jading: (default)
lights afire ([personal profile] jading) wrote in [community profile] bakerstreet2014-04-06 11:56 pm

Angst Meme


Sometimes we all want to play some angst and see just how far our characters can and 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!
formersurgeon: (batgirl)

Re: Will Graham | Hannibal

[personal profile] formersurgeon 2014-04-08 04:54 am (UTC)(link)
[How does 7 sound? Maybe Joan has been kidnapped by a murderer who keeps his victims alive for a certain amount of time and Will is brought in to find her before he kills her?]
how_i_go: (i look her in the eyes)

Re: Will Graham | Hannibal

[personal profile] how_i_go 2014-04-08 04:56 am (UTC)(link)
[Sounds great!]
formersurgeon: (b&w)


[personal profile] formersurgeon 2014-04-08 05:42 am (UTC)(link)
He's killed women for decades, but only one every two years or so. The timing has been irregular, and the locations vary. It took years before the various jurisdictions even realized they were chasing the same lunatic...someone who snatched women, kept them alive for a week while he carved designs into their skin, then strangled them with a silk scarf and left them on the side of some lonely road. Remote enough so no one sees him dump the bodies, but not so much that they are not found. He wants them found. Wants to share his art.

They call him the Sculptor.

He made a mistake in kidnapping Joan. Her work with the NYPD meant they were able and willing to pull the trigger on a missing persons case before the customary 48 hours. It bought them time, time to find her before the Sculptor completes his work.

Time to bring in the feds. Jack Crawford's team. Will Graham.

Time has ceased to exist for Joan. The basement is cold, as are the manacles that she dangles naked from, arms stretched above her head, toes scraping against the ground. She's gagged, but she doesn't have the energy to scream anymore. Her blood pumps with adrenaline, blurring thought and time and the constant pain of the grooves he's carved into her back. To an observer they are vines and leaves and flowers. To her they are nothing but pain and the creeping certainty of her death.
how_i_go: (i shoot her cleanly through the neck)

[personal profile] how_i_go 2014-04-09 08:42 am (UTC)(link)
Will Graham does not like Sherlock Holmes. His intensity, the sheer magnitude of his pain and his guilt surrounding Joan Watson is distracting, in an agonizing way. Sherlock eventually punches Jack Crawford, and that earns him a few nights in a cell. Nights he is scratching away at the walls, and Will Graham can all but feel his agony, and he hates it. Jack has left him alone. Will goes back to the place it all started.

He closes his eyes, and looks around the Brownstone where Joan Watson lived. The broken sculpture, the thrown papers, they vanish. Only the design remains.

He holds out his hand, and he imagines the scene.

"I attack her quickly, quietly. She is the thorns, and I am the rose that stretches across her mouth. I do not invoke her thorns, I do not want to be pierced. I want this to last. I want it to last a long time. This is my design."

He imagines himself holding her body, cradling her as he carries her out to his car. He imagines the seclusion, the closeness but the distance. He follows his imagination to a nearby house, just on the edge of the suburbs. The lights are out, but someone is home.

"I love this place," he murmurs to himself. "It is like she is, like they all are. A diamond in the rough. A piece of clay with which I can sculpt my story. My design encompassed in a building."

He pulls out his gun and starts for the back door.
formersurgeon: (wary)

[personal profile] formersurgeon 2014-04-09 03:44 pm (UTC)(link)
Her captor enters the basement, and Joan rouses from the semi-unconsciousness that she can't really call sleep. She can hear him moving up from behind her, and then the light clicks on, a floodlight aimed at her, her back, so he can see as he works on his masterpiece. It's part of his ritual. He turns on the floodlight, removes her gag, and gives her water. The first day or first she spat it back at him, but now he keeps her right on the edge of dehydration, and every cup of water feels like the difference between life and death. God help her, she's not strong enough to spit it back.

He replaces her gag, then goes to clean her wounds. Joan knows the smell of the antiseptic he uses. It's a brand typically used only in hospitals. It was the clincher, back when she was still present enough to think, to deduce. His ability to keep her just short of severe dehydration, his deft hand with a scalpel...add in the antiseptic, and you get doctor.

The thought flickers in her mind again as the smell of the antiseptic hits her, but it's quickly washed away by the searing pain of the chemical on her raw flesh. She clenches her teeth on the cloth of the gag, refusing to cry out, refusing to make a single sound, and then she whimpers anyway, her body again betraying her.

He murmurs to her, his touch almost tender: how beautiful she is, how she's coming along so well. When he's done Joan takes a couple breaths, the pain fading a little, but with a worse pain yet to come.

It's then that she hears the sound from outside.

She lifts her eyes, toward the blacked-out windows up by the ceiling. Footsteps. Maybe there's someone out there. She forces herself to think. They wouldn't see the light. But maybe...maybe they'd be able to hear something.

She won't cry out...that would be too obvious, would put her captor on his guard, would let him know someone's coming.

No. He has to be the one to make a sound.

So as he approaches again, scalpel in hand, when she sees his shadow on the wall in front of her, she grits her teeth, twists her body, one shoulder wrenching painfully and popping from its socket, and kicks him in the groin as hard as she can.
how_i_go: (i shoot her cleanly through the neck)

[personal profile] how_i_go 2014-04-10 05:15 am (UTC)(link)
He looks up, towards the attic. Would he keep them up high, on a shelf? In a lofty artistic studio? No, Joan Watson is a flower. She needs to be down, needs to be towards the ground. Growing strong, sculpted by his careful hands.

There's a loud, sharp man's cry. Joan Watson has pulled out her thorns. There are only minutes now. When the thorns come out, he has to snip off the bud.

He can't be loud. Can't kick down the door. He has to be quick, but he has to be careful. Joan Watson will not become Abigail, he won't let her be taken hostage. He grabs a crowbar from the ground and jimmies the back door open. Quick, careful.
formersurgeon: (eww)

[personal profile] formersurgeon 2014-04-10 05:30 am (UTC)(link)
He yells out in shock and pain, as Joan gives a strangled groan into her gag, her dislocated shoulder a bright thrumming pain.

"You bitch," he spits out, and Joan sees the tenderness burned to ash by fury. He lifts the scalpel, ready to slash her throat, but he pauses, breathing heavily. He lowers the blade.

He doesn't want to destroy his work, she thinks.

He strides toward the work table, slams the scalpel down, and grabs a red silk scarf. He goes for her, twining the ends in his hands, pulling it taut.
how_i_go: (i shoot her cleanly through the neck)

[personal profile] how_i_go 2014-04-10 05:47 am (UTC)(link)
He won't kill her violently. He has to kill her lovingly, the way he kills all his other sculptures. And not until she's ready. Not until---

Will walks gently, quickly. He tries to avoid his imagination, seeing the kitchen, seeing the drawings of vines and flowers and knowing they belong to Joan Watson. He goes for the basement door. Nudges it open with his foot. Gun drawn. Steps gently, but quickly. No time. No time.
formersurgeon: (b&w)

[personal profile] formersurgeon 2014-04-10 06:00 am (UTC)(link)
Joan shies away, her breath hitching. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe there was no one outside. Maybe she's going to die, right here, right now.

"Shh," he shushes, moving behind her, passing the scarf over her head, pulling it soft against her throat. "Shh."

Slowly he begins to tighten it, his body pressed against her naked flesh.
how_i_go: (Default)

[personal profile] how_i_go 2014-04-10 06:10 am (UTC)(link)
He steps down the final step, to see the man pressed against Joan Watson, tugging a scarf around her throat. Dominating her, though not sexually. Just wrapping her up like a piece of clay.

"FBI," Will announces, gun out. "Step away from her."

His hands are shaking, but his aim is steady.
formersurgeon: (stop bleeding)

[personal profile] formersurgeon 2014-04-10 06:16 am (UTC)(link)
The man is startled, releasing the scarf and jerking around to face Will, his face a mix of shock and anger. Joan sucks in a huge breath and begins coughing.

The man is uneasy, nostrils flared, breath sharp. He shifts from foot to foot, glaring at Will, not moving aside so easily. His gaze flicks to the table with his "sculpting tools."
how_i_go: (i am intense)

[personal profile] how_i_go 2014-04-10 06:21 am (UTC)(link)
Will is conditioned for arresting in dangerous situations. Back when he was a cop, it was a common occurrence. But this man, he knows what is coming next. He's looking at his weapons.

"Get down onto your knees," Will instructs him. "Hands on the ground."

In his mind's eye, he can see the sculptor's tools. They would kill Will, not Joan. She is precious.
formersurgeon: (grief)

[personal profile] formersurgeon 2014-04-10 06:36 am (UTC)(link)
Joan is drawing in ragged breaths, and is twisted around, looking past her dislocated arm at the FBI agent, at her captor and tormentor. Observations flit through her mind (he's not usually an agent, her captor will not surrender but will also not use her as a hostage or a shield.

There's only one way that this will end.

The captor goes for the tools.
how_i_go: (i am intense)

[personal profile] how_i_go 2014-04-11 03:41 am (UTC)(link)
Will watches him lunge for the tools, and he fires off a shot towards his shoulder. The sculptor grabs a scalpel, and he moves towards Will. Another shot, this one to the chest.

He sees Garrett Jacob Hobbs standing there, holding Abigail. But it isn't Abigail, it's Joan Watson. And the gunshot doesn't keep the sculptor alive long enough to breathe any last words.

He lowers the gun and runs to Joan Watson's side. He pulls the gag away from her mouth.

"It's all right," he promises. "It's all right, I'm the police."
formersurgeon: (you relapsed)

[personal profile] formersurgeon 2014-04-11 03:50 am (UTC)(link)
Two gunshots. Joan flinches, turns away, not wanting to see her captor die, despite what he's done to her.

She opens her eyes as the man takes out her gag, looking into his face. Police, he says. Not usually, her mind whispers. You've worked with police, he's something else entirely.

"Where's Sherlock?" she whispers, voice too hoarse for much more.
how_i_go: (i look her in the eyes)

[personal profile] how_i_go 2014-04-11 04:14 am (UTC)(link)
"He's safe," Will replies. "He wanted to get to you faster than we were moving."

He doesn't really know what else to say. It's not that he's not empathic to her feelings towards this Sherlock person (quite the opposite, in his case), he just can't reach those feelings right now. He sees too much of the Sculptor's design here. He reaches up to try to undo her wrists, to free her. She needs to be freed.

"It's okay. I'll get you an ambulance."
formersurgeon: (b&w)

[personal profile] formersurgeon 2014-04-11 04:32 am (UTC)(link)
"That's him."

She can guess what happened. Maybe he roughed up a suspect, or was too obvious in breaking in somewhere in pursuit of a lead.

He reaches up to her hands, and she has to cough a little before tilting her head toward the body.

"Keys. Back pocket."

Not that he's used them in a while. Her wrists are chafed, and probably would be bleeding were her circulation not at a bare minimum.
how_i_go: (i will take what is his)

[personal profile] how_i_go 2014-04-16 03:52 am (UTC)(link)
He rifles through the man's pockets and acquires the keys, going immediately to Joan Watson's side to undo her cuffs.

"It's going to be all right," he repeats. "And I'll get him in to see you right away."
formersurgeon: (b&w)

[personal profile] formersurgeon 2014-04-16 04:08 am (UTC)(link)
When he undoes the cuff for the arm wrenched from its socket she cries out in pain. When the manacles are no longer holding her up she collapses in a quivering heap, her muscles unable to hold her up. She's quivering, weak and cold and in pain.
how_i_go: (i am aware of what i have done)

[personal profile] how_i_go 2014-04-16 05:00 am (UTC)(link)
He catches her as she falls, holding onto her awkwardly, stiffly. He remembers wanting to hold onto Abigail when she fell, but being unable to. Hannibal isn't here now to catch Joan Watson, so that will be Will's job.

He releases her with one arm, and shrugs off his coat.

"You're safe," he promises.
formersurgeon: (looking away)

[personal profile] formersurgeon 2014-04-16 05:05 am (UTC)(link)
She holds onto him as best she can, but her dislocated arm is useless and throbbing in pain.


She twists, trying to position her arm some way that it doesn't hurt, but it's no use. It won't stop hurting until it's popped back in.

"I need...my arm... ahh..." She grits her teeth, grinds it out. "My left shoulder is dislocated. I need your help."
how_i_go: (i am aware of what i have done)

[personal profile] how_i_go 2014-04-16 05:47 am (UTC)(link)
"Tell me what you need," Will replies. His phone is in his pocket, but she is talking to him about what he needs. He needs to help. He can help her.

Perhaps this is his design.
formersurgeon: (security cameras)

[personal profile] formersurgeon 2014-04-16 05:55 am (UTC)(link)
"I can't..."

She clenches her teeth again and groans. She doesn't have the strength to be of much help aside from giving direction. She glances to the side, at the table with her captor's tools laid out on its surface. The body is on the floor between it and them.

"The table. Lay me down on the table."