bakerstreet | (no subject)

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ANGST MEME

Sometimes we all want to play some angst and see just how far our characters will fall.

- Post your characters, name and series in the subject along with any preferences.

- Go to random.org and roll.

- Play!

1. just depressed.

Things are tough, you're feeling worn out, or whatever the case, you're depressed. You need help or someone else thinks you do anyway.

2. abandoned.

You were left behind by everyone you hold dear and now you're forced to see how well they've adjusted, how happy they all are while you're screaming inside.

3. sick.

Cold, flu, or something even worse, all you can do is lay back and let someone take care of you.

4. fight.

You've been fighting nonstop with the other person and it just keep escalating.

5. break up.

You're being broken up with and they won't reconsider... Damn.

6. separated.

For some reason, you've been separated from the other person for a long time.

7. kidnapped.

You've been held captive for how long now? Maybe they've been torturing you even, using your blood to write ransom notes, threatening to cut off fingers to send next, etc. Rescue is on the way though, right?

8. beaten up.

Just because someone didn't like you or maybe they wanted something you had, whatever the case is, you're coming home sporting some nasty wounds and bruises.

9. jealousy.

You just have this undeniable jealousy suddenly and you need to let it out.

10. cheated on.This goes beyond just suspicion and you have full on proof of what your lover has done. How do you handle it?

11. apathetic.

You're not sad, you're not happy, you just... don't feel much anymore. The sparkle of life has gone right out of you and you're just going through the motions now.

12. addicted.

Drugs, alcohol, whatever your drug of choice is, you can't fight the draw and you can't draw yourself out of the hole, but the other person is going to try.

13. bad romance.

You know this isn't good for either of you, but you can't stop now.

14. fear.

Nightmares, the feeling someone is following you, etc. You can't shake the feeling.

15. insanity.

You're seeing things and hearing them, waking up only to realize you've done things you don't remember or you're in a place you weren't before. You're losing it and you don't know what to do.

16. guilt.

It's eating you up inside and you have to tell someone about it now. You want to be punished and you won't take no for an answer.

17. loss

You've lost something dear to you.

18. wild card.

Combine some options or make your own!

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[This isn't the reunion he'd either hoped for nor the one he assumed would be reality. Joan isn't yelling at him or breaking down in frustrated or happy tears - he could never tell the difference. She's not punching him or slapping his arm. She's not giving him sass or walking away from him to get a bit of fresh air. She's just here, helping. Just like she'd always done. She doesn't question it and just falls in stride like he'd never jumped from a roof in the first place.

It's better like this, in a way. He can handle this. At least, he can handle it until they get to a place where they're safe and in private.]

Not in immediate danger.

[His voice sounds ragged even to him. He's so thirsty and he's lost a lot of fluids from sweat and less pleasant excretions since being tied to this chair. As a former medical professional, Joan has undoubtedly dealt with worse. Still, he prefers to keep better hygiene than this.]

Feet next.

[As soon as Joan works his hands free, he pulls them to a more natural position and rubs the pain from his wrists. He can tell by the stinging on his wrists and the light moisture on his fingertips that the restraints had rubbed his skin raw.]

How did you find me?

[There will be time to grill him and chew him out later. Right now he needs her help, and that even cuts through the jumbled emotions of knowing he's alive. Once his hands are free, she moves to his feet like he asks.]

That's a more involved story than we have time for right now. How long have you been here like this?

[He looks and sounds terrible, but more than that, he smells terrible. She'd guess he's been in this chair for a while.]

Edited 2013-09-15 14:42 (UTC)

[He can probably piece together a suitable explanation of Joan's arrival if he's given a few more points of data to work with. She's right about not having enough time to discuss it now, though. Just because the kidnappers left him here to die doesn't mean they won't change their mind and send an executioner to make sure that it happens.]

I don't know.

[He's been in and out of consciousness for a good deal of it. He knows that it's been at the minimum of eight hours and at the maximum forty (unless they took the liberty of giving him fluids whilst he was unconscious), but that's a very wide range.]

Time and date..?

Thursday. About...

[She checks her watch.]

2:45.

[She leans down and rubs his ankles, then his legs. If he's been sitting here for a long time, his circulation is doubtless compromised.]

Can you stand?

[Thursday at 2:35 PM. Sherlock snorts at that.]

Little over fourteen hours total.

[He doesn't say anything or warn Joan as he starts to stand up. His legs ache under his weight and as soon as he tries to let go of his chair and take a step forward, his knees go out simultaneously and he starts to fall forward.]

Sherlock!

[She catches him as he falls, ready to either support him as he walks or lower him to the ground if he can't.]

You okay?

Never been better.

[It's a sarcastic response. Sherlock is alive, though. Thanks to Joan's sleuthing, he's going to be able to walk - or... maybe just crawl... - out of this warehouse and live to see the next day.

He reaches up for his companion's shoulder. She's strong and he's skinny, but he still weights an awful lot and he doesn't have enough fluid in his muscles to use them properly. Her shoulder will have a much easier time holding him steady than her arms, though.]

[She draws his arm across her shoulders and wraps her arm around his waist, letting him lean against her.]

I'd suggest taking you to a hospital, but I suspect you'd probably refuse.

[He's been staying out of sight, even from her, and a hospital would need information that would compromise that.]

You'd suspect correctly.

[Sherlock doesn't want to go to any institution. It's bad enough Joan's found him and even worse that at least three of Moriarty's men have gotten away with the information of his continued survival. The last thing he needs is for the media to catch wind of it and spew out a storm of articles about his return before he has a chance to speak to the right people for a media black out.

When he returns officially, which might be soon given the current circumstances, he wants it to be on his own terms.

You're a doctor. I'm sure you can manage.

[She's cleaned him up after close calls before and she's doing a very good job of keeping him on his feet even when his knees stop working every few steps.]

Looks like I'm going to have to.

[She manages to get him to the rental car. There doesn't seem to be anybody around, which is good. Maybe they'll get out of this without being observed. She opens the backdoor, and helps him in.]

Here. Lie down.

[Sherlock does his best to lessen the burden on his only friend. Especially when they get to the car. He crawls over the seat and curls his legs in front of him so she can close the door. He doesn't care about safety belts or things like that and the simple act of lying down is euphoric to his tired and achy body. In this closed space, he becomes unpleasantly aware of the mess he is. Simply awful.]

Open the window.

[Neither of them need to be smelling this.]

And don't go to the flat. They know where you live... they were hunting you when they came here.

[She considers that with a nod.]

Which is why you're here. We'll go to a motel.

[She climbs in, starts the car, lowers all the windows, and pulls out of the gravel parking lot onto the road. Once they're driving, she speaks again.]

Can I call Gregson and tell him there might be people watching my apartment?

[He doesn't respond in an affirmative or negative way when Joan gathers the reason he's come back to this part of the world is because he knew those people were after Joan personally. It's obvious. It's also sentiment, which he tends to outwardly frown down on.]

That would be wise. Don't tell him how you know and you may want to leave finding me out of the conversation.

[Gregson doesn't need to know. At least, not yet.]

Right. Because I'm going to avoid taking you to a hospital just to let the NYPD know you're alive.

[Sarcastic, but more gentle than usual.

Joan usually would frown upon talking on her cell while driving, but she doesn't intent to stop until they're at a motel well out of the area, and Gregson needs to know about this now.

The conversation is mercifully short. She gives a vague reason for her suspicions, and Gregson knows enough by now to not push her. He promises to put officers outside her building and investigate possible known associates of hitmen that night be in the area. Joan thanks him, hangs up, and keeps driving.]

[Sherlock listens to the conversation. He can even make out Gregson's side of the conversation and he's satisfied that the officer doesn't suspect anything. It's not that he doesn't trust Joan - he does, implicitly - it's just that he's been been careful so long that the resulting paranoia comes naturally for him.

Once he's satisfied his condition of being alive is still being kept quiet, he closes his eyes and actually starts to doze off. If Joan says anything or if they stop at the motel, he'll wake up.]

[She can hear the slow rhythm of his breathing, and she's relieved he's asleep. He's been through hell, clearly, and sleep is what's best for him. She has millions of questions, of course, but they can wait until they're somewhere safe.

She drives for two hours. By the time they stop at a small motel off the highway, they've crossed over into Delaware. Joan parks the car on the far outskirts of the paring lot, away from any other cars, and goes in to get a room.]

[The sound of Joan opening and closing the front door startles Sherlock awake. He pushes himself up from the seat and looks around. It's an unfamiliar location to him, but he still considers leaving the car and escaping while Joan's inside getting the room. It's just not time for their reunion yet. Every second they're together just puts Joan's life further into danger.

Opening the back door doesn't work for him. He tries unlocking the door and pulling at the lever again, but it still doesn't budge. Childproof locks. Had Joan done that intentionally or is it the default setting? He considers crawling over the driver's seat, but it's not worth it. He wouldn't have enough time to disappear before she returns.

He wishes he felt more disappointed by that.]

[The car is a rental, and Joan has no idea that the childproof locks have been engaged. She wouldn't have thought to use them. Even if it had crossed her mind that Sherlock might run, she'd think he was in too poor a condition. Besides, he's not her prisoner.

She returns with two keycards, and sees that Sherlock's up. She climbs in the car.]

Hey. I got us a room on the ground floor.

[She turns the car on, and moves it to a parking spot right in front of their room. Once there, she climbs out again, and opens the back door, reaching down to help Sherlock up.]

[A room. They were sharing. It wouldn't be the first time they'd shared a motel room together and he hoped that it wouldn't be the last. Even if he didn't really intend to stay with her too long just yet. Staying so close together would make things more difficult for him later and not just because he would have to sneak past her. He'd be reminded of what he'd given up and what he would have to walk away from a second time.]

Good. First floor might be a bit difficult at the moment.

[Sherlock makes it a point to reach for the lever to try to open the door just before Joan opens it for him, even though he knows the child locks are engaged. Once freed from the back seat, he uses mostly the car to get himself to his feet before he puts his hand on Joan's shoulder.]

I think a bath is in order.

I think a new set of clothes is in order.

[She holds onto him, steadying him as she guides him to the door.

The room is small and bare, clean if worn. It doesn't matter. They just need a bathtub and a bed.

The tub isn't as big as Joan would like, but it will do. She eases Sherlock down onto the toilet.]

Take as much off as you can. I'll help you with the rest.

[She plugs the drain and turns on the water.]

[They walk with the same system as they'd done coming out of the abandoned factory. It works. They can read each other's movements well enough to correct any potential mishaps and almost falls.

Once on the toilet, Sherlock starts to work at his buttons. His fingers are barely functional due to the dehydration and how chafed they are from working at the rope for so long, but neither of them would allow Joan to undress him until it gets to the point where he has no abilities to do it on his own.

When he notices her plug the drain, he groans noisily.]

Rinse me off first, at least. I don't fancy soaking in my own filth.

[She presses her lips, frustrated with herself for not thinking of that. She pulls out the plug and flips the switch that sends the water to the shower head.]

Let that warm up.

[She goes out for a moment and returns with a trash bag from the can in the main room. As Sherlock sheds his clothes, she plucks them from the floor and puts them in the bag.]

[It takes him about four times as long as it normally would to shed his clothes, but he manages to do it without any help. He's shaking from the effort, but he doesn't reach for her as he tries to climb into the tub. Instead, he leans against the wall to step over the risen porcelain. Once in the tub, lowering himself down is less graceful and he falls hard on his tailbone.]

Ow!

[That complaining whine should be very familiar to her.

If Joan's observant enough to notice and remember, there are quite a few scars along Sherlock's skin that weren't there before jumping from the hospital roof. Most of them are small, inconsequential things, but there's one fairly nasty one along his left side that almost looks like he'd had a bad run in with a farmer's scythe.]

Sherlock!

[She grabs for him, at least managing to keep him from falling back and his head from hitting the porcelain. She sees that scar, and sucks in a breath. She doesn't even want to think about where that came from.

Once he's settled she pulls back, pulls off her top, and tosses it onto the counter. Better than letting it get wet, considering it's the only one she has. ]

Edited (d'oh!) 2013-09-17 19:51 (UTC)

I'm fine.

[More or less, anyway. Sherlock's incredibly relieved to feel the water splashing down on him from the shower head. Hygiene is always one of those things he keeps high standards for even in the organised chaos that governs most of his cleanliness habits. Washing away all the sweat, blood, grime, and piss is almost euphoric. Perhaps, not physically, but it does marvels for his mood.]

Thanks.

[Maybe it's a bit uncharacteristic, but it needs to be said. He means it more than just 'thanks for saving my arse back there.' It also encompasses 'thank you for believing in me' and 'thanks for not giving up.'

Once he feels like his face is clean enough, he tilts his head up to catch some of the running water for a drink. It may not be the most elegant method and it might even look a bit comedic, but he's thirsty so he doesn't care.]