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was_a_soldier) wrote2012-11-18 10:34 pm
Blog Entry 001 - Action/Voice
[John Watson had recently moved out of 221B Baker St. He'd told Mrs. Hudson it was temporary a month prior, and he'd left a few of his things like notes of reassurance that he would return. But for now, he had to live away from the familiar 17 steps and shared space at the end of them. It was a habit he had to break, expecting Sherlock Holmes to come bursting in at any moment with a harpoon or a limb or a poison in hand and a brightness in his eye that was terrifying and fantastic all at once. A habit, like making two cups of tea in the morning or eating quickly expecting to be dragged off at any second on a chase through the city. Unnecessary.
He convinced himself yesterday he'd only go back for a box he'd left. The one with his thicker jackets and gloves now that it was getting colder. But he'd ended up sitting into the night and contemplating the armchair turned towards his, the box by his feet, forgotten. The flat had been clean, far cleaner then it had been while lived in, no doubt at Mrs. Hudson's hand and Mycroft's penny (though John wanted to spare little time thinking about the elder Holmes). Sherlock wouldn't have stood for it (Mycroft paying, not the free cleaning) and it made something in John's chest fold onto itself.
When John closed his eyes last night, against the ache of the empty chair across from him, he hardly expected to be laying down when he opened them. Nor did he expect to be outside, atop a bridge over a small river, with the afternoon sun high in the sky. John let out a grunt, rolling his head on the wood before forcing himself to sit. And it is only as he sits up that he realizes that his back hurts. His back hurts and nerves sing and extend beyond what he's experienced before, like a phantom limb.
Oh. Not phantom. Wings, then. Tan and dark brown with speckled white exposed as the feathers shift.
Eventually, the stunned doctor finds the journal by his side, and after briefly skimming through the information at had, he makes a general voice post as he stands, wobbly.]
...I'll admit, this is a tad difficult to wrap the brain around.
Such as suddenly gaining wings without some form of serious cosmetic surgery.
[He clears his throat. There's a shuffle as he shifts his weight, knee stiff, hands steady.]
In any case, more information would be greatly appreciated. I know this place is called Luceti, but why am I here and not in London?
[Action]
[She's about to offer her assistance with the wings- but he seems more than able to manage on his own. Even if watching how they twist and flex against the fabric of the shirt makes her flinch just a bit to think of it.]
The soreness will recede after the first day but they will remain fairly sensitive as long as you have them. Pulling a feather is much akin to being punched in the stomach.
[Action]
[Having such a sensitive addition is slightly alarming. John couldn't even imagine having such things at home, the multiple times either he or Sherlock had been at the mercy of a criminal would have probably gone ten times worse with these wings. He'd have to be careful, here.]
Yikes. I'll, uh, aim to avoid that, then... Is touch painful too?
[Action]
[Even if he's this young. And clean shaven. And he seems a bit modern for what she thought someone from the books ought to be. It's puzzling.]
After the soreness fades they become about as sensitive as one's genitals. Depending upon context touch can be painful or very pleasant, at least from what I have read.
[Action]
[John is a bit taken aback, but concedes nevertheless. If she wanted to keep their addressing more formal he would abide by her wishes, even if he doesn't know the reasoning behind it.]
...Oh. Oh.
[John clears his throat, glancing over his shoulder at the aforementioned wings with a bit more accusation in his look. Yes, these things would definitely take some getting used to.]
Well, uh... Thanks for explaining that. Be extra careful with the wings. Got it.
[Action]
[She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.]
While you are not at all what I expected when I learned you were the Doctor John Watson of which I have read so much you are, in fact him and being less than formal and respectful with a literary figure seems odd to me. I apologize. If you truly wish me to call you John, I shall call you John.
[A beat and then, well. Back to the wings.]
Most wear them under their shirts or coats- they are flexible enough to manage that. It is a good way to avoid accidental contact and stimulation.
[Action]
Hold on, hold on. What did you say just then?
...Literary figure? Me?
[Action]
Literary figure. A man from literature. That is how I know of you...and why I thought you might be a bit older.