was_a_soldier | Blog Entry 001

[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.]

This is John Watson speaking.

...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?

Threaded | Flat

...Doctor John Watson?

[Star Wars and Star Treck and video game characters and experiments that shift around age were common enough- why not one Doctor John Watson? It's sill just strange enough that there's a hint of incredulity in Adele's accented voice.]

[Here, have a seemingly normal teen with a German accent. ...Who is wondering why this guy is named John Watson.]

My guess? This place must've gotten tired of only taking people from America or Japan.

[Despite himself, as soon as he hears the name, Jack smiles. Even if being displaced from time and space remains a daily exercise in mild disorientation, there is a strange comfort in hearing one fellow English voice after another, from worlds where autos still run, and where "The Big Smoke" is not universally understood to mean London shortly after the fall of society.]

Ah, now that's the question that gets you nothing but theories. Two weeks in and I still don't have the faintest idea - and as I understand it, two years isn't much better.

[Loki spots the new feather as he's on his way to the Battle Dome, and overhears the transmission.]

You are lucky they left you here rather than in the middle of the woods. Perhaps they like you.

In which case you have my pity.

[Spock had been making his way to the Dome when he came across a man sitting on the bridge.... ah yes, this must be a 'new feather'.

With a raised eyebrow, Spock approaches.]

Greetings, I am Spock. Are you in need of assistance?

Bugger! You're back, John. Dunno why you're here.

This is Loki Laufeyson speaking. Your wings are not some form of serious cosmetic surgery. This is also not London. If this would be the great city of London the strong arm of the law would be called a bobby, you see?

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