Hurt Comfort Meme

[jading]

Hurt/Comfort - Hurt/comfort
is a fan fiction genre that involves the physical pain or emotional
distress of one character, who is cared for by another character. The
injury, sickness or other kind of hurt allows an exploration of the
characters and their relationship.

- Post with Character Name | Series in the subject.
- Others respond.
- Roll 1-10 at RNG for a scene, play it out and have fun!

1. INJURY. You've been injured. Broken bones or bleeding out or maybe just a tiny little papercut. The choice is yours.
2. SICKNESS. You're sick and laid up in bed, at home or in a hospital. The severity is up to you.
3. FEAR/ANXIETY. Something is happening and you're scared beyond belief.
4. LOSS OF SENSES. Sight, touch, taste, hearing, smell, etc. You've lost some important sense or ability and now you're left to deal with it.
5. DESPAIR. Nothing is good or right anymore and you can't shake the depression. Maybe that friend of yours can help though...
6. BREAKUP. You've been dumped. You need someone to comfort you, possibly by the one who dumped you.
7. MAKE UP. Fight or break up, it's time to makeup.
8. RESCUED. You've just been held captived and/or tortured for however long and finally, someone has come to the rescue.
9. BAD ROMANCE. Fight, cheated on, abused, whatever the case s, someone else can clearly see
you need comfort from someone who isn't your terrible lover tonight.
10. LOSS. You've experience a loss of some kind and need help getting through it.

Nabbed from hoohaw

Comments

4 for Sherlock?

[seesobserves]

[Sherlock got as far as he did on a mixture of intelligence and luck. The former got him farther than most, the latter made up the difference... but all luck runs out sometime. One blow he hadn't seen coming. Not enough time to turn away. Just the wrong angle, the wrong amount of force...

He isn't completely blind. He perceives colors and blurred shapes through a short tunnel of darkness. John says it may be corrected through surgery, but until then there's nothing but time. Time in which he will stagnate, time to fill with pointless activities, to know (even when he can't see it) that John is watching him with such concern every time he takes another painkiller.

They had a row just now. John's gone, stormed out to let his temper subside. Sherlock reaches - gropes - for his phone on the desk.

He's not looking for compassion. Had more than enough of that recently, thank you very much.

Lucky he still remembers where all the keys are.]

It's the end of the world. 221b. Send a car, don't text back. -SH

it's like you read my mind

[whatyoulike]

[She reads the text several times, considering, before pocketing the phone and going to her dresser. The middle drawer contains several prepaid burner phones and it's one of those that she uses to call a car service. She uses another to book a hotel room under a pseudonym. They'll be meeting there, rather than her current residence. All these precautions she takes now just to remain dead.

Once the arrangements have been made, she packs a small bag for the sake of appearances and takes a cab to the hotel. The route she gave the driver is circuitous in the extreme, so she should have plenty of time to arrive before Sherlock and make herself at home.]

the rng loves us, surely

[seesobserves]

[Sherlock is more than prepared to leave when the bell is rung downstairs. He grabs the cane - a rather nice one, dark wood tipped with silver on either end - on his way out of the door, although he holds it loosely on his way to the front door. Knows this house like the back of his own hand, and he refuses to use the cane except where absolutely necessary.

It takes him not long at all to realize that whatever their final destination, the driver is going far out of his way - but the loss of his sight hasn't done any harm to the map of London in Sherlock's head. He tracks the route the entire way, which at least gives him something to focus on. It also means that when they arrive, Sherlock knows exactly where he is. Knows the layout of the lobby, where to find the lifts. He only uses the cane to locate the jamb of the front door on his way in, and then he's making his way through, walking slowly to avoid the shifting shapes that denote other humans.

He wonders whether she's heard.

But she must have.]

[whatyoulike]

[There's a porter armed with his description waiting by the lifts to inform him that the room he wants is 325 and to go on up.

In the course of his roundabout tour of the city, she has freshened up, ordered a full afternoon tea service, and flipped through every channel on the television. She has not, however, unpacked. The luggage was brought only to avoid arousing suspicion from the hotel employees and other guests; there would be no point in playing house in private. It's clear she has only just checked in and won't be staying long.

The door is propped ever-so-slightly ajar by a familiar high-heeled shoe so he can let himself in.]

[seesobserves]

[325 it is.

He pauses in front of the door. Senses something off... Runs a finger along the wood until he finds the opening. Crouches down to satisfy his curiosity - ah. The shoe.

Sherlock stands again, pushes the door open. Nudges the shoe inside on his way in, so that it can close properly behind him.]

I suppose a handful of seasons is enough to reduce a Louboutin to a doorstop.

[He doesn't try looking for her, but keeps his eyes trained on the carpet, as if in further reference to the shoe.]

[whatyoulike]

They're wearing out anyway. Time for a new pair. [And she's never been the type to be overly delicate with her things.

From her seat at the table she looks him over, taking in the cane and where his eyes are fixed — not roaming the room as usual. She had heard, of course. But seeing is a different matter.

She stands and pulls out the other chair.]

Please, come and sit.

[seesobserves]

[He can hear where it is. Where she is. It helps that as he does look up, he can see her moving - motion is still a reliable indicator. Somewhere around a dozen paces forward, a little to the left. He starts to walk.]

Really hope I'm not about to walk over some scattered marbles. That would be more than a bit petty.

[He makes it to the chair, at a somewhat slower pace than his usual, and his hand gropes once before finding it. He sits.]

[whatyoulike]

[Once he's safely seated, she returns to her own chair.]

If I were going to be petty, I would have sent you somewhere I wasn't and recalled the car.

[The multi-tiered tea tray has sat untouched all this time, awaiting his arrival. Now that they're each in their places she takes a scone from it and begins buttering. Rather than question him, she's going to act like everything is ~perfectly normal~ until he says whatever he came to say.]

[seesobserves]

[His thumb worries at the top of the cane. It's less about wanting to say a particular something and more about wanting a particular something, which makes telling how to proceed marginally more difficult. Enough to elicit a second's pause.]

And how is life as a member of the legally dead? Dull, I'd imagine.

[whatyoulike]

In the extreme. So many limitations.

[She finishes with the butter and takes a nibble.]

I've almost been behaving myself.

[seesobserves]

Must be a market for your sort of thing in the underground. Deposed leaders, terrorists in hiding. You could get a flat share.

[whatyoulike]

[A flat share? Her brows raise, though of course he can't see.]

I could also take out an advertisement, as long as we're talking stupidity.

Eat something. [Both comments are made in the same mild tone of voice. She nudges the tray to within easy reach. The various finger foods each have a distinct smell so by that, if nothing else, he should be able to determine their identity.]

apologies for the sudden slow-tagging. busy work week.

[seesobserves]

[And there - a crack in his mask, just a fracture. Quickly concealed again. He leans back in the chair, spine relaxing a little.]

The circuitous route was pointless. [Now he reaches for the tray, slowly, a fingertip catching on the edge of it, then inching onward to select a tiny triangular sandwich.] You know I could've tracked the car's progress blindfolded.

oh gosh don't worry about it, I tag like molasses during the week

[whatyoulike]

[She'd suspected as much, yes. There's a pause while she chews and swallows another bite.]

Of course you could. It wasn't for you.

[With any luck all those unnecessary turns and backtracks had confused anyone who might have been inclined to set a tail. Mycroft, for instance. Or the press. Besides, Irene likes to be in control of her surroundings and, if she hadn't arrived early, they might have had to wait on tea.]

[seesobserves]

If Mycroft wanted to know where I was headed, he wouldn't need to use a tail. [Although it will take him longer to track where Sherlock's gone through other means, especially given all the twists and turns. And the press would have been unwelcome.]

Assuming John alerted him when he left the house, I'd say we've got a solid hour before he realizes where I am. Lucky they won't be looking for you. Only waiting to see when and if I emerge. Apparently his cripple of a little brother is too much a danger to himself.

[He raises the sandwich to his mouth, take a bite out of the corner.]

[whatyoulike]

His concern isn't unfounded. You are visiting me, after all.

[Though at least she's only a danger to his pride. He could do a lot worse as self-destructive impulses go.

She lifts the teapot and pours two steaming cups, careful to place his with the handle facing out and not too near the edge.]