bakerstreet | hurt / comfort

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.

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- 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 captive and/or tortured for however long and finally, someone has come to the rescue.
9. BAD ROMANCE. Fight, cheated on, abused, whatever the case is, 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.
11. INSANITY. You're seeing things that aren't really there, hearing voices, or you're just convinced you're at your wit's end finally and you're going to crack. Maybe someone can give you a helping hand.
12. TIRED. You've had a heard life recently and you're just worn too thin to really care anymore. There's no fight left in you anymore. Can someone help change your mind?
13. ADDICTION. Drugs, alcohol, sex, gambling, or any other type of addiction has got you in its grasp. First time or relapse. Will someone be able to save you?
14. INSOMNIA. You can't sleep anymore, no matter how hard you try. Maybe someone can give you company.
15. NIGHTMARES. Or, on the other end of the spectrum, you can't sleep without gruesome, horrible nightmares. Either someone is stuck in your dream with you, witnessing it or they're just waking you up, soothing you out of it.
16. BLACKMAIL. You've been caught doing something you shouldn't and you were blackmailed because of it
17. SEPARATION. You're going to be separated for awhile or were separated for a long time. Either make up for lost time or try to spend every last moment together.
18. VIOLATED. You've been violated in some way. Can include sexual overtones or not. Can someone help you through it?
19. STRANDED. You've been stranded somewhere remote, with no help of anyone finding you for awhile. Can you survive this together?
20. SINS. You're feeling the weight of your sins and guilt clearer than ever. Can someone give you absolution or lessen the ache any?
21. SECRET. It's difficult having to keep that secret of yours, be it a relationship or something you just don't want to share with anybody else. Maybe it's okay to talk about it now though...
22. ADDITION. Babies should be joyous things unless you're in a situation where you know you won't be able to care for them. Either you've adopted or found out you're pregnant.

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[ Is he all ri - ...never mind. As a proud graduate of kindergarten, he should be done shedding his problems at D's door. For now. For the next five minutes that allow distraction -

In the shape of a very intense study of D's peering nails, leaning and squinting included. ]

They're... long nails.

[ Pinnacle of poster manliness that he is, even he can grant that. Really. ]

Very -- sturdy?

[ Look, he has limited expertise. ]

[Leon's willingness to lean towards nails that can rip living creatures to shreds is admirable, D thinks, in a dumb kind of way. Remarkably dumb.]

Well-spotted. This must be your detective's intuition at work.

[Another smirk. (Is that annoying yet?) He wonders- at this distance, it wouldn't be too much trouble to reach over and pat him on the cheek, maybe drag his nails lightly over the skin in an unnecessary fashion- but should he, knowing the man will probably lose it?

He didn't get any dessert today, so yes, he should. He does, before squinting at his nails stops being so fascinating. Then he sits back, the very picture of casual.]

Is it my turn to guess what you do all day?

[ On a scale of 1 to the nebulous rating only ever awarded to that one X-files season finale the guys totally told him to tape, getting patted like a cat against its whiskers scores, he thinks, surprisingly high.

It's not the gesture that startles, but, like before, the ease. The practice. Someone's lost an eye to these claws before. He'll bet his next gratuitous, three/pack, 20% off floral print T-shirt on it. He'll even bet the matching cap.

For now, he simply draws back - stare - passes a hand over his cheek, as if reconstructing invisible a crime scene. ]

...I file nails. Thought I told you not to touch me again.

[Oh- not the shouting he anticipated, but something subtle. Better. Not to say that he would maul anyone over dessert - unseemly - though a friendly reminder that he isn't the helpless layabout some people seem to think he is is always... helpful. Healthy. Ideally.

He won't stop smirking; the longer it's there the darker it becomes. Bad habit.]

You did.

[Which might mean something about how No One Tells Count D What To Do, sone other time when he's more interested in it.]

And? I'd guess you waste at least two hours daily on cheap beer. How much does that overlap going out with "the boys"?

[His eye-gouging nails have just finger-quoted.]

[ It's all fun and games until you want to punch down wannabe nobility. Then, you start quietly leaning back and considering each and every point in D's face where your fist might leave just the prettiest print. The left jaw, maybe. Leon's fond of that.

But he dissolves into laughter, inevitably. ]

You got it aaaaaaaaall wrong there. All wrong. It's not hanging out with the boys - cause to start with, they're men. I know a boy, he takes you by the collar, he takes me by the collar, then he does weight lifting with us, you know what I'm saying?

[ The incredulous assessment he gives his good host's slim physique might be enough to cement the unfortunate conclusion that D does, in fact, not know what he's saying, and never will. God bless you, skinny Asian people. ]

Besides, you gotta... you hang out with the men. You go out with the ladies. You know what I'm say -

[ ...no. No, he doesn't. ]

[Goodness. He has no idea what any of that means. Americans. D's eye twitches, but only a little.

Going out with the ladies, of all things he is distinctly indifferent to...]

So, that would be... wishful thinking?

[Zing. The man deserves to be left forgotten in a cage, if it will free D from having to hear about the ladies in all manner of colorful innuendo. For at least a few hours, anyway, before the complaining spoiled the whole thing.]

... Weight lifting.

[An eyebrow raises, skeptical. Is that meant to be literal, or... or is he going to regret saying it at all, ah- he already does. The cookie box is lifting, right, being lifted right now while he takes another cookie. Probably symbolic of his pitiful masculinity, the way this conversation is going.]

[ So many cultural references, so little time. It's like training his very own puppy in the ways of the cruel, cruel and McD loving world.

It stimulates enough of his good humour that by the time he covers the ground to pat D's shoulder in the most testosterone-filled of bro ways, Leon's feeling outright generous. ]

Yeeeeaaaaah! You're made for that stuff, I'm telling you, made for it. We'll hit up the gym one day. Grab your...

[ He coughs lightly. ]

...leotard.

[More like an ornery, uppity housecat, if the way D turns his skeptical gaze to that terribly offensive hand is any indication.]

I don't have one.

[A leotard? Only if it's silk and covered in tacky flowers. A thought occurs to him and he makes a face, somewhere caught between definitely not about to laugh and somewhat concerned.]

You do?

[ He has to laugh (again) - what is this double standard of it being perfectly permissible to touch, but not be touched?

The hand is firm, but unhurried in withdrawal. It has, after all, Accomplished Much of Worth and deserves its slow motion moments of glory. ]

That's... classified information.

[ And gentlemen graduates of the police academy are sworn to never speak of their initiation rites. ]

Yeah, that's what you need to do. Get out more. Meet - normal people. Gotta drive a man crazy, listening to... cats and... lizards and... you got some ferrets in there too, don't you? Listening to ferrets all day. Doing their... ferrety... things...

[See, the difference is, D is - allowed to do more things. Except not childish, like that sounds.

He considers Leon's hypothetical leotard. It probably (maybe) has a fake leopard print. That's worth keeping under wraps, indeed.]

Ferrets? [That must be the Strangest thing he could think of. D shrugs.] I don't know; I feel perfectly sane. And the shop needs to be watched...

[Sometimes. How many ways can he excuse himself from spending time around. Crowds. Three, as they say, is a crowd. He has his limits.]

Besides, your men likely aren't my kind of people.

[ There's no end (as there was no definite beginning) to Leon's uncertain frowning. ]

You're right! Shop needs to be watched. You got a cop in every day, half the neighourhood knows it. You think someone's gonna try and rob you?

[ ...which, admittedly, they have (and worse) in the past, but antecedents of unnecessary violence should never be considered in estimates of future ventures.

That'd be. Too logical. He flirts, briefly, with the tea again, then has the uncharacteristic sense to forgive himself another attempt. ]

And my bo - men are good. They're sturdy. Like your nails.

[ Except, apparently, for the ones who die. ]

This shop of full of living creatures. They require- care...

[And he talks to them, but that will never stand up in the court of Leon. Leaving aside all the times D does wild ("wild") things like run around the city late at night looking for dragons, or whatever, those certainly are not times he left the shop to its own devices and left without thinking.

What on earth does he need sturdy men for. Would they appreciate being compared to his finely manicured nails...]

I'm not having any furniture moved. [ha ha what a great comedian, this guy] We have nothing in common.

[ Of all the potentially sensitive verbal situations in all towns in all the world, you walk into this one, D.

Mr. ~~Humphrey~~ Orcot isn't often displeased by implications - usually, because he can't discern them. Call it a special day. He chuckles, dry. ]

...yeah. Nothing in common.

[ His head tips back for a moment, neck greatly offended by the chair's support, as he takes the necessary two seconds to appreciate the ceiling. Really, there's a limit to how much ethnic motif should be allowed to dictate interior decoration. ]

Your pets're always quiet, aren't they? You gotta have the first shop where there's no racket at night. You put something in the water?

Mm. Good care-taking begets good behavior.

[Not saying he's the best in the business, but regular pet shops? Disaster areas.

D looks at Leon looking at his ceiling and frowns. The fine line between coexisting and genuinely caring has been drawn again and again this evening, but it is his nature to--fuss. The idle banter seems to be slipping, and if there's going to be brooding he's going to have a say in it.

He picks up a cookie, looks at it, puts it down. This is ridiculous. He's nudging the cookie with his fingertips where it sits on the plate, as poking at it gives him something else to frown at.]

You're tense. [Asking too many questions about nothing important. It's likely best not to mince words, so-] What is it?

[ That is the most maligned biscuit on this world, and Leon knows that when the time is right, he may count on it as secondary forces against the evil legions of Count D. For now, he follows its trajectory with fixed interest, glance sweeping from the cookie's body to the Count's nails - still long, still sharp - before attending, startled, on the man's face.

He blinks away stupor, trying the words voicelessly on his tongue, before voicing them, satisfied. ]

Long day.

[ Said quite possibly as obligingly as the alternative 'Deal with it.' ]

Never had one?

[The cookie is spared, for a moment, as D pauses just long enough to give Leon a Look. He's somewhere between weary and irritated, and the Look as a result is left largely up to interpretation. At the very least, he contains his sudden urge to role his eyes.]

I live with- [hundreds] -dozens of animals.

[Which he could not manage to say in a flatter tone, with the what do you think? left unsaid. Honestly.

A second cookie finds its way to the plate and atop the other one. He might as well do something while the man sulks, even if that something is stacking up a cookie tower.]

Really, Detective, are you going to make me guess?

[ ...smooth, Count. Real smooth. Whipped cream and chocolate mousse and any other 95% sugar-based textures. It prompts something between a gasp of diabetic sympathy and scandalized derision. ]

We really need to go over your interrogation bedside manner.

[ A wave of his hand that breeds, rabbit-like, into the kind of gesticulating hysteria he encounters in his boys in traffic. ]

It's bad form to show so much interest. Gotta play it cooler, you know? Let them come to you.

[ ...isn't that what you did, Leon... ]

You don't just ask.

[There is something profoundly offensive about advice being doled out by someone like Leon... So deep and profound he can't put his finger on it, but it's there. Looming.

He finally quits tapping the cookies and looks up with a positively saccharine grin.]

But haven't I? You're already here.

[Uninvited. Without dessert. Sulking on his couch. It's hard to say which one is bothering him the most. He's chosen the sulking route, though, so there's no turning back now.]

The coaching can wait, either way.

[ The nerve of a sheer amateur, neglecting fine instruction. Some (exceedingly drunk) people would pay good money for Leon's services.

He smiles, somewhat placating. ]

That thing you're not taking? It's called a hint.

[ ...and it's what in some states, cultures and children's shows might be interpreted as malice when he picks up the lingering sugar cube that never quite made it in his tea cup and aims it steadfast at the biscuit tower.

Cookie bridge is falling down, falling down, cookie bridge is falling down - ]

Drop it.

[Finally a real life example of cookies and the way they crumble. Except he is not best pleased by this - throwing food? really?? - and he has a not in the shop, you brute shout all ready to go--but no.]

Detective.

[Calmly, dripping with every cloying, possibly furious 'my dear' that might really compel the man to get up and go sulk in someone else's shop. He is. So calm.

So calm he very meticulously dusts sugar off his fingers and sits back, folding his arms across his chest and shrugging. Yeah this is definitely the most mature thing he could have done:]

I will wait.

[ These are not the muttering, mumbling, or droids he was looking for. This is nothing of, or to him. But if they must exhaust every cliche of polite conversation, he can, and he slinks back in his own chair as if they're doing some war, play the part.

He doesn't waste much time in taking over the plate of biscuit ruins to reassemble Cookie Tower v.2.0. Huh. The Count's not that much of an idiot - this is fun. ]

You're not nearly as helpful right now as you think you are.

[ Just as Leon isn't nearly as pleased with his inevitable reduction to the part of the - beg the shop's pardon - animal on display. ]

Some man died. You didn't know him. I didn't much better. It's happened before, and in our line, it'll happen again. Came from the funeral.

[ Briefly, he actually takes the necessary five to showcase the tie. ]

You like the suit?

[This is turning over a new leaf. Helping - sort of - in ways besides sending Leon away with an insect and a sense of foreboding. It's a process. A many-step program.

He does like the suit, as it happens, but that isn't the point.]

A day of grief lasts longer than a month of joy.

[a beat; wow he is so good at this]

Proverb.

[Unfortunately, his tea is too cold now to distract himself with. He can't bring himself to give a disingenuous I'm-so-sorry - to anyone else he already would have, but, well. Well.

Are-you-alright dies on his tongue. He stands.]

I'll make some more tea.

[ It isn't malice until it occurs to him to laugh - ask, Got what you wanted? - and laugh again. He doesn't, because a startled D is nothing short of miraculous occasion, and he reserves just the inkling of piety to appreciate it, somewhat. It's difficult to steal Count D his words, of all things.

He beckons delay with one hand. ]

Relax.

[ He finds his legs stiffer in rise than they were in stay. ]

I should be off.

[ No, really. Several bars are mourning his business this very instant. ]

[Oh, as if. A man who leaves a funeral for a pet shop and petty insults is not one who has somewhere to be or anyone else (anyone less, well, D) to worry after him. D frowns, sharply; he shouldn't fuss, he has no reason to. He is definitely fussing.]

Now, now, a cut and run would make you a bad guest.

[Sit down and shut up and drink his tea. He picks up the abandoned cups and tries on a smile that is less patronizing than his usual.]

Humor me.

[ As if he hasn't spent months and substantial doses of his paycheck humouring a lunatic. But as forcible detox diets go, he could do significantly worse than the work of a man (?) whose single life skill happens to be tea brewing.

He stays, but doesn't reclaim his seat, awkwardly working his legs in a few steps, left-right, back-forth, pace the room. There's a fellow. ]

Remind me why I should humour an all but convicted criminal. Just. Remind me.

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