dr. john h. watson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
confidente) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
paradisa2012-03-16 11:03 am
confidente) wrote in paradisa2012-03-16 11:03 am
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sɪx
[ The journal picks up the door closing, shuffling and the faint irritable mutter. Favoring his left leg as he heads into the sitting room. He found it, at least, after a few days of searching and refusing to wish up the bloody thing. ]
Sherlock? I'm back.
[He's parked himself in his chair reading something that looks like it's in a different language. He doesn't look up, not that he needs to.]
Took you long enough.
I was only gone for twenty minutes. [ He lifts the box in the air, shaking it a little with a grin. He won a victory today and he is a little happier about than he probably should be. ] Look what I found.
[He does, but he does it kind of like an adult indulging a child showing off a drawing. He's not really paying attention to the box at all.] Oh. Are we still doing that?
[ Yes, they are still doing that. He limps over, dropping the box on a free coffee table. ] Of course, it's not like we've got anything better to do right now. [ Like a case, or something. ]
True. [There's a pause while he watches, silently.] All right?
Hmm? Oh, yeah. [ He pats his leg, a frown creasing his brows. ] Something bit me on the way back, didn't see it though. Whatever it was moved pretty fast.
Oh? [His tone brightens a little. What is concern?] Sounds interesting.
[ Eye roll. ] Of course you would. [ He turns, limping into the kitchen. ] Tea?
[Rustling as he lifts the lid of the game, starts rifling through it. Distractedly:] Yes.
[ It's like clockwork, making a cup of tea. With the amount of times he's done it, he hardly has to think about what he is doing. Water, cups, sugar, tea, milk... milk? John frowns, moving to the fridge, they're low on milk again. Again? He had just only bought another carton two days ago, at least he thought he did. ]
What have you-- [ He trails off and there's a heavy thud, kind of what you'd think it would sound like if he fell to the floor in a heap. Which he just did. ]
John? [He's in the kitchen barely a moment later, stooping to try and rouse him. If he didn't sound concerned before he definitely does now.] John. John.
[ Sorry bro, the John Watson you're trying to reach is unavailable at this time. Hang up and please try again later. ]
[There's a frustrated noise, and then suddenly Sherlock's voice is much louder and clearer as he seizes the journal.]
I need medical personnel in the Satis Tower. Room 1802. Doctors, healers, nurses with bags of pixie dust, I don't care. Get here now.
( ooc; AND JOHN IS OUT. Sherlock is blue and John is black. Just be careful, the unhappy detective may bite. Oh and for reference, there is a hideous purple mark on his right leg between his knee and ankle. )
Sherlock? I'm back.
[He's parked himself in his chair reading something that looks like it's in a different language. He doesn't look up, not that he needs to.]
Took you long enough.
I was only gone for twenty minutes. [ He lifts the box in the air, shaking it a little with a grin. He won a victory today and he is a little happier about than he probably should be. ] Look what I found.
[He does, but he does it kind of like an adult indulging a child showing off a drawing. He's not really paying attention to the box at all.] Oh. Are we still doing that?
[ Yes, they are still doing that. He limps over, dropping the box on a free coffee table. ] Of course, it's not like we've got anything better to do right now. [ Like a case, or something. ]
True. [There's a pause while he watches, silently.] All right?
Hmm? Oh, yeah. [ He pats his leg, a frown creasing his brows. ] Something bit me on the way back, didn't see it though. Whatever it was moved pretty fast.
Oh? [His tone brightens a little. What is concern?] Sounds interesting.
[ Eye roll. ] Of course you would. [ He turns, limping into the kitchen. ] Tea?
[Rustling as he lifts the lid of the game, starts rifling through it. Distractedly:] Yes.
[ It's like clockwork, making a cup of tea. With the amount of times he's done it, he hardly has to think about what he is doing. Water, cups, sugar, tea, milk... milk? John frowns, moving to the fridge, they're low on milk again. Again? He had just only bought another carton two days ago, at least he thought he did. ]
What have you-- [ He trails off and there's a heavy thud, kind of what you'd think it would sound like if he fell to the floor in a heap. Which he just did. ]
John? [He's in the kitchen barely a moment later, stooping to try and rouse him. If he didn't sound concerned before he definitely does now.] John. John.
[ Sorry bro, the John Watson you're trying to reach is unavailable at this time. Hang up and please try again later. ]
[There's a frustrated noise, and then suddenly Sherlock's voice is much louder and clearer as he seizes the journal.]
I need medical personnel in the Satis Tower. Room 1802. Doctors, healers, nurses with bags of pixie dust, I don't care. Get here now.
( ooc; AND JOHN IS OUT. Sherlock is blue and John is black. Just be careful, the unhappy detective may bite. Oh and for reference, there is a hideous purple mark on his right leg between his knee and ankle. )
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What happened. [ It's not a question. He wants details and he wants them now. ]
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He collapsed. Heart rate and breathing are normal, but he's unresponsive. Bit by something within the last twenty minutes, don't know what, but -- [Rustling, then tearing. Data, data, he needs data.] Surrounding area's turned purplish. Not anything I'm familiar with.
[Sharply, under his breath:] Stupid.
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[ He's already filtering to his indentured servant to get his ass over there. ]
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[ He's running through everything he knows, listing and discarding diagnoses almost immediately. ]
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Give James a few minutes Sherlock he's coming.
In the mean time have one concerned Watson asking what's wrong.]
Sherlock, what's wrong? Preferably facts please. [He knows you bro.]
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Were you expecting anything else?
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And is that a fact, Sherlock? Because otherwise you are, in fact, straying. Was he showing signs of anything unusual when he arrived in your room? [Knowing what it looked like and where was one thing but anything else?]
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There's a pause while he rewinds, goes back through the last few minutes to reexamine his observations.]
Limping, but that's to be expected given the size and nature of the wound. Nothing out of the ordinary otherwise.
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And yes he's almost there just another flight of stairs.]
Have you had an infestation of unusual creatures, or noticed anything abnormal lurking your room or nearby that may have caused this? [If he trusts anyone's sight it's Sherlock, and after Zelman...
Well he's not taking chances.]
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[Twenty minutes, twenty minutes, twenty minutes.... He goes rapidly through a number of possible paths John could have taken, places he could have found that (stupid, insipid, awful) board game, where he most likely would have been when it happened -- and the answers stick in his mouth like glue.
His loss has never frustrated him more than it is right now.]
There's nothing abnormal about the flat. I can't speak for anywhere else.
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Why did it have to be that, now?]
Do you know where he went to get, whatever it was he brought back? [He can draw his own map if you tell him Sherlock.
And now he's just barging into the room, don't mind him Sherlock for not knocking, stuffing his journal in a pocket.]
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Here.
[He's in the kitchen, crouched on the floor with the journal open beside him. He's shifted John just a bit, laid him out carefully (level, keep him level.)
His expression is carefully blank.]
I know where he probably went. Been looking for the stupid thing for ages.
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Sorry I'm late- Dr. House sent me.
[But hey if James is here, that's good. He'll just follow his instruction because he's not really sure what he's dealing with]
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It's all well and good, the more hands the better.
[And it's going to take him a minute to get over there but he crouches down to look at the mark and just over all check him over.] Really? Now why is that?
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How should I know? Maybe he isn't a particularly savvy shopper.
forever dictated + filtered ]
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He doesn't know better sue him.] And what do you think doctor? [It's directed at the journal but his eyes are on that bruise/rash thing.]no subject
[ His tone is detached and clinical. Regardless, ha has already set apart a private bed in an enclosed room, outfitted with everything John might need. ]
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His gaze stays locked on John, though, scrounging for any last bits of data he can find. Figure it out, solve the puzzle, keep his mind distracted. (For now.)]
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But he does nod at Allen, and then a glance over at Sherlock, now just how is this going to work?] If you do not mind, Mr. Walker, yes? Helping me move Dr. Watson, we can find somewhere for Mr. Holmes to sit and wait for word about him.
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[Allen changes his position so he can properly pick up John while keeping him level]
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Concern yourself with him, not me.
[i.e., he won't "sit and wait" anywhere. He'll do whatever the hell he wants.]
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Please do continue to chat. It's not like there's a comatose man bitten by an unknown creature possibly dying for the past [#] minutes. [ The "Hurry up" is left unsaid, but audible at the end of the sentence. And yes, he's been keeping an eye on the time. If John is not in the clinic in the next ten minutes, House is going to start wishing for the ingredients to a stink bomb and everyone in the castle can stop breathing. ]
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Then take pity on an old man, Sherlock, and help carry him to the clinic so Dr. House is not worried while we stand here. [He means that and he's eyeing Sherlock with something like expectation. Either help your bro or shut up.]
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Ah, it's okay really, I got it...
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Hear that? He has it. Fantastic. Now take him and get out of my flat. I have work to do.
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And you both can learn to be patient. [But he is ushering Allen out now yup.] Though I do advise you to keep your temper under control when you come to the clinic, Sherlock. [A word of friendly advice yup.]
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What happened?
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[Curt, to the point. He's doing an excellent job maintaining his calm, but there's a thread of annoyance there.]
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Will he be alright?
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[It's snappish, almost a little defensive. "Not alright" isn't an outcome he's willing to consider.]
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