WATSON

Not too fond of sharing personal info on the interwebs. Let me know if there is anything in particular you need.

[doeskinandpetals]

We all have our role to play after all.

[healingman-blog1]

Open Starter ||

[healingman-blog1]

Her comment about a novel rolled clean off his back. John didn’t have any time or patience for cover ups. Clearly she had no interest in sharing the source of her knowledge, and frankly, the doctor didn’t mind all that much. One mystery at a time. The woman seemed a little smug, and maybe tired, too. Flour braced the tips of her shoes and scattered her shins. He fixated on her eyes but couldn’t read all that much. John was tired too. 

However she knew about John and his ‘colleagues,’ she knew right. There was little resemblance between himself and Irene Adler. A mental list gathered the presence of Sherlock and Mycroft. No Moriarty. Well of course he’s not here, somehow the veteran knew he had to have orchestrated all this. Well, actually, if he did, wouldn’t he probably be here anyway? The bastard was sort of a hands on villain. Again, one mystery at a time. After he departed from the woman, he would surely make good of his time and find of Sherlock. That was an easy next step. Speaking of the woman, John felt almost like he was standing to something of her protege. They gave off a similar air– confidence, aggressiveness… “Any idea where I can find him?” He asked, tentatively. Sherlock, I mean.”

[somelatinname]

Meg narrowed her gaze at the man, unsure with how to take and further more unsure of how he was taking her. Obviously he didn’t trust her and that was fine. If she had trusted everyone she’s ever met, then she’d be long dead by now. And that was more ways than just being sent back to Hell over and over again.

Crossing her arms over her chest and leaning on one foot, Meg raised a brow at the other decided to give a small shrug. “He’s probably in his house or something. I think he’s taken over the police station if you’re desperate to look for him.”

She went through her mind as she tried to remember every detail about the famous detective, but surprisingly came up fairly blank. “Sorry,” she really wasn’t but it was nice to say, “I wish I could tell you more but I haven’t really had the pleasure to get to know Sherlock nor do I care that much.”

Though his addition to who he was specifying still rang odd to her. “And who else would I be talking about?” She paused and looked away and gave a shrug. “Actually, don’t answer that, I’m not sure you’ll tell me and I also don’t actually care.”

Meg could sense that he wanted to leave and she was certainly going to give him the opportunity. “See you around, Watson. Because you’re definitely not leaving here any time soon. None of us are.”

[healingman-blog1]

John took the information well. Within his mind, he began to craft a plan of what could be done that day. One of those things was to find exactly where he would stay that evening. His eyes moved passed Meg and towards their surroundings. There had to be an empty room somewhere.

He chewed on her last words. They were harsh. John watched her turn to leave, long enough that her figure was just a black silhouette in the distance.

A nearby bench gave him solace.

[ineffa8le]

“You could.”

[healingman-blog1]

Watson + Sherlock || A Day In Blue

[healingman-blog1]

The brick practically rippling behind him, John met the wall with a huff. His instincts stroke to push Sherlock away. Still, he refrained from making any advancements. He didn’t want to startle the detective who was so clearly unstable. Now that their eyes met, piercingly cool, John noticed something about his face. Younger? Not as stiff, maybe. “Sherlock,” he scoffed with bewildered smile, “What are you talking about?!”

There was clearly something wrong. Was he not lucid? At any rate, the doctor was tired, and wasn’t interested in entertaining any odd behavior. John slipped out from the detectives grip and pushed him away, just enough to be out of arms reach. Sherlock seemed to be looking at him as if he were a stranger. It was uncomfortable, to say the least. He brushed off his jacket and regained posture. “What’s wrong with you?” The doctor asked, frightened. His eyes were laced with shock.

[sherllockedholmes]

Sherlock didn’t notice John’s human reaction to colliding with the wall, he didn’t notice any of the obvious clues that would have let him know that this was John, the very John he missed solving crimes with. His only friend. He didn’t notice until John said his name again. Sherlock, what are you talking about? He froze again, surveying John’s face once more now that he was in such close proximity. His wrinkles were more prominent now, that was certain. He looked tired, the way he sometimes looked when he would come home after a long shift at St. Bart’s that had come right after a day of gallivanting around London with Sherlock. His eyes – they looked at him the way they always had when Sherlock did something ‘not human’ or not up to the social constructs of the day. 

Maybe this really was John.

He was pushed away and he allowed himself to be, not moving to close the distance between them again. He was stunned. If this really was John, then… it appeared that life would get much better in this pocket of hell.

But he needed to be sure. The tiredness and age in John’s face pointed to the fact that John might have been affected by Sherlock’s death. He certainly sounded that way on the phone before he’d jumped. But he didn’t seem surprised to see Sherlock alive, just that he was glad to see him. Something wasn’t right.

“Prove to me you’re John,” he demanded. “Tell me something only you would know. I can’t trust you, otherwise. They might have sent a– a cyborg or something that looks like you.” 

[healingman-blog1]

A scoff sat on John’s lips and he blinked once or twice. What a ridiculous request. The stress and confusion of his day began to wear, and the doctor grew a bit tired. He wasn’t the active person he used to be. Yet, the lifestyle was missed and chased after regularly. Denial grew thick-- John wasn’t quite ready to accept the reality before him. It was too wild of a concept to grasp and believe. His toes went stiff in leather shoes.

What could lead Sherlock to believe that John wasn’t John? There really wasn’t any technology out there to fake a face so well. Especially in such detail. Well, at least, in the world they had come from. How ridiculous of an idea. The veteran attempted to swallow back his exasperation. It didn’t work all too well. “Sherlock-- he cut himself off, sighing deeply. 

He supposed he would have to play along. Images and memories flickered through his mind like a hand book. “Er...” He dragged off, furrowing his brow. “Ah.”

John narrowed his eyes. “The pen you frequent in the fridge. I’m not sure why it’s always in the fridge; you said something about keeping the ink fresh. Is that even a thing?”

[dramatisecho]

“Children of the same family, the same blood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connections can supply.” - Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, 1814

[healingman-blog1]

Open Starter ||

[healingman-blog1]

After a step taken back, the doctor blinked and grew a bit more serious. She knew who he was. Maybe she had spoken to Sherlock, however it still seemed unlikely that he would divulge information about his partner. He wasn’t exactly the type to share. Surely not when it came to John. “Yes, that’s me. How’d you know?”

Clearly this woman had some sort of ulterior motive. The veteran made a point to keep that in mind while maintaining his composure. Or, possibly, she could be confused herself. A few emotions found their way into John’s mind. Anger, curiosity, fear– and the same confusion. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was probably excited. He never liked it quiet for too long. She gave him a few leads. A mental note was taken and saved for later. Doc, not Doctor, and somewhere named Torchwood. Random references he had no understanding of. 

After the leads she gave him nonsense. Someone was behind this. Moriarty’s henchmen? Possibly… But this didn’t seem like his signature. This was new. Creative and original. The only question remaining was: was she involved? It would come as no surprise– she did know his name. “You have to understand why I might find that to be a little ridiculous.” John scoffed a little. He wasn’t much of a drinker. He had a different kind of addiction. “What are you doing here?”

[somelatinname]

Meg’s patience was wearing as thin as the man’s before her. She tilted her head to the side and stared at him for a long moment before breathing out a laugh and then turning to roll her eyes upwards and then giving a shrug. “Because I read sometimes and you’re famous in my world for being a fictional character who is side-kick to the great detective, blah, blah. Believe that or I can lie and say I’m a psychic.”

She smirked at him, crossing her arms over her chest and waiting for him to realise that she wasn’t kidding. Though if he decided to go the route of not believing then she would safely point him in the direction of his favorite person and the two could part and be on their merry ways. “Also Sherlock is prominent in being known and annoying, Mycroft is already here, and you definitely don’t look like a Moriarty, so….” she gave a shrug and smirked again. “You’re either Watson or Irene Adler.”

Ah, so unbelieving it was. Awesome. “What am I doing here? Good question, based in a nice moral ‘what if’ sense of reality. But honestly kid, I can’t tell you the real answer to that because I don’t actually know either.” She dropped her arms to remain at her sides. “Listen, believe what you want, but you’re going to get the same answer from nearly everyone else, so either start believing or… live in a super happy denial state of mind. Your choice.”

[healingman-blog1]

Her comment about a novel rolled clean off his back. John didn’t have any time or patience for cover ups. Clearly she had no interest in sharing the source of her knowledge, and frankly, the doctor didn’t mind all that much. One mystery at a time. The woman seemed a little smug, and maybe tired, too. Flour braced the tips of her shoes and scattered her shins. He fixated on her eyes but couldn’t read all that much. John was tired too. 

However she knew about John and his ‘colleagues,’ she knew right. There was little resemblance between himself and Irene Adler. A mental list gathered the presence of Sherlock and Mycroft. No Moriarty. Well of course he’s not here, somehow the veteran knew he had to have orchestrated all this. Well, actually, if he did, wouldn’t he probably be here anyway? The bastard was sort of a hands on villain. Again, one mystery at a time. After he departed from the woman, he would surely make good of his time and find of Sherlock. That was an easy next step. Speaking of the woman, John felt almost like he was standing to something of her protege. They gave off a similar air-- confidence, aggressiveness... “Any idea where I can find him?” He asked, tentatively. Sherlock, I mean.”

[healingman-blog1]

Watson + Sherlock || A Day In Blue

[healingman-blog1]

A friend, found. For merely a moment, nothing but the wind moved. It whipped past his fingers in through his hair. It brushed his nose. Although only a few days passed since he had seen Sherlock– Appledore had ruffled him– the doctor was still incredibly relieved to see a familiar face. He slowed his breaths by touching his knees for just a second, catching up on the current events. “Oh, thank god. Sherlock–” he cut himself off, bewildered. John gestured plainly to the world around them.

“What the hell is going on?”

Maybe he would have some insight to their situation. Surely he would have made several deductions by now. He was probably even on his was to fix whatever had happened; the detective solved this mysterious ‘Pocket’ business. At least, John hoped so. What he had heard from the only other face he’d run into was outlandish and not completely understood.

[sherllockedholmes]

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he’d stood there, studying John’s face. He was… older. Or was it simply that Sherlock hadn’t paid close attention to the details of John’s face once he’d memorized what he looked like on the day they’d met and the prolonged separation made everything evident now? Even after John had spoken to him, Sherlock stood there for a moment, stunned. 

What the hell is going on? John’s question seemed to echo in his head.

This was a trick. All of Sherlock’s powers of observation seemed to escape him at the moment, emotion overtaking him in a way it almost never did. In one swift movement, Sherlock put his forearm to John’s chest, pushing him backward and up against the nearest wall, which happened to be to the Sheriff’s station. 

“What’s the point?” he asked ‘John’, thinking he might be one of the creators of the Pocket in disguise or an android controlled by someone far away. “Why are you doing this? What do you have to gain?”

[healingman-blog1]

The brick practically rippling behind him, John met the wall with a huff. His instincts stroke to push Sherlock away. Still, he refrained from making any advancements. He didn't want to startle the detective who was so clearly unstable. Now that their eyes met, piercingly cool, John noticed something about his face. Younger? Not as stiff, maybe. "Sherlock," he scoffed with bewildered smile, "What are you talking about?!"

There was clearly something wrong. Was he not lucid? At any rate, the doctor was tired, and wasn't interested in entertaining any odd behavior. John slipped out from the detectives grip and pushed him away, just enough to be out of arms reach. Sherlock seemed to be looking at him as if he were a stranger. It was uncomfortable, to say the least. He brushed off his jacket and regained posture. "What's wrong with you?" The doctor asked, frightened. His eyes were laced with shock.

[healingman-blog1]

Watson + Sherlock || A Day In Blue

John had spent some time on a search for Sherlock but couldn’t seem to find him anywhere. In fact, he couldn’t seem to find anyone. After his bland parting from the girl at the lake he set his sights out for someone with a familiar face. Yet no faces showed at all. Maybe it was just the day, but the doctor felt very, very alone. Although he had a few good reasons.

Initially it was a big red fire truck that attracted John to the station. He couldn’t locate the keys to the ignition, but from the look of it that thing probably hadn’t ran in years. To put it lightly… The vehicle was understandably vintage. John hadn’t spent all that much time in search of others. Maybe up to half an hour, and all of his efforts were based outside. The stretch of the sun bleached him down to the bones– he was tired. He wanted to sit down. And so it happened: right next to the wheel. John dozed in and out for about the next hour, and when he was awake, his eyes remained fixated on the large opening left by the absence of the garage door. Warmth in the summer was sleepy and thick.

A black trench coat walked by in a hurry, brown curls ruffling in the self-made breeze. John’s back stiffened and rose immediately. There was only one man stubborn enough to wear something so heavy in seventy degree weather.

As he had done so many times before, the doctor leapt to his feet and followed the fleeting image. “Sherlock!” That was it. The part he had ‘done so many times before:’ anxiously yelling that name.

[sherllockedholmes]

Sherlock was bored. Having already experimented with his newfound powers and finding that they weren’t getting much stronger than the day he’d gotten them, he resolved to walk around the Pocket and see if anything interesting was happening. The denizens of the Pocket were boring and largely unintelligent, but perhaps with added supernatural powers, they would do something interesting. Like lab rats being fed chocolate or alcohol. Not that Sherlock would ever do such a thing. Largely because John would never have allowed such an experiment.

Sherlock had only said he missed John once his entire time being here. And the only reason he’d done so was because they were all under a truth spell and someone had asked him so. He did his best to hide that information, to bury it even from himself. But even when his mind was occupied, the thought would come back, seemingly out of nowhere.

John wouldn’t allow that. John would have laughed at that. John would have understood that. 

Nobody understood. Not even River, someone with almost as much daring and lack of care for the rules as Sherlock.

He walked about the town at his regular quick pace, his coat flowing behind him despite the lack of wind that day. He always walked on the balls of his feet, like he was always ready to avoid hitting somebody or something.

He heard his name being called behind him and he stopped, dead in his tracks. He didn’t turn around, not yet. He waited, still as a predator assessing its prey. He couldn’t have just heard John’s voice – he was hearing things now. Still, while he normally swore off hope, he couldn’t stave it away this time. He forced himself to spin around and look and finally, he saw John.

He froze again, as if he was short-circuiting. It was suddenly hot and he was at a loss for what to do. Like being away from John made him forget the way he’d normally act around him.

When Sherlock jumped off that roof with plans to leave London, he thought he might never see John again. When he ended up in the Pocket, he was even more certain of that fact. And now he was here.

[healingman-blog1]

A friend, found. For merely a moment, nothing but the wind moved. It whipped past his fingers in through his hair. It brushed his nose. Although only a few days passed since he had seen Sherlock-- Appledore had ruffled him-- the doctor was still incredibly relieved to see a familiar face. He slowed his breaths by touching his knees for just a second, catching up on the current events. "Oh, thank god. Sherlock--" he cut himself off, bewildered. John gestured plainly to the world around them.

"What the hell is going on?"

Maybe he would have some insight to their situation. Surely he would have made several deductions by now. He was probably even on his was to fix whatever had happened; the detective solved this mysterious 'Pocket' business. At least, John hoped so. What he had heard from the only other face he'd run into was outlandish and not completely understood.

[naturalshocks]

Copics, Promarkers, white gel pen and a touch of coloured pencil on Canson Illustration. 16 x 28 cm ☆  WIP

Please do not post this on other sites (Pinterest, Weheartit, Facebook, Vkontakte etc.)

[healingman-blog1]

Open Starter ||

[healingman-blog1]

John whipped around and wavered in his stance. A series of observations began. Woman, stout, brunette, clear sign of an American accent… He absorbed her first sarcastic statement just as she began the next. He blinked, a bit rattled by her question. Worlds? What was she talking about? Lastly, where was he? She had mentioned the name Sherlock: Good. So he was here too. Probably already figuring out where the hell they had crash landed. Still, the doctor was a bit offended that she had named it ‘Sherlock’s’ world– it was his too. “Mine– er– Sherlock’s. But still mine.” 

Our veteran wasn’t totally coherent, but well enough to be made sense of. He began to take in the environment around him. Foreign foliage, so, not the sort that he was used to in London. After that was a seemingly clear lake and bland buildings in the distance. John was confused. Although, a friendly face stood before him, and one that looked like it wanted to help. “I’m sorry, but, the Pocket? What’s that?” He raised one brow and huffed a little.

[somelatinname]

Meg merely raised a brow at the man, standing back on her heel as she dug her hands into the front pockets of her jeans. “Right, okay so Sherlock’s it is,” she spoke dryly, taking the man in, wondering who he was. He obviously wasn’t Mycroft, he was already there… and if he was Moriarty, then Doyle needed to do some serious revisions.

It was the only other character-aside from the cop-that Meg could assume. “John Watson?” She asked, keeping her brow raised with intrigue and wonder. Thinking that Sherlock would be delighted to have his favorite punching bag around.

Soon, however, Meg’s features changed to one of recognition and understanding as she gave a nod and took a couple steps forward and closer towards the man. “Listen, I can try to tell you, and I will, but your best bet is seeking out Torchwood or Doc. Not to be confused with the Doctor, he’s useless, but Doc will help you.”

She paused and pursed her lips for a moment before giving a shrug. “The Pocket is sort of anther universe that’s off to the side from the ones you and I are from. So… basically everyone here was plucked from our separate worlds and plopped in this Hell hole….which, if you’re a drinker, the bonus is unlimited alcohol.”

[healingman-blog1]

After a step taken back, the doctor blinked and grew a bit more serious. She knew who he was. Maybe she had spoken to Sherlock, however it still seemed unlikely that he would divulge information about his partner. He wasn’t exactly the type to share. Surely not when it came to John. “Yes, that’s me. How’d you know?”

Clearly this woman had some sort of ulterior motive. The veteran made a point to keep that in mind while maintaining his composure. Or, possibly, she could be confused herself. A few emotions found their way into John’s mind. Anger, curiosity, fear-- and the same confusion. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was probably excited. He never liked it quiet for too long. She gave him a few leads. A mental note was taken and saved for later. Doc, not Doctor, and somewhere named Torchwood. Random references he had no understanding of. 

After the leads she gave him nonsense. Someone was behind this. Moriarty’s henchmen? Possibly... But this didn’t seem like his signature. This was new. Creative and original. The only question remaining was: was she involved? It would come as no surprise-- she did know his name. “You have to understand why I might find that to be a little ridiculous.” John scoffed a little. He wasn’t much of a drinker. He had a different kind of addiction. “What are you doing here?”

[healingman-blog1]

Watson + Sherlock || A Day In Blue

John had spent some time on a search for Sherlock but couldn’t seem to find him anywhere. In fact, he couldn’t seem to find anyone. After his bland parting from the girl at the lake he set his sights out for someone with a familiar face. Yet no faces showed at all. Maybe it was just the day, but the doctor felt very, very alone. Although he had a few good reasons.

Initially it was a big red fire truck that attracted John to the station. He couldn’t locate the keys to the ignition, but from the look of it that thing probably hadn’t ran in years. To put it lightly… The vehicle was understandably vintage. John hadn’t spent all that much time in search of others. Maybe up to half an hour, and all of his efforts were based outside. The stretch of the sun bleached him down to the bones– he was tired. He wanted to sit down. And so it happened: right next to the wheel. John dozed in and out for about the next hour, and when he was awake, his eyes remained fixated on the large opening left by the absence of the garage door. Warmth in the summer was sleepy and thick.

A black trench coat walked by in a hurry, brown curls ruffling in the self-made breeze. John’s back stiffened and rose immediately. There was only one man stubborn enough to wear something so heavy in seventy degree weather.

As he had done so many times before, the doctor leapt to his feet and followed the fleeting image. “Sherlock!” That was it. The part he had ‘done so many times before:’ anxiously yelling that name.

[notlikethemoviess]

“You know… Thing.”

[batchenfall]

[healingman-blog1]

Open Starter ||

His feet almost bracing the surface of the water, John’s body lay in a strewn about way over the sand. Wind and far off inaudible noises trickled through the doctor’s ears. Some consciousness, fleeting, moved about behind his eyelids. Waking up was a long and tedious process. The first thing he really felt was the tiny grains of white and creme resting beneath the exposed parts of his skin. Earth, yeah. That’s what it was. His memories returned to him. No, he certainly wasn’t in his bed– and, no, Mary was nowhere to be found.

He became aware of his breathing, eyes fluttering open to a bright environment. Maybe a little too bright. Nothing a few blinks couldn’t solve. 

Now, John was sitting up and very reasonably scared. He wasn’t a sleep walker, and even if he was, he couldn’t recognize anything around him. After further inspection he found no damage to himself or his clothing. The usuals were found in inventory (the pockets): a pack of cigarettes, wallet, keys, etcetera. It was as if he were a perfectly normal man, going about the day, who then promptly decided to spend some time sunbathing… In a button up and slacks. “Weh–” He scoffed, moving into a standing position, “What?” 

A doe in headlights.

[somelatinname]

Meg had been seated at the bakery for the better half of the evening and before she knew it, it was daylight and yet another day in the Pocket. She’d made enough pies to last Dean a lifetime and further, more scones than Doc would have ever dreamed of.

But she knew that she’d probably never see either of them for the remainder of this… whatever this was. Still, she was willing to try, and since Castiel was nowhere in sight -which was typically him- Meg felt like the entire mess of what’s gone on was now residing upon her shoulders.

Heaving a sigh, she stood from her seated position and began to exit the building when she spotted something… or rather someone from the corner of her eyes picking themselves up from the shore of the lake in the middle of the park.

...Great. Just what she wanted to do today, introduce herself and bring another confused soul to the dawning realization that they were stuck in a new brand of Hell.

“Oh Good! He talks and he’s British! That’s one step out of the twenty questions games we can avoid.” Meg called out in an informal greeting as she slowly made her way towards the obviously confused man.

“Hi, I’m Meg, welcome to the Pocket, are you from my world, The Doctor’s world, or Sherlock’s?” She figured it was a long stretch to think he was from her’s but it was worth a shot to give him the benefit of a doubt.

[healingman-blog1]

John whipped around and wavered in his stance. A series of observations began. Woman, stout, brunette, clear sign of an American accent... He absorbed her first sarcastic statement just as she began the next. He blinked, a bit rattled by her question. Worlds? What was she talking about? Lastly, where was he? She had mentioned the name Sherlock: Good. So he was here too. Probably already figuring out where the hell they had crash landed. Still, the doctor was a bit offended that she had named it ‘Sherlock’s’ world-- it was his too. “Mine-- er-- Sherlock’s. But still mine.” 

Our veteran wasn’t totally coherent, but well enough to be made sense of. He began to take in the environment around him. Foreign foliage, so, not the sort that he was used to in London. After that was a seemingly clear lake and bland buildings in the distance. John was confused. Although, a friendly face stood before him, and one that looked like it wanted to help. “I’m sorry, but, the Pocket? What’s that?” He raised one brow and huffed a little.

[healingman-blog1]

Open Starter ||

His feet almost bracing the surface of the water, John’s body lay in a strewn about way over the sand. Wind and far off inaudible noises trickled through the doctor’s ears. Some consciousness, fleeting, moved about behind his eyelids. Waking up was a long and tedious process. The first thing he really felt was the tiny grains of white and creme resting beneath the exposed parts of his skin. Earth, yeah. That’s what it was. His memories returned to him. No, he certainly wasn’t in his bed-- and, no, Mary was nowhere to be found.

He became aware of his breathing, eyes fluttering open to a bright environment. Maybe a little too bright. Nothing a few blinks couldn’t solve. 

Now, John was sitting up and very reasonably scared. He wasn’t a sleep walker, and even if he was, he couldn’t recognize anything around him. After further inspection he found no damage to himself or his clothing. The usuals were found in inventory (the pockets): a pack of cigarettes, wallet, keys, etcetera. It was as if he were a perfectly normal man, going about the day, who then promptly decided to spend some time sunbathing... In a button up and slacks. “Weh--” He scoffed, moving into a standing position, “What?” 

A doe in headlights.

[benedicked]