Blog Entry 002 - Text

2012-12-17T05:56:10Z

Last year during Christmas, we were dealing with a locked cell phone and a woman who almost brought a country to it's knees.

I miss it.

I-I mean... Simply because -- even though for various reasons I won't go into, I didn't particularly enjoy that case -- at least Sherlock wasn't near climbing up the walls in frustration.

I think he either needs a murder or more information about this place so he can keep investigating it...

(And no, Sherlock, that is not permission for you to ask someone to commit a murder.)

(....)

(No, that won't count as a Christmas gift, either.)

-JW

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Blog Entry 001 - Action/Voice

2012-11-19T07:44:51Z

[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?

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HMD and Permissions

2012-03-25T23:25:44Z

PERMISSIONS
4th Wall: Is made to be broken, though it still breaks his brain as well.
Back Tagging: Go for it!
Violence: Of course; as an ex-soldier fiercely protective of a certain consulting detective, it's bound to happen.
Sexual: Fine, but don't be surprised if he runs off in the middle of a date.

HOW'S MY DRIVING?

Feel free to post any comments or constructive criticism here.

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