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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?
[voice], lol me too xD
[Were Sherlock here, that would have probably sparked a grand assortment of theories, but he wasn't. And so John's slightly suspicious observation and silent thoughts were all that were due. John eventually clears his throat.]
From what I can see it looks decent enough. I'm on a bridge on the outskirts of the village, I think.
I'm... not required to stay dressed like this, am I?
[voice]
[Jack feels a bit bad for laughing with his reply, but quickly contains himself, clearing his throat conspicuously. He doesn't want to seem mocking just because he's overly amused by the idea of a whole village of people in white trousers and sun dresses.]
Right, sorry. I can come out with a coat, see you to the clothing shop, if that's alright?
[voice]
Christ, that's good to hear. This look doesn't exactly suit me. If you could show me to the shop I'd really appreciate it.
[voice]
[There's a bit of noise in the background - footsteps, rustling around the journal as Jack gathers up a coat and the tacky tropical-patterned flip-flops he'd grabbed for general shower-and-kitchen use, a muffled call off-speaker (Be back in a bit, Eugene! text me if I should be picking anything up!). Then the click of a door, and renewed quiet. Jack walks quickly, unfolding his oft-folded map in his free hand.]
Alright, now. Mountains are west. Does your bridge go straight east-west, or more diagonal?
[voice]
[voice] ( -> [action?])
Moving on, and leaving behind directions entirely because he just confused himself.]
-good! You'll want to head away from the forest, into the centre of town. I'm in a striped sweatshirt, just keep an eye out.
[And with that Jack will be heading north from the items shop, looking down each road toward the bridge for any newcomers. It's the one thing he can say for the white trousers - they are fantastically visible.]
[action]
John spots Jack, his eyebrows shooting up and his weight shifting as he tries to determine if this is the man in the striped sweatshirt he was told to look out for.]
[action]
[Jack is, in fact, the man in a striped and hooded sweatshirt (under which his wings are tucked snug and safe). He is also the man carrying a warm-looking coat and unfortunate temporary footwear, as well as the man who breaks into a jog once he's certain he's found the man he's after. He pulls up with a smile still a few metres off, sorting everything into one arm so he can offer his hand.]
Good to meet you.
[action]
Nice to meet you as well. I have to say that coat is a sight for sore eyes, too. Though with all the confusion I believe I missed your name...!
[action]
[Jack drops the sandals onto the ground so John can step into them, then holds out the coat for him to shrug into, remembering how infamously tender their newly-acquired appendages tend to be at first.]
Here - just tuck the wings a bit, eh? The clothing shop might have your things, and in any case it should have something warm that fits.