated and unresolved tension, probably years’ worth of words unsaid.) Sherlock looked at John’s chair (an inanimate object with no particular history or qualities, inherited with the rest of the flat. Its metamorphosis into “John’s chair” was something that happened outside of his notice and awareness. Associations, repetitive positive reinforcement) and saw an open book, turned to hug the armrest, but left too close by the edge (did not have time to find a bookmark, did not fold the corners, not his book, missing space on the shelves, a lamp moved from its place by the couch next to the chair, left side, John was reading at night, sitting in his chair, picked up a book from Sherlock’s library, was listening for any calls of distress from Sherlock, reacted immediately, responsible doctor, best friend, caring- Halt. Save for later.)

The shuffling above seized and Sherlock heard the squeak of the door from John’s bedroom, opening and closing, followed by steady, but quiet footfall heading downstairs, accompanied by the slow creak of boards under John’s weight.

John thought he was still asleep (even if he were asleep it would’ve been a morphine laced sleep, safe from any amount of noise John would make on regular basis. Habit?) Sherlock blew lightly on his tea and took a sip. Still didn’t taste like what John made for him. Pity, that. 

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There was something surreal about being in the same room that he had run from almost a year earlier. Nothing had changed. The one floorboard that creaked still made an awful noise when he put too much pressure on it. The bedding was still tucked in with military precision and the few items he had left behind had not been moved if the level of dust was anything to go by.

He’d left this room a year ago believing that everything he had become accustom to in his life after being invalided home, was gone. His best friend had jumped from the roof of St. Barts Hospital and all the goodness in John’s life had died with him. How many weeks did he wake up screaming Sherlock’s name in some vain hope that he could prevent the genius’ suicide? How often had he tried to stay awake in a futile effort to keep from reliving the moment in his nightmares?

He had felt betrayed and broken, everything in life becoming nothing more than a painful reminder that the great Sherlock Holmes, had killed himself.

Then Mary came along.

This intelligent, whimsical beauty that somehow managed to break through his mundane shroud of life with her gorgeous smile and cheery attitude. She was what brought him out of the dark of his depression. Not the therapist. Not memories or the will to fight. Mary Elizabeth Morstan, had been like a shining beacon calling him back to the world and he loved her for it.

She had been his rock. The reason he woke up in the morning, the reason he smiled and found life was once again worth living. Their life together was perfect so it was no wonder he asked her to marry him.

Of course that hadn’t gone as planned. The man downstairs at the moment having ruined all of John’s careful planning.

He’d been furious and what was worse was Mary hadn’t reacted to Sherlock the way all his previous girlfriends had. That should have been his first clue that something wasn’t right about her but he was too surprised by the fact that someone else could actually like Sherlock, that he had dismissed it for just another reason to marry her.

And they had gotten on so well. Mary and Sherlock seemed to be on similar wave lengths that he never bothered to wonder what could be wrong with the situation. He should have known! Should have seen the signs that it was too good to be true.

They’d only been married little over a month when she shot Sherlock. Suddenly John’s world was once again thrust into disarray and everything he had become used too was swept from the board to once again be mourned.

Only this time he couldn’t run from it. This time he had to stick through it because she was the woman carrying his baby and he wasn’t about to be the type of father to abandon his child.

But he sure as hell wasn’t going to stay in the same house as her when she had shot his best mate two days earlier.

So here he was back at Baker Street, standing in the room he had once called his own, staring down at the few items he had brought with him. He had been so angry when he packed that there wasn’t any rhyme or reason to the content shoved into the duffel bag. A few pairs of pants, a set of trousers and his favorite jumper along with an assortment of vests and his toothbrush.

But staring down at everything now, felt so strange. Was he really married? Had all that happened? Had Sherlock really jumped from the roof of St. Barts three years earlier and left him devastated? It all felt like a dream as he glanced around the familiar room.

What the hell had he done to deserve this?

There was movement from the kitchen that snapped his attention back to the present. Sherlock was moving around again it seemed, even after John had warned him not to. Glad of the distraction, John left the room and unpacking for later, heading to the kitchen to find Sherlock had attempted to make himself a cuppa.

Taking in the overturned bag of sugar on the counter and the milk that hadn’t been returned to the fridge, he rolled his eyes.

“You could have asked.” He scolded, moving to the counter to clean up the mess that Sherlock didn’t seem at all bothered by. Once everything was back in place, he turned his attention to the other man once more.

“I thought I told you to stay settled,” John crossed his arms and stared down at Sherlock expectantly, “You’re supposed to be recovering, not making things worse.”

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There was a number of ways to respond to John’s predictable commentary (at least five), but none of them would lead to a desirable or tolerable resolution. So Sherlock stayed silent, pulled the sheet back around his shoulders, and took another sip of his tea.

The milk and sugar were cleaned up and put away, leaving the kitchen as unnaturally bare, clinical, and sterile as it never was before he returned home from the hospital and John followed after him. The space felt entirely too empty and big and ridiculously unwelcome without any of his work equipment or even the customary kitchen inventory being scattered all over the counter tops and table. Sherlock looked around the room, until his eyes settled on John and took in the tale-telling details he carried within his appearance (different pair of loafers, recently cleaned, already worn outside, same clothing as yesterday, bags upstairs, keys in the left back pocket of his jeans, shaved with his regular blade, skin red around the wedding ring, fiddled or twisted or tugged and pushed back and forth or both, - went home early in the morning to pack his bags, but encountered Mary, did not have time to change there, only packed bare minimum of his things, left in a hurry, keys still in the pocket where he put them in a haste and without conscious thought, fiddled with his ring the entire time after the encounter, Mary tried to initiate a talk, possibility of emotional manipulation and provocation, John probably did not respond or did not give a response she wanted, left the place in urgency, is still disoriented, packed his toiletries last, unpacked first, shaved, but did not change, did not finish unpacking, deep in thought, distracted, got sidetracked by Sherlock’s fiddling in the kitchen.) Sherlock looked back at his cup, feeling the unfailing scrutiny of John’s stare. The man did not look exactly welcoming either, nor was he exactly hostile in his body language. Just infinitely angry, probably. He should have settled in the sitting room, after all.

"Morphine’s wearing out," Sherlock decided in favor of replying, voice rough and quiet from medicated sleep and the words scratching at his throat as his vocal cords tried to make do. John wouldn’t have appreciated his silence and would certainly take it for either Sherlock purposefully ignoring him or lack of complete awareness and ability to respond, when addressed. Or both. Neither options presented themselves as appealing and he settled on something neutral and helpful to divert John’s attention into a slightly more peaceful direction. 

Tea was gradually cooling down and Sherlock took a bigger drink from his mug. He should enjoy his independently brewed cuppa while he can, since John was probably about to send him back to bed and administer another doze of morphine, which was an acceptable development of events. There was no benefit in the pain he felt and no reason to tolerate it more, than absolutely necessary. 


OOC: About the format

As I was typing my part of the RP, I realized that I had to use some type of visual elements to divide the different types of inner monologue/ thoughts/ narrative process I was writing. Since Bold and Italic and (parentheses) are pretty much my main options in creating such visual differences in the text, I made a few combinations and thought to write a side note as to what my intent was with those, in case it gets a bit confusing.

For Sherlock:

  • Text in () is his inner monologue, a sort of personal comment to the narrative, a stage whisper, if you will. 
  • Text that is Italics inside the () is Sherlock’s immediate thought/ deduction/ observation/ thought process/ train of thought.
  • Just Italics within the narrative/ dialogue/ monologue are meant to imply an emotion. Think of the way Sherlock said “Fffffffriends” in the Baskerville, for example. Something like that.
  • Italics outside of the narrative or spaced separately from/ between paragraphs, to be precise, will belong to John’s voice inside Sherlock’s head.
  • I will also put an indent like this in the pieces where Sherlock converses with John’s (or someone else’s voice) in his head.
  • Bold parts inside such dialogues will be Sherlock’s voice.
  • Bold parts within the narrative/ dialogue/ monologue will be reserved for stressing certain points, words, and or insights/ deductions.

These are all for now. I might rearrange things a bit in the future, depending on how and where the RP goes and will certainly post the update on the blog. 


Reblog / posted 2 weeks ago with 6 notes
Shot Through The Heart

Someone (who? Too many candidates to name) hit a Pause button on his life, putting its every aspect into what seemed like a single frozen frame, distorted at the edges (like morphine sleep) like an old VHS tape. Moving through every (same, repeating, dull) day in a slow motion was mighty irritating. It was perhaps the biggest source of irritation and restricted restlessness at this juncture in his life (the one he allowed himself, at least, if he was careful not to stray too far away with his thoughts and think about matters he resolutely did not want to (couldn’t) touch just yet, at least not all of them, not like this.) 

Waking up was a painfully (literally and figuratively speaking) vague and evasive process, stripped of a clear line of awareness that divided dream from reality. If it wasn’t being horizontal and unconscious in his bed, it was certainly very taxing on his body, more taxing than Sherlock could have predicted. No injury has ever put him in a condition this disabling (he had a rather fascinating collection of wounds and illnesses and their lasting remnants to raise to this bullet wound.) Then again, he was never shot before, was he? Shot at? Grazed by a yet another “close one”? Sure. Taking a shot with his body opened up for a clear hit was a first.

Then there were people. People he knew, but more annoyingly people he didn’t know. An abundance of anonymous attention from faceless mob of strangers, cluttering his hospital room with obnoxiously smelling and looking flowers and balloons and some such. If he hoped his home would stand strong and untouched by this nonsense, he was in for a big and unpleasant surprise (Mrs. Hudson met him with another pile of flowers and “Get Better” cards and gifts at the door of 221b, chipper as ever.)

Even the tea was taking longer than usual to steep (which was not a case of tachypsychia, but the very dull hyper-awareness of the vacancy of his time, a skewed perception of it at its best.) Sherlock drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table top (bare, empty, cleaned), his left hand holding the sheet around his shoulders. Standing was not an option (even if John wasn’t there to bully him back to bed every time he tried to get up without permission or support), but sitting seemed like a good compromise. Whatever pain he was supposed to feel was eased away by the generous doze of morphine (made him loopy and slow, but was ultimately better and more fruitful than trying to function through pain.)

You should be in bed, you idiot. If you keep putting pressure on the wound before it heals properly, you’ll never recover.

Shut up John, I know. I’m not stupid.

You are right now.

Sherlock scowled at his tea. His feet were getting chilled by the linoleum floor (also cleaned) in their kitchen, the chair he sat on was solid wood and hardly comfortable even in his current state (or any state, for that matter), and his head was still foggy with morphine (which did not improve the sensation of flat hard wooden surfaces supporting his weight), though not to an extent where operating autonomously was not possible. 

He looked out into the sitting room, which seemed undisturbed from its usual state of disarray. Nothing to betray another presence settling into the abundant (empty, cold, incomplete) space of the flat. Well, nothing that would tip off a regular person, at least. The signs were laid out in plain sight and obvious to Sherlock (tea mug, set and turned by left hand, laptop charger still plugged in, disturbance in the dust over shelves and coffee table, imprints on the carpet around John’s chair, creases in the fabric of the blanket thrown over the back of John’s chair, coffee table moved to the right, hit his foot on the wooden leg, second dent growing on the couch, the union jack pillow resting on the other side of the couch, John taking a quick nap.) Would’ve been obvious even if they haven’t previously discussed the matter (John merely stated it as a fact, Sherlock had little objection or strength to argue, though he did try to reason with the man, which didn’t change a thing, obviously.) John traveled with few and necessary possessions, his shirts being already packed and put aside into a bag long before the catalysis of the recent events took place (don’t think about it, don’t think about implications, not right now, not like this.)

The tea had finally steeped and Sherlock pulled the teabag out by its string, holding the paper piece with the label between his thumb and index finger. He let go of the sheet in favor of picking up a spoon, depositing the still damp and steaming bag in the deep of the utensil’s bowl, tying the string around the tea bag and spoon, and pulling the string, squeezing the remaining hard-steeped liquid into the cup. Discarding the teabag into the bin he’s previously moved next to his current seat, Sherlock kicked the plastic bucket under the table and focused on adding milk and sugar to his yet incomplete cuppa. 

There were noises coming from outside, leaking through the slightly opened window in the kitchen. There were also sounds (and smells) coming through the ventilation, announcing Mrs. Hudson’s cooking project for that day. Then there were muffled sounds (no crude remarks, so far) coming from upstairs bedroom: closing and opening of the drawers and footsteps traveling around the small bedroom above. Suitcase, bed, wardrobe, desk, and then back to suitcase. John had more belongings to unpack than when they first moved in together, but it still didn’t show outside of John’s bedroom. John’s presence in the living space of 221b was marked by other little things, incorporated and integrated in the spaces between and around Sherlock. Things they shared sat squarely in the middle, space divided strictly between the two (it felt stricter than it used to be, product of accumulated and unresolved tension, probably years’ worth of words unsaid.) Sherlock looked at John’s chair (an inanimate object with no particular history or qualities, inherited with the rest of the flat. Its metamorphosis into “John’s chair” was something that happened outside of his notice and awareness. Associations, repetitive positive reinforcement) and saw an open book, turned to hug the armrest, but left too close by the edge (did not have time to find a bookmark, did not fold the corners, not his book, missing space on the shelves, a lamp moved from its place by the couch next to the chair, left side, John was reading at night, sitting in his chair, picked up a book from Sherlock’s library, was listening for any calls of distress from Sherlock, reacted immediately, responsible doctor, best friend, caring- Halt. Save for later.)

The shuffling above seized and Sherlock heard the squeak of the door from John’s bedroom, opening and closing, followed by steady, but quiet footfall heading downstairs, accompanied by the slow creak of boards under John’s weight.

John thought he was still asleep (even if he were asleep it would’ve been a morphine laced sleep, safe from any amount of noise John would make on regular basis. Habit?) Sherlock blew lightly on his tea and took a sip. Still didn’t taste like what John made for him. Pity, that. 


OOC: Update

The blog is reconstructed, but the old posts and RPs are still being sorted through. Watson and I decided to proceed with the new RP as we are right now, since the old stuff is not too much of a bother at this point.

We are back and open.


About this blog

captain-three-continents-watson:

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This is a John Watson (BBC) RP blog. Originally created for the SuperWhoLock RP community; this is now an independent RP blog. My current Sherlock Holmes (BBC) RP blog partner is Sherlock Holmes.

The old RPs (Before September 2014) on this blog that relate to the superwholock community are in the process of being archived and will have no influence what-so-ever on the new ones. Once this is done, I’ll be deleting them from this blog and this part of the post will disappear.

While most of the cases and RPs will be based around our plot, we are open to OOC/in character suggestions.

If you have any interesting cases/ideas for cases/interactive questions feel free to submit them to either of us. You will be credited for anything we use in the RPs.

OOC questions and messages are also welcome. The Submit and Ask Box are always open and will be responded to according to what is asked/submitted and who has done so (example: an in character ask will be responded to by John. While an OOC one will be answered by the muse.)

Updates will be posted on the blog and then categorized and archived under the story tab in chronological order.

This RP takes place after Mary shot Sherlock and will continue without the Charles Magnussen case. We’ve decided to deviate from His Last Vow and will explain in more detail later about who Sherlock and John were investigating when Mary shot him.

^ What my partner said.


Reblog / posted 2 weeks ago with 2 notes
OOC: About the blog

This is a Sherlock Holmes (BBC) RP blog. Originally created for the SuperWhoLock RP community, this is now an independent RP blog. My current John Watson (BBC) RP blog partner is captain-three-continents-watson.

Old RPs (before September 2014) will be cleaned up and archived, but not used in the future RPs, interludes, etc. 

While most of the cases and RPs will be based around Watson’s and my plot, we are open to OOC/ in character suggestions. Most interesting cases/ ideas for cases/ interactive questions will be credited and used in our RPs.The OOC questions and messages are also welcome. The Submit and AskBox are open and functional. 

Updates will be posted on the blog and this page.

The blog is currently under construction (August 29th, 2014.)


OOC: Going to try and reboot this blog. Construction ahead.