bakerstreet | (no subject)

(no subject)

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!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

At least John has one of the facts right. Sherlock doesn't try to defend himself against John's very much incorrect notion of why he'd returned to London after finishing his business. He doesn't tell John that he'd come back so he could once again be with his only friend. The one person in the entire world that seemed, at least at the time, to be the patient and understanding one. The one constant in his life that had stuck with him even through his lack of understanding in terms of social niceties and even through his episodes of destructive boredom. The one man he had deemed more important than his work.

Over. Is that what it was? Everything they'd been through all amounting to nothing. It's enough to make him laugh. Just a cold bitter note, not a real laugh. He always knew sentiment was found on the losing side and he should have taken heed to the warning he'd given Irene Adler.

"Alright," he says evenly. He looks down and away from John, taking in a deep breath. "If... if that's how you feel, then I'll just... leave." Tonight while John's sleeping off his drink, because if John truly wants him to go out of his life, he doesn't want to waste another minute.

A drunken man's accusations are typically false but that hardly means it's not the raw core of what's going on inside of his chest at any given moment. Sherlock's lingering presence has never truly left, no matter how faded it might have gotten.

That doesn't stop John from feeling utterly alone now as he watches Sherlock turn to leave. He might have entertained the idea that having the dark haired man return to his smokey existence might be nice on nights where John had worried endlessly about him, but to have it quite possibly happen?

John's usually the sort to let things go. He's learned to stop trying to hold on to anything these days. And yet, the very thought of Sherlock being gone is too much for him to bear.

"Where?" Not a 'no, please stop.' "You can't just keep leaving." Not without him, Sherlock. He's been at your side for nearly those entire eighteen months. What he's really saying is that he wants it back the way it had been. None of these half arsed attempts to continue on in such a diluted level.

Of course, the words just keep coming, before Sherlock has the chance to answer.

"If you insist on-- No. No.. You're not leaving. You'll have no one at all to look after you." Or perhaps that was 'out for you'? Quite hard to tell.

Sherlock hesitates when he hears John's words again. He wants to hear that 'no, please stop' that doesn't come. Some kind of indication that he hadn't been deluding himself by trying to come back to London to patch things up like they'd never been broken in the first place. It was one of his weaknesses, wanting to run away from the responsibility of his actions. Ever since he was a child, he'd never been able to say the words 'it was my fault,' much to his brother's endless frustration.

He's confused. First John tells him that his presence is harmful to him and then he tells him that he can't leave. It's the drink situation, isn't it? Indulge and find comfort in the very poison that's hurting you most. He'd done the same thing years ago with cocaine and later morphine, both landing him in the hospital a handful of times in total with suspected overdose. Is that what he's become to John?

After a moment, he turns his head to look over his shoulder and regards his friend's state. The look in John's eyes, posture, everything. Drunk. Self-abusively drunk. That emotional blow from before leaves him slightly less able to compartmentalise and suppress his emotional state as well as he'd like. Concern. Worry. Frustration. Anger. Devastation. Hurt.

"Well, what is it then?" He asks, voice biting as he closes the space between him and John until he's standing just inches apart from him. "Do you want me to stay or do you want me to go? I can't do both, John."

"I want--" Oh, hello wall. His good friend, so lovely to have you prop him up. John presses his eyes shut tightly for a long moment before he manages to find some stability and purchase where he stands and in his stance as well. He sucks in a breath before focusing completely on Sherlock and the little halo of light that illuminates his curls from the doorway. "I want to be let in again," he says.

And isn't that the true heart of this whole problem? John could overlook and accept Sherlock's idiosyncrasies because those very things were providing him with fuel for his own sales. Human beings, no matter how good, are inherently selfish. John is as well.

Having only a part time Sherlock is like having just the edge pieces of the puzzle.

You can't get the full picture and you can't appreciate the finished work because there's no substance. What he has with Sherlock now is nothing.

Edited 2013-09-17 14:18 (UTC)

Sherlock follows John during his retreat right up until the point John's back finds the wall. It's better this way, anyway. John has more support against his back; therefore, he's less likely to fall because of his impaired motor control. One less thing to worry about with all of this mess and disarray going on.

He's frustrated when John closes his eyes like that. Looking away from him instead of standing his ground and facing him like the soldier he is. The drink, he reminds himself. Because, if not the drink, then it means something else is shaking the foundation of their friendship. As much as he scoffs at people grasping at certain evidence to find the outcome they want instead of the outcome that is, he's hypocritically doing the same thing with John in this moment.

"You want what," he coaxes during the pause between when John starts to speak and when he's ready to say it. He wants to be let in. It confuses him and it takes him several seconds to go through the various possible meanings of that phrase. He's already inside the flat, so that can't be it. It can't be a sexual euphemism because he used the word 'again' and contrary to what most people believed, they'd never taken their relationship to the physical. Metaphorical then. In on cases? In on him? Both are valid concerns.

"You're already in, John," Sherlock tells him, standing back just enough to give John room to breathe his own air. It's true on both accounts. Sure, he kept the low-stress cases to himself, but he could stop doing that. Maybe it would ease some of the tension between them to do it and he would certainly be able to focus if things were to start resembling what they had been before he'd jumped from Bart's rooftop. As for the emotional connection, there literally isn't anyone as in as John.

"No, no, I am not in." Lips pressed squarely together and cheeks puffed, for a long moment, it becomes hard to tell if John is going to continue on or just vomit over his shoes. Luckily, it's the first, though there's the waft of alcohol again on his breath as he invades the space between them Sherlock had been trying not to do. It is the alcohol giving him the agency to do this as a sober and right minded John often keeps most of his opinions to himself and simply makes faces at the wall during Sherlock's antics.

There is no such luck here. Inhibitions down, John has free reign to say all sorts of things... Nearly all of which he is destined to regret once he manages to come to his senses and sleep the ordeal off. It's not going to be pretty.

"I am out. I'm as out as Greg is!" He doesn't want to be a person to consult the consulting detective. Sherlock's need to protect him from the dangerous tasks is what's been allowing John to sit at home and go mad enough to wash his cares away with liquor. "You go out at all hours of the day and night and return the same way!" He gestures madly and has to catch himself again. "And I am tired of-- Of not being considered. Or protected. Or whatever it is you're doing. I'm bloody well better than that and you know it!"

Unlike John, Sherlock stands his ground when the other man approaches him. He doesn't care much for personal space, so John being this close to him is relatively inoffensive. The only thing that makes him nervous is the blatant hand gestures, one of which is bound to knock him in the eye or cheek at some point during the ordeal. The smell of alcohol on his friend's breath when he fusses is also troubling and uncomfortable, but it's to be expected with the level of intoxication he'd come home to witness.

"You're not out," Sherlock tells John evenly once there's a lull in the ranting. He's not offended by being yelled at nor is he intimidated in the slightest. If anything, he prefers this over the slamming cabinet doors and avoidance they'd been giving each other off and on all week. He refuses to thank the alcohol for it, even though it had been the tipping factor.

"Do you know what I've been doing when I go out, John?" Sherlock asks once he's sure John's going to give him a chance to speak. "Yes, I've been doing cases. Intellectually stimulating but physically boring cases. Identity theft, con artistry, mysterious letters, things like that," he explains. He still hadn't quite gotten his name cleared enough to be included in any official cases from Scotland Yard, so everything he's doing comes from private clients. Downgraded to a private detective until he can scrape together enough integrity to go back to the fun stuff. The exciting stuff. "You're telling me you'd be satisfied with that?"

"Yes," John says immediately before he leans forward, nearly bumps his head on Sherlock's chest and wretches miserably on the floor between them. At the very least, he's missed every article of worn clothing. His floor is not so lucky. When he comes completely to, he's going to have a hell of a mess to clean up.

For now, though, he's just going to catch himself a break and thumb back towards his bed before he slowly shuffles there. Enough talking. Enough emotions. His stomach is still queasy and laying down? Well that seems like the best option now that they've managed to talk it out that Sherlock is not to leave John at home when it can be helped.

He ought to have reiterated that the blue and white striped mug is for tea only, but they'll get there eventually.

For now, he's going to curl up and die.

Sherlock steps back when he sees the colour drain from John's face. He's not a doctor but knows exactly what that means. He manages to step out of the firing range and save his jacket, at least. Unfortunately, the laws of physics dictate that his trouser legs and shoes would be caught by ricochet.

He gives the mess a disgusted sort of look before stepping around it and going to correct John's lying posture. He needs to be on his side, not his stomach or his back. He also needs to elevate his head a little more than he is. There, much better.

"Water?" he asks simply as he tugs John's foot blanket out from under him so he could at least cover him with something.

Tomorrow, John decides, as Sherlock adjusts him like one might a child or an elderly man, he will apologize. Technically, he supposes, drifting off with a pounding in his head and a sourness to his stomach, it's all ready tomorrow but there will be more to discuss when his entire body is absolutely protesting any and everything happening to it at the moment.

John isn't sure if he feels foolish now or comforted. It's likely a good mixture of both and the heaviness of his head in the cool pillow ought to be left at the bookmarker for that evening.

Sleep comes easily. Dreams, unfortunately, do too. It's been a long time since he's had nightmares over Sherlock's death, elaborate and horrible as the trickery had been, and those he knows it all now to be a ruse, just after ten in the morning John comes to with a startled, muted cry and the worst headache he's had in his life.

At least he's not ruined his sheets with vomit.

Sherlock had stayed up the entire night. He'd checked in on John every hour or so and left a bottle of water on his bedside table after his first trip upstairs in case John woke up at some point feeling dehydrated. He'd actually tried to wake the drunk intentionally just to get some fluids in him, but he'd been extremely resistant to his efforts.

At around eight o'clock AM, he'd made a few calls and procured two train tickets to Hampshire for that evening. After that, he reclined on the sofa and closed his eyes for a short nap. He assumed John would be up and about sometime before noon and that would act as a sufficient alarm system for him.

Something stirs him just after ten o'clock, but in the foggy haze of not enough sleep, he can't tell what it is. He looks around the living room and mumbles his flatmate's name. No, he's still upstairs and it doesn't look like Mrs. Hudson's been by either. Something tells him to go check on his friend, so he stumbles his way up the stairs without bothering to straighten his suit or his hair beforehand. "John?" he repeats as he approaches the bedroom door.

Headache. Hang over. Nightmare? Odd time, but yes. There'd been a nightmare. Usually Sherlock could predict them well enough to either prevent or interrupt them, but he hadn't noticed the warning sings the night before. Masked by the drink.

It's one uphill battle after another. There's still a mess to clean up -- though the beauty of hardwood flooring is that said mess is much easier to take care of than it might be if everything just so happened to be carpeted -- but getting his heart rate stable is something John is currently going to focus on for the time being. He swallows against the phlegm in his chest as Sherlock pushes open the door and wets his lips, stale from last night's boozer and lets his eyes drift upwards. There's just a flash of blood and the start of bruising transposed over Sherlock's face and John is forced to look away again.

He's had Sherlock wake him before, none of that is new. Generally, it's under the pretense that there's something new and fantastic to study now, some brilliant theory to check on, or just that Sherlock has a desire to do an experiment and would like John to offer a set of hands...or ears to talk off.

It's never once occurred to John Watson that his friend wakes him to spare him the misery of what a former soldier's dreams are like.

Sweating, tears in his eyes and collected on his lashes, John rubs at his temple. He must have been screaming, he realizes. How horrible. "I'm all right, forgot where I was for a second."

Sherlock can guess what the subject of John's nightmare had been by the way his friend can't look at him for more than a moment at a time without panic crossing his face and making him turn away. He's already apologised for adding that image to the arsenal of destructive things John's mind could throw at him in a moment of weakness, so he doesn't care to repeat it now. It would only be empty words at that point and neither of them need that.

"Have some water," he tells John, focusing on the hang over instead of the nightmare for the moment. He even steps into the room, uninvited, and opens the bottle of water for him.

"You're in your bedroom at 221B Baker Street," Sherlock explains, since he's not entirely sure if John's gotten his barrings off enough to literally not know where he is. That would be a very concerning side effect of the alcohol indulgence and he'd probably suggest having a CT scan on the off-chance it would be something more serious than an ethanol-induced blackout.

Doctor, heal thyself is a phrase John ought to take note of. It takes several long seconds -- which are gracefully and graciously covered up by the swig of the water bottle -- for John to come back to himself again. Finding Sherlock in his room is certainly a bit of a shake up. They've taken so often to avoiding one another that he's only just now realized how he's missed the prowl of the grumpy house cat he has for a flatmate poking around in his things when he deems convenient.

John's face settles. He's in pain but it's nothing he's not felt before. John tilts his head back and forth before he tests his legs on their ability to hold his weight and manages to make a better go of standing this time than he did the last time Sherlock saw him.

He even tries the smallest of smiles. It only makes it's way to the left side of his mouth, however, before it's covered by a wince.

"What do you have on for today?" he asks, deciding to just get right back to it. Cases. Excitement. Clearing Sherlock's name.

Sherlock hovers over the side of John's bed for longer than he really needs to. Much like John, he's feeling stuck in the moment of things feeling both right, normal, back to how things should be and also completely off from their new routine since his return. Of course, he preferred things to go back to the way they'd been before, but it wasn't him that started the propagating pushing away back and forth they'd been caught up in.

When John starts to stand up, Sherlock steps over the drying puddle on the floor to give the smaller man room. The whole upstairs reeks enough for Sherlock to turn his nose up at it, but it's not enough to make him leave. At least not while things were still civil between him and John.

"Case. Hampshire," he starts, then remembers that he hadn't actually told John about it quite yet. "I'll give you details on the way. Train leaves at 6:15."

There's nothing in here that having the window propped open and a good use of cleaning products can't help! It's so very lucky that John is not at all opposed to cleaning up after himself unlike some of the people he happens to live with. Ahem. John doesn't feel any awkwardness by Sherlock's presence. He never has. Closeness or lack there of is all the same to him. Sherlock's a different type of creature. One that John finds quite endearing even when he's being absolutely bloody awful.

He takes another swig of the water and is about to express his sorrow over anything he might have sicked up on a few hours before when what Sherlock mentioned gets around to him finally.

Yes, John. Pay attention. There's a case on.

Surprise brightens an otherwise cloudy, hung over set of eyes and the doctor's smile forms more fully this time.

"That's-- Hampshire?" He likes the countryside quite well, most English do, but John'd been hoping for something a little closer to home. "6:15? Have you made sleeping arrangements?" Or will calling a hotel or bed and breakfast in the area be his duty?

Being in this room as long as he has is starting to feel stifling. The acid in the air is enough to make his eyes water and he puts a hand up to his nose, preferring to smell the residual hand soap off the back of his fingers instead of the sick on the floor. It wouldn't be too soon for John to clean things up. If he's in here for too much longer, he might retch himself.

In fact, Sherlock's just opening his mouth to comment that it's nice to know John's ears are working when a small ineffectual gag reaches him. Thank God he doesn't eat much on cases.

"God, John, I can taste it," he complains and turns to walk out the door and into the landing where the air might not be fresh, but it would be much more diluted than the air in the bedroom. He leans against the wall just outside the door and takes a moment to breathe and settle his stomach before going through John's question, though quite delayed in doing so.

He knew he'd been forgetting something. "No, I haven't made any arrangements. You don't mind," he says as a statement when it's really the unspoken request: John, will you make the sleeping arrangements?

John scrunches up his face. It's obvious he has a stronger stomach. And it's really not that bad. He'll blame sherlocks supposedly extra sensitive nose. Most likely, it's just Sherlock being a ruddy pain in the arse. Just as he's always meant to be. "Yes I-- Oh just go downstairs. I'll clean up and be down after a shower to book us a pair of rooms."

Such a finicky thing. And such a selective genius! Honestly, where did he hope to stay? And at such short notice! At least he booked the train. He'd not want to have to ride in a car for the two hour journey it would take otherwise. He's still unsure about Sherlock's driving capabilities.

Or his propensity to find every single bump in the road. And god forbid they hit traffic leaving London!

John shoos his flatmate down the stairs and starts the cleaning up process. It requires a shower after and he defends the stairs himself, headache full blown, in a dressing gown an hour later.

A pair of rooms. The real reason he'd been letting John make the sleeping arrangements was because he wanted to know exactly where he stood with the other man after all of that. There were two logical choices for John to choose from, those being a pair of rooms or a room with a pair of beds. It might not have made much difference to the other man, but it made a world of difference to someone who has a habit of overanalysing things to the point of coming across as OCD.

Apparently, they were back to square one. Back before their first direct contact with Jim Moriarty when they were still 'Sherlock' and 'John' as two separate entities instead of 'Sherlock and John' as the assumed set.

Satisfied (but not pleased) with the answer, he walks down the stairs without another word to let John take care of what he needs to do.

When John comes downstairs, he'll find Sherlock is also freshly showered. He's currently hunched over his new dissecting microscope while blindly taking notes on a small pad of paper next to him. Every few seconds, he alternates the angle he's holding his specimen.

"I've ordered that polarised light microscope," he tells John off-handedly and without looking up, specifically meaning the slightly large and expensive one he'd been looking at in a catalogue a week and a half ago. Without being able to use the resources of Scotland Yard and Molly no longer feeling quite as infatuated with him after living with him for a week and a half, he needs another way to access the proper equipment.

Pair of rooms. John fully expects Sherlock to just his own but it is mostly for appearance's sake to get the two. Why? Well John feels somewhat vulnerable. His last girlfriend made it rather clear that she didn't date men with attachments to other men. That hadn't been John's fault. It hadn't been his fault that she didn't believe his best friend could come back from the dead and he really... He just needed to be with him.

"Oh? Oh right then, we'll move the toaster." He scratches his head and ruffles up his hair before slumping down at the table opposite of Sherlock with water from the electric kettle and a tea bed. He yawns. Yawns against the back of his hand and then into his half steeped tea.

An attempt to be accomdating on both the room and the kitchen equipment and space situation does not stop John from being inquisitive. The headache, however, does. He leans against his palm as Sherlock does his calculations and then goes back upstairs to fetch his laptop. As expected, he can only get one room at such short notice. At less there are double beds. It still makes him sigh.

Sherlock glances up at John, feeling legitimately surprised that his purchase is going over so well. When he'd brought it up the first time, it had led to a rather unpleasant argument that ended with Mrs. Hudson asking them if anything was wrong and him going to sulk in his room until the whole thing blew over. That had been before their mutual agreement last night, however. It seems to him that things are finally starting to settle and he couldn't be more pleased with it.

When John leaves to fetch his laptop, Sherlock collects his specimen back into storage and goes to make himself a tea with the water John had put on. He hasn't had breakfast and since it would be several hours before getting back to work, it seems to be a good time to eat something. When John comes back down, he'll find Sherlock standing in front of the fridge with the door wide open while he takes his time deciding what he wants.

There's been no less than four arguments stemming from Sherlock's flagrant use of the refrigerator electricity in the last few weeks but John forced himself to hold his tongue now. That's likely because he's still on the phone as he jogs back down the stairs and Sherlock can not see the eye roll as he rounds the corner to sit in the living room.

"Yes, two beds. Not one child sized bed and one full. Listen, if we can't manage two rooms-- Right, yes, very last minute--" John rolls his eyes. "All right, if all you can do is a bed and a pull out sofa, that's fine. Right, yes, same card I'd given before when you assured me there were two rooms-- Right, oh, actually, yes, that'd be lovely. Good. See you this evening then."

At least he's managed to get them a meal when they get in.

John can always eat.

He pushes himself back up and sits again in the chair he'd left, laptop still powered up and a country bed and breakfast's website left on the screen. John's done well. He's gotten them quite close to Sherlock's target.

Sherlock hears John come back downstairs and he listens to the phone conversation while pawing around at things in the refrigerator. He has to push a test tube rack out of the way before he sees the carton of eggs that gives him an idea of what he wants to eat. Omelettes. He removes all of the ingredients from their various locations in the kitchen - Eggs, milk, and cheese from the refrigerator; green pepper and onion from the cupboard - and sets them on the counter top.

Contrary to what some people would believe, cooking comes naturally to Sherlock. He doesn't do it often; but, once he's learned a recipe, he has flawless execution in reproducing the desired results. It's hardly different than any other series of chemical reactions.

"You'll find my written notes and two correspondences from Miss Hunter in that black book next to your left hand," Sherlock tells John without looking over at him as he starts to chop the onion.

Sherlock doesn't feel the need to comment on their room situation since he doubts he'll be getting much sleep while they're there. The case shouldn't take more than a couple of days to plan out and execute which will keep him within the confines of his roughly 60 hour case-fuelled lack of need for sleep.

John ends up doing most of the sleeping on their cases, true. Usually that's at a table, standing upright against a wall, or after he's been left by an overzealous detective having a eureka moment and forgetting all about telling him he's about to rush off. It doesn't bother John, especially since they'll be getting a lovely tea upon arrival. He'll likely eat for both of them because Sherlock will absolutely be gunning to start the moment they arrive.

In a way, John's excited just to be included again. Even if it's just--

He glances over the notebook. Sherlock's writing is small and precise and John's hung over headache is making it hard to focus. Even so, he's a little surprised to see that Sherlock thinks this case is mundane.

A nanny feeling threatened, or at least asked to perform strange tasks with the incentive of a raised salary is something intriguing. Even if it's just the case of a dirty old man wanting an in with his kids' live in sitter.

"He's asked her to cut her hair? That's strange." But not too threatening, really. John shrugs and sips at his own tea, now perfectly steeped, thank you. "I suppose it could be stranger."

Sherlock can hear John picking up the items he'd pointed out. Good. He would have much preferred John had been working with him during the whole case, but when Violet Hunter had contacted him for the first time, the two of them had been in the midst of another of their tiffs. He'd of course advised Miss Hunter on the spot - as is written in his notes (that he had only written out in case this situation would arise) - that she should decline the employment offer even with the promising sum of 50,000 pound/year pay.

"He didn't ask," Sherlock points out as he starts to heat olive oil in a pan. "He practically demanded it or there'd be no job for her," he points out. He looks over at his flatmate, curious to know if John sees the significance in that fact.

(no subject)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Our angst accidentaly became Hurt/Comfort xD

Comfort seems all right pre and post angst!

Too true, that. XD Though 'pre' angst there is foreboding

As it should be! Sorry for pack of icons. I never named them. ><. The phone makes it hard to see.

No need to apologise

I am giving up iphone tagging. My last tag was a nightmare of bad grammar and typos.

iPhones have minds of their own.

Oooh. See you reserved at the Box. I waited too long and most of my muses are reserved. XD

Yeah, haven't been in a game for a while. I love the horror types and it looks interesting

It does! I need to figure out someone to play!

You said all your active muses are taken? D:

Yeeeep. All but some old Heroes characters. I dunno if I wanna canon review!

Sad day. D: Maybe someone won't put in their app?

Fingers still crossed on Banner or Watson not apping.

The Watson's my IRL BFF and I'm pretty sure she's already finished the app ._. Don't know about Hulk