John Watson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jumpthegun) wrote2016-04-04 09:15 pm
jumpthegun) wrote2016-04-04 09:15 pm
IC Inbox (v1.0)
You've reached Dr. John Watson. Please leave a message.
You've reached Dr. John Watson. Please leave a message.
[Dead, he's dead.
Dead and not returned, not here in Sherlock's morgue, not revived.]
Please.
[He wants to shout at John, order him to revive at once, but that's ludicrous. It's the truth, unvarnished and raw, that comes out. Stupid death price.]
I love you, John, you're my-- you're my best friend. Don't you dare do this. I'm supposed to save you, I made a promise. I promised...
[Her. He promised Mary, her spectre. He can't have failed again.]
John!
Dead and not returned, not here in Sherlock's morgue, not revived.]
Please.
[He wants to shout at John, order him to revive at once, but that's ludicrous. It's the truth, unvarnished and raw, that comes out. Stupid death price.]
I love you, John, you're my-- you're my best friend. Don't you dare do this. I'm supposed to save you, I made a promise. I promised...
[Her. He promised Mary, her spectre. He can't have failed again.]
John!
Edited (I already said audio earlier) 2017-01-29 15:44 (UTC)
[When John wakes, it's beyond disorienting. Every memory from Norfinbury is sharp and fresh, which is why he has a momentary panic reaction inside his body bag. He gets himself out and sits up on the slab, staring around. Mary is there, staring at him wide-eyed and concerned, of course.
This... isn't Culverton's hospital, she offers.]
I noticed.
[But then, what is he doing here? Five years of memories are packed into his head and the most recent three and a half months of those feel just as sharp and vivid as the ones from here. Beating Sherlock, standing with him in Culverton's hospital, looking over his bed, Mary's final message...
Is this a dream? Or was everything else a dream. He looks over at Mary again, brow furrowing in confusion. She's real.
Are you sure?
No, he's not. He's not sure of anything right at this very moment, except that the tablet at his feet is pinging incessantly with missed message notifications. It's Sherlock. Of course it's Sherlock. So, he's here, back from the dead. No. Wait, did he die, or did John just imagine that? It's difficult to tell at the moment. He does respond, regardless, because he's not sure if this real and if it is, then maybe he's drugged at Culverton's hospital. And Sherlock is trying to get to him, escape Culverton. John knows the other man is in danger, either way.
Put himself in danger for you, Mary corrects. John casts her a mild frown.]
Yeah, Sherlock, I'm here. Where are you?
[Christ, John, he just told you he loves you. Say something else.]
This... isn't Culverton's hospital, she offers.]
I noticed.
[But then, what is he doing here? Five years of memories are packed into his head and the most recent three and a half months of those feel just as sharp and vivid as the ones from here. Beating Sherlock, standing with him in Culverton's hospital, looking over his bed, Mary's final message...
Is this a dream? Or was everything else a dream. He looks over at Mary again, brow furrowing in confusion. She's real.
Are you sure?
No, he's not. He's not sure of anything right at this very moment, except that the tablet at his feet is pinging incessantly with missed message notifications. It's Sherlock. Of course it's Sherlock. So, he's here, back from the dead. No. Wait, did he die, or did John just imagine that? It's difficult to tell at the moment. He does respond, regardless, because he's not sure if this real and if it is, then maybe he's drugged at Culverton's hospital. And Sherlock is trying to get to him, escape Culverton. John knows the other man is in danger, either way.
Put himself in danger for you, Mary corrects. John casts her a mild frown.]
Yeah, Sherlock, I'm here. Where are you?
[Christ, John, he just told you he loves you. Say something else.]
Edited 2017-01-29 16:22 (UTC)
[The only response is a very long, very shuddering sigh before the audio is flicked off and nothing more comes through for almost a full minute.
If he were the sort to believe in God, then he would thank him from the bottom of his heart, but he doesn't. The very concept is ludicrous to him, the idea that something governs their world from another plane and could grant the heartfelt prayers of others makes no sense. This is the work of the Admin. Perhaps she heard his demands earlier, perhaps-- or perhaps this was always intended, a cruel trick to make sure they were not brought back together.
He feels the world sway. His kidneys are working, at least, but he's still malnourished with withdrawal causing havoc in his system. He doesn't know what to say. He knows it has to be the truth, he's already discovered that particular death price, but the truth is a very flexible thing.
Lie. Why is he already contemplating how to lie to John?
It's the answer. Brusque, angry- at least, that's how Sherlock reads it. How can it be anything but when he must have seen those messages and his only response is a request for his location? Is he angry because of what Sherlock did? Or because his calculations were somehow off and John died despite it all?
His hands are shaking like a leaf when he lifts them to reply.]
That doesn't matter right now. [Not a lie.] You're alive. Tell me what your price is.
If he were the sort to believe in God, then he would thank him from the bottom of his heart, but he doesn't. The very concept is ludicrous to him, the idea that something governs their world from another plane and could grant the heartfelt prayers of others makes no sense. This is the work of the Admin. Perhaps she heard his demands earlier, perhaps-- or perhaps this was always intended, a cruel trick to make sure they were not brought back together.
He feels the world sway. His kidneys are working, at least, but he's still malnourished with withdrawal causing havoc in his system. He doesn't know what to say. He knows it has to be the truth, he's already discovered that particular death price, but the truth is a very flexible thing.
Lie. Why is he already contemplating how to lie to John?
It's the answer. Brusque, angry- at least, that's how Sherlock reads it. How can it be anything but when he must have seen those messages and his only response is a request for his location? Is he angry because of what Sherlock did? Or because his calculations were somehow off and John died despite it all?
His hands are shaking like a leaf when he lifts them to reply.]
That doesn't matter right now. [Not a lie.] You're alive. Tell me what your price is.
[John rolls his eyes--eyes because he has two of them again... has had two of them for years. This is really not working for him. In any case, he switches to text.]
I dunno. I think I'm dreaming.
[Culverton is the dream, Mary is the dream... or this place is. John has a preference for Mary being real, so he'll stick to that.]
What's the last thing you remember?
I dunno. I think I'm dreaming.
[Culverton is the dream, Mary is the dream... or this place is. John has a preference for Mary being real, so he'll stick to that.]
What's the last thing you remember?
Edited (Phone tagging...) 2017-01-29 17:04 (UTC)
[He feels a tidal wave of relief. John isn't angry because he doesn't remember what there is to be angry about. He knows this may be the most selfish thing he's done, to greedily seek out a moment of normalcy with a man who's wife he killed, but he can't help it.
That question is dangerous, however, because he has to tell the truth and he doesn't want to. Not when the last thing he remembers is Culverton's hospital. Maybe he can circumnavigate the truth by telling a different but equally valid truth.]
The very last thing I remember is messaging you after spending most of the afternoon speaking with the other residents here.
That question is dangerous, however, because he has to tell the truth and he doesn't want to. Not when the last thing he remembers is Culverton's hospital. Maybe he can circumnavigate the truth by telling a different but equally valid truth.]
The very last thing I remember is messaging you after spending most of the afternoon speaking with the other residents here.
[Mary tilts her head and narrows her eyes. He's hiding something.]
What are you hiding, Sherlock? You wouldn't be that literal if you weren't evading the question.
What are you hiding, Sherlock? You wouldn't be that literal if you weren't evading the question.
I need assistance with a medical procedure.
[Who is this? Stein?
He's the scary, mad one who talks like his world is a Japanese cartoon, right? Mary looks skeptical, and John more than shares her concerns. He's a cartoon. Not real. Is he real?]
What medical procedure?
He's the scary, mad one who talks like his world is a Japanese cartoon, right? Mary looks skeptical, and John more than shares her concerns. He's a cartoon. Not real. Is he real?]
What medical procedure?
I'm going to remove the implant in my skull, but I need an assistant.
[Definitely the mad one. John gives Mary a look.]
How many other people have turned you down for help on this so far?
How many other people have turned you down for help on this so far?
I need someone with steady hands who won't try and steal everything out of my pack when I'm not looking. You're the only doctor who fits the bill.
[That is the worst question he could be asked. It's too broad, and he's hiding a lot.]
I'm not sure what answer you want from me, John.
[That skirts the border of truth, but it's sort of there. Does he mean what does he last remember about Norfinbury, about the ice caves? Or what does he last remember overall? It skirts the edge because Sherlock is relatively sure he means the ice caves, John could have no way of knowing that he's been home and come back.]
I'm not sure what answer you want from me, John.
[That skirts the border of truth, but it's sort of there. Does he mean what does he last remember about Norfinbury, about the ice caves? Or what does he last remember overall? It skirts the edge because Sherlock is relatively sure he means the ice caves, John could have no way of knowing that he's been home and come back.]
You realize that procedure will probably kill you. You don't care about dying.
[Why wouldn't he care?
Because it's not real. This isn't the real place. Someone can't survive with a giant metal screw like that. Well, they can, but not something they installed themself. Does it matter if he helps? He hates this man.
John, Mary says, expression concerned, talk to someone else about this.]
He's not real.
[Are you sure?]
[Why wouldn't he care?
Because it's not real. This isn't the real place. Someone can't survive with a giant metal screw like that. Well, they can, but not something they installed themself. Does it matter if he helps? He hates this man.
John, Mary says, expression concerned, talk to someone else about this.]
He's not real.
[Are you sure?]
Edited 2017-01-29 20:02 (UTC)
I have frostbite on my brain. I don't know how much it's impacted me, but I can't put pieces together enough to come up with solutions for puzzles or problems. I've had at least one seizure.
Not removing the implant will kill me, and if I remove it the Admin might not put it back.
This is not something I'm taking lightly.
Not removing the implant will kill me, and if I remove it the Admin might not put it back.
This is not something I'm taking lightly.
Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood. Tell me what you're hiding. We've done this enough.
Edited 2017-01-29 21:07 (UTC)
[It would take literal weeks to list off all the things he's hiding, because John doesn't even specify what he's hiding from him. Sherlock is a man of many secrets.
He's still thinking on how to answer this when his fingers move of their own accord to do it for him.]
I'm hiding my death price, I can't tell a lie. Don't ask me any more, John.
He's still thinking on how to answer this when his fingers move of their own accord to do it for him.]
I'm hiding my death price, I can't tell a lie. Don't ask me any more, John.
[The liar can't tell a lie. Ironic.
Poetic is the word you're looking for, darling.
John casts an irritated look at Mary, and she glances away.]
Suppose there's no point asking if you're lying about that?
Poetic is the word you're looking for, darling.
John casts an irritated look at Mary, and she glances away.]
Suppose there's no point asking if you're lying about that?
I'm not.
[Imbecilic. He's embarrassed to have that reply connected to his name, but it's the truth and so out it popped.
He rubs a hand down his face again. Tired, heartsore, grateful.]
I'm not trying to lie to you, John, but broad questions might have answers you don't want to hear.
[Imbecilic. He's embarrassed to have that reply connected to his name, but it's the truth and so out it popped.
He rubs a hand down his face again. Tired, heartsore, grateful.]
I'm not trying to lie to you, John, but broad questions might have answers you don't want to hear.
And you know what I want. Clearly.
Look, this is a dream, anyway. Which means I've probably crashed and am in a coma at the moment. It doesn't actually matter.
[Except this feels real. John looks over at Mary again, then down at his hands. No wedding ring.]
Look, this is a dream, anyway. Which means I've probably crashed and am in a coma at the moment. It doesn't actually matter.
[Except this feels real. John looks over at Mary again, then down at his hands. No wedding ring.]
[Crashed? A dream?
Sherlock squints at the screen for a moment, is this somehow related to his death price?]
I can affirm that this is neither dream nor coma. Tell me why you believe it is.
[Yes, keep the questions on John, stop him asking any more himself. John is smart, he could winkle anything he wanted out of Sherlock right now and that has to be avoided.]
Sherlock squints at the screen for a moment, is this somehow related to his death price?]
I can affirm that this is neither dream nor coma. Tell me why you believe it is.
[Yes, keep the questions on John, stop him asking any more himself. John is smart, he could winkle anything he wanted out of Sherlock right now and that has to be avoided.]
[Kid is here to make sure you feel useful, Watson.]
If you are sure... [He isn't. He isn't confident that he's not bothering Watson.]
It does not hurt too terribly. [Lie.] But I will try whatever you think will help. Whatever medicine you prescribe, I will take.
If you are sure... [He isn't. He isn't confident that he's not bothering Watson.]
It does not hurt too terribly. [Lie.] But I will try whatever you think will help. Whatever medicine you prescribe, I will take.
[Well that's exactly what a dream WOULD say.]
You're funny. That's not actually helping.
[It's your sense of humor. Mary puts her hands up. Ask him something else. He's deflecting again.]
You're deflecting questions onto me, Sherlock. Are you really that worried about me taking advantage of your death price?
You're funny. That's not actually helping.
[It's your sense of humor. Mary puts her hands up. Ask him something else. He's deflecting again.]
You're deflecting questions onto me, Sherlock. Are you really that worried about me taking advantage of your death price?
[Damn it, John. Sherlock doesn't respond for nearly half a minute, staring at the wall as he thought for a way around this. But it seems fate isn't with him. Maybe it's right, he doesn't deserve the selfish succour of friendship after what he's done.]
No, I'm frightened of you learning the truth. I will lose you.
[He glares at the word 'frightened' as if it personally betrayed him.]
No, I'm frightened of you learning the truth. I will lose you.
[He glares at the word 'frightened' as if it personally betrayed him.]
The truth that Mary jumped in front of a bullet for you, and then told you to go pick a fight with someone via death DVD?
[No.
How could he know this? That's impossible. The John here was from a time before he had even met Mary, but then-- Sherlock had been returned home, why not John too? His tablet slips out of his hands before he even realises that he's laughing without humour.]
Yes.
[That about sums it up, what can he say?]
How could he know this? That's impossible. The John here was from a time before he had even met Mary, but then-- Sherlock had been returned home, why not John too? His tablet slips out of his hands before he even realises that he's laughing without humour.]
Yes.
[That about sums it up, what can he say?]
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