#🌿john watson — interactions.🌿

[storyuntrue]

@theirmadness: good boy. - from irene @ john

In   stupor,   John   can   only   blink   at   the   praise,   wondering   where   that   came   from.   He   tries   to   think   of   what   he   could’ve   done   that   would’ve   merited   such   a   comment,   and   after   half   a   minute   he   comes   short   of   any   answer.   “Okay. . .?   Why   am   I   a   good   boy?”   Slowly,   John   lets   the   words   slip   out   of   his   mouth,   shifting   in   his   place,   eyes   trained   on   Irene,   trying   to   judge   from   her   expression   what   it   could   be.   

[storyuntrue]

That’s   not   exactly   his   point,   even   if   he   would   have   preferred   a   minimal   number   of   casualties.   Minimal   being   zero,   of   course.   So   John   just   shakes   his   head   dismissing   her   lacking   show   of   empathy   —   considering   he   was   in   the   same   boat   as   her,   the   doctor   had   no   grounds   to   judge   her   for   it.   “I   have   seen   many   deaths,   on   and   outside   of   the   battlefield.   Death   is. . .   it’s   never   easy   to   bear   or   accept.”

The   commiseration   out   of   the   way,   John   shifts   in   his   seat,   subtly   glances   at   the   screen   of   Anthea’s   phone   —   she   might   notice   or   she   might   not;   God   knows   the   woman   barely   picked   took   her   eyes   away   from   that   screen.   “But   what   I   meant   —   what   I   was   trying   to   say   —   that   agent   had   information.   Information   that   he   agreed   to   share   with   us.   Sherlock   and   I   were   supposed   to   meet   him   this   evening.”  

@storyuntrue asked: " oh, that is... that is bad news." / from John !

"Yes, it would seem that way, wouldn't it," the Government's assistant said, barely looking up from her phone as they rode in the car. Sensing his discomfort she sighed, lowering her phone. "It is something that you get used to after a while. I thought you of all people would understand. You saw combat, yes?" Surely he, as a doctor in the military, had seen his share of death in combat. MI5 and MI6 were no different.

She also realised she was sounding a bit like Mycroft and probably Sherlock. Unfeeling. "It is always sad when we lose an agent," she finally said. She was so used to the Holmes men and her job that she doesn't really blink at losing an agent anymore.

[storyuntrue]

@demisereborn: ❛  what are you going to do? he needs help.  ❜ / mary for john

“So   he   always   claims   and   yet   when   I   come   to   the   rescue   it   becomes   clear   that   he   has   been   fairing   superbly   without   my   assistance.”   John   has   promised   himself   not   to   be   at   the   beck   and   call   of   Sherlock,   especially   now   that   he   was   engaged   to   Mary.   So   he   had   a   dilemma   at   his   hands   —   either   set   his   foot   down   and   ignore   Holmes’   telegram,   or   step   all   over   his   own   promises   to   himself   and   rush   to   the   man’s   aid.   “Who’s   to   say   that   he’s   not   being   melodramatic   once   again?”

[storyuntrue]

@poxsonmenace: don't be boring , everyone who says that always dies . - for Watson

“Only   if   you   kill   them   for   saying   it.”   Even   with   tension   filling   his   shoulders,   John   still   couldn’t   stop   himself   from   snarking   at   the   consulting   criminal.   It’s   a   bit   like   pulling   on   a   lion’s   mane   and   expecting   it   not   to   bite   you.   Then   again,   what   is   he   supposed   to   do?   Get   down   on   his   knees   and   plead   Moriarty   to   spare   his   life?   Yeah,   he’d   rather   take   a   bullet   to   his   head.   “I’m   quite   sure,   in   fact,   I   could   bet,   that   you’ve   killed   someone   even   if   they   were   entertaining   rather   than   boring.”

[storyuntrue]

@frontlincs: i can patch this up myself. / from mary (demisereb0rn) for victorian john ! ( lol sure you can )

“𝑰’𝒎   𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚   𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆   𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕   𝒚𝒐𝒖   𝒄𝒂𝒏.”   Patience   and   amusement   mixes   into   his   words,   John   still   sits   down   beside   his   wife,   and   lays   out   his   medical   instruments.   Most   of   them   were   needed   to   clean,   suture   and   wrap   the   gash   on   her,   so   while   he   has   all   confidence   in   her   ability,   he   knows   from   experience   how   unpleasant   it   is   to   stitch   yourself   up.   “But   I   want   to   do   this   for   you,   Mary.   I   want   to   take   care   of   you.   And   as   your   husband,   I   believe   I   should   get   that   privilege,   wouldn’t   you   say?”  

[storyuntrue]

He   tactfully   gives   no   verbal   response   to   the   insult   of   his   profession   and   person,   choosing   to   just   land   a   bemused   look   on   Holmes.   John   can   handle   pain,   thank   you   very   much,   he   has   been   handling   it   for   quite   a   few   years.   It’s   the   poking   and   prodding   that   causes   little   zaps   of   pain   to   shoot   up   his   leg   that   he   finds   unpleasant,   and   unnecessary   to   bear,   all   just   for   the   consulting   detective’s   amusement.   

“Why   would   you   do   that?”   He   parrots   the   words,   astounded   as   much   as   he   was   amused   by   the   put   on   innocence.   “Because   that’s   your   modus   operandi.   Because   that’s   what   gets   you   out   of   bed   in   the   morning.   You   thrive   to   know   more   about   anything   and   everything,   no   matter   the   cost,   or   pain   caused.”   Perhaps   said   pain   was   what   made   John   speak   in   such   a   biting   manner,   a   sardonic   smile   curled   beneath   his   mustache.   “It   leaves   me   to   wonder   if   you   haven’t   left   me   in   such   a   predicament   on   purpose   to   begin   with.”   

The critique washed over a Holmes who, if not oblivious, was not taking particular note either. "They say doctors make the worst patients. I am inclined to think they are right. Do hold still, Watson." His aquiline features screwed in concentration, he attempted to return to his task but found that the leg in question had wandered off again. Holmes let out an impatient sound, following the trail of movement with his eyes. A familiar and this time unamused gaze met him halfway.

Responsible he certainly felt, and he was deeply invested in a good outcome here; but his medical knowledge was more commonly applied to the dead than the living, and he did not feel the need to hold his friend's proverbial hand as he sometimes did the clients. "Come now, my good fellow, would I do that?" His look traveled fast from mock hurt to a flash of genuine feeling. "When it's down to me that you're in this predicament?"

[storyuntrue]

@tcbefearless: who's afraid of little old me? / John Watson from Irene

“Many   people are,   men   more   so   than   women,   I’m   sure   you   know   that   by   now.”   It's   an   obvious,   stating-the-fact   tone   that   John   takes   with   her,   eyebrows   raised   and   head   tipped   low.   Some   amusement   is   curling   at   the   corner   of   his   mouth,   but   hopefully   his   mustache   covers   that   up.   She   must   have   known   that   the   innocent   act   wouldn’t   work   on   him,   right?   Or   does   she   truly   believe   him   to   be   the   obtuse   friend   to   the   consulting   detective?   “Maybe   even   Sherlock,   at   certain   times.   Though   that   fear   soon   turns   into   some. . .   perverse   fascination,   because   whyever   else   would   he constantly   keep   tabs   on   you?”   

[storyuntrue]

@reverdies: 🛁 for your Watson from Holmes

A   hiss   sounds   from   behind   his   tightly   gritted   teeth,   flinching   away   at   the   sting   the   ethanol   caused   to   his   wound.   Be   it   his   luck   to   injure   his   good   leg,   he   also   got   a   nurse   that   was   more   fascinated   with   the   process   of   cleaning   the   wound   rather   than   making   sure   his   patient   was   comfortable   and   not   in   pain.   “ Dear   God,   Holmes.   When   you   volunteered   to   help   me   patch   myself   up,   I   did   not   think   it   meant   me   having   to   endure   additional   poking   and   prodding. ”   

And   considering   the   consulting   detective   was   inadvertently   responsible   for   the   injuries   John   sustained,   he   thought   the   man   would   be   more   gentle   about   this   approach   too.   He   sighs,   setting   down   a   suture   kit   he   used   to   patch   up   a   knife   wound   in   his   side,   and   looking   Sherlock   straight   in   the   eye.   “ If   you   want   run   your   experiments   on   me   while   cleaning   my   wound   up,   do   be   more   careful. ”   

[storyuntrue]

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈   𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆   𝒔𝒐   𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈   𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉   𝒕𝒉𝒆   𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅.   No,   scratch   that   —   everything   was   so bloody   wrong   with   the   world.   Not   only   was   Sherlock   disgraced and smeared   thanks   to   Moriarty   and   the   media,   he   was   also   dead,   jumped   off   the   goddamn   roof   for   reasons   unknown   to   John. The   consulting   detective’s   body   hasn’t   even   gotten   the   chance   to   fully   cool   yet,   and   he’s   already   presented   with   another   revelation   that   leaves   him   shaken   to   the   very   core   —   Greg, of all people,   was   working   for   Moriarty   this   entire   time.   

The   swirl   of   emotions   pent   up   within   him   —   anger,   grief,   confusion   and   desperation   all   mixed   into   one,   leaving   him   with   a   tightly   clenched   jaw,   quivering   hands,   a   burning   glare   and   a   gun   directed   straight   at   Lestrade.   He   should’ve   just   shot   him   already,   planted   a   bullet   in   his   brain   and   left   him   to rot right there,   but   he’s   hesitating.   Maybe   because   he   doesn’t   want   to   become   a   murderer,   maybe   because   it’s   Lestrade   and   John   thought   that   they   were   friends; shaking off such a sentiment so quickly has proved to be a rather difficult task.   “Why   would   you   work   for   him?   This   doesn’t   make   any   sense.”   He   ignores   the   taunt,   hisses   out   his   own   question   through   gritted   teeth,   as   his   thumb   moves   to   switch   the gun's safety off.   

@amanandgoodatit ( cont. )

[storyuntrue]

@theirmadness: awkward new year semi-hug slash pat from sherlock @ watson. <3

𝑰𝒕’𝒔   𝒏𝒐𝒕   𝒆𝒙𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒍𝒚   𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈,   but   it   most   certainly   is   entertaining,   and   Watson   does   absolutely   nothing   to   fix   the   situation.   He   lets   it   play   out,   even   pats   Sherlock   back   in   the   very   same   manner,   while   his   eyes   shine   with   mirth   and   a   smile   tugs   under   his   mustache.   “Is   that   your   way   of   wishing   me   a   happy   new   year?”   It’s   impossible   for   John   to   keep   his   mouth   shut, however,   amusement   tugging   on   his   tongue   and   forcing   him   to   voice   his   question.   

[storyuntrue]

@frontlincs: [ seek ] sender seeks out receiver for a protective hug / from nancy for victorian john !

𝑻𝒉𝒆   𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕   𝒊𝒏   𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒕   𝒐𝒇   𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎   𝒘𝒂𝒔   𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓   𝒈𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆;   even   John,   an   experienced   military   doctor   who   had   seen   the   horrors   of   war,   wanted   to   turn   away   in   disgust.   So   to   him,   it   was   really   no   wonder   that   it   was   exactly   what   Nancy   did,   turning   her   entire   body   the   opposite   direction   of   the   corpse,   colliding   into   him   in   her   haste.   John,   on   his   own   part,   wasted   no   time   in   wrapping   his   arms   around   her   midriff,   hoping   like   some   mad   man   that   an   embrace   could   shield   the   young   woman   from   the   terrifying   sight.   “It’s   okay,   it’s   going   to   be   okay,”   he   mutters,   not   really   sure   why,   while   rubbing   his   hand   soothingly   across   Ms.   Drew’s   back.   “We’re   going   to   catch   whoever   did   this,   and   they’ll   get   their   comeuppance,   trust   me.”  

[storyuntrue]

@demisereb0rn: i can finally breathe again. ( mary to john - victorian au ) !

A   good   natured   chuckle   emits   from   deep   in   John’s   chest,   taking   a   step   back   from   her,   but   waiting   nearby,   should   she   need   more   help.   “I   don’t   imagine   a   dress   like   that   is   very   comfortable.   Though   you   do   look   gorgeous   in   it.”   Perhaps   he   will   not   admit   it   out   loud,   but   at   least   with   himself   he   can   be   honest   that   the   moment   he   had   seen   Mary   in   her   wedding   dress,   his   throat   had   clogged   up   and   tears   welled   up   in   his   eyes   from   the   sheer   beauty   of   his   now   wife.  

[storyuntrue]

TAG DROP! JOHN WATSON.

[storyuntrue]

They   leave   him   a   bit   off   balanced,   Sherlock’s   genuine   words,   he   doesn’t   know   exactly   how   to   react.   Would   a   hug   be   something   that   the   consulting   detective   would   appreciate?   Or   would   it   be   misunderstood?   There   is   only   one   way   to   find   out   the   truth,   but   John’s   not   entirely   sure   he   wants   to   take   that   path   of   discovery.   So   instead   his   own   hand   claps   at   Holmes’   shoulder,   a   genuine   smile   tugging   at   his   lips.   “I   shall   try   my   best   to   incorporate   it   seamlessly,   and   organically.   No   praise   for   myself   when   undeserved,   though.   I   can   only   hope   that   I   will   do   it   successfully,   but   we   will   see   how   it   will   transpire   with   the   future   stories.”

Shifting   away,   John   returns   to   the   task   of   setting   the   medical   kit   back   to   its   rightful   place,   limping   his   way   to   the   cabinet.   “However,   for   that   to   happen,   we   do   first   need   to   finish   a   case,   you   know.”   There   is   some   merriness   to   the   way   he   taunts   Holmes,   his   eyes   twinkling   with   a   touch   of   mischief.   “The   audience   rarely   finds   the   unsolved   stories   to   be   that   of   a   satisfactory   nature.   I’m   sure   that   even   my   brilliant   inputs   wouldn’t   help   them   feel   otherwise.”  

While he does enjoy a spot of mischief, a hint of dramatic license at times, the rare occasion of actual sentiment passing his lips is never that. It is difficult to draw from him in the first place. When it does emerge, it can only be sincere, if delivered in Holmes' particular (and peculiar) manner. He can see that Watson still suspects his motives from the slight narrowing of his eyes, an angling of the head. That is his own fault, naturally. If he were more forthcoming in such matters, it would all be much more clear to the doctor. There would be no room for vague speculation.

"Hardly, so long as you balance it well," Holmes assures him coolly. "I believe I have told you of my brother Mycroft. It is simple fact that he possesses those same faculties which you praise in your stories, in far greater quantity. There is no humility in admitting it. But it would be just as false to deny that my abilities in the art of deduction outstrip most others. Do you see? Both are disingenuous, Watson. The exact truth. Your readers deserve that, as do you." A beat, then Holmes strides over impulsively , seizing his friend by the shoulder. "They should know you are invaluable to me."

[storyuntrue]

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆   𝒂𝒓𝒆   𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔   𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚   𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈   on   the   tip   of   his   tongue,   wanting   to   claim   that   he   has   never   been   called   a   good   boy,   not   after   he   had   reached   a   prepubescent   stage   anyways,   maybe   even   earlier   on,   his   memory   was   rather   shaky   in   that   regard.   Especially   in   that   particular   moment,   with   Irene’s   leg   pressing   into   his   groin,   all   thoughts   that   had   to   do   with   things   outside   of   this   moment   seemed   to   flee   his   mind.   All   words   died   in   his   mouth   the   second   she   pulled   at   his   hair,   forcing   his   head   back,   only   a   hiss   taken   in   through   clenched   teeth   sounds   from   him.

Has   John   ever   entertained   such   a   notion   before?   A   night   of   sin   with   Irene   Adler,   of   all   people?   Of   course   that   he   has,   one   must   be   blind   not   to   notice   her   beauty   and   deaf   to   miss   out   on   her   sensual   voice.   And   he   had   never   once   claimed   himself   to   be   a   man   of   virtue.   Question   was   —   should   he   resist   or   should   he   give   in?   Somehow,   either   possibility   seemed   rather   dangerous.   

“Is   this   what   you   want?”   He   turns   the   question   around,   keeping   his   eyes   stubbornly   fixed   on   hers.   Her   trade;   that’s   what   kept   him   still   somewhat   grounded,   what   allowed   him   to   retain   a   shred   of   sanity.   She   was   a   professional   at   this,   so   it   seemed   only   reasonable   to   question   whether   this   act   was   one   of   pure   emotion   or   of   yet   unknown   ulterior   motive.   “Or   is—   is   this   something   you   have   to   do?”  

❝ well, you are good, aren't you, john? a good man. a good doctor. a good soldier, and a good friend. good, doctor watson. a good boy, indeed. are you not told this often, john? ❞ irene's voice is a purr.

meant to entice and caress the man with her voice. she knows what she is doing, after all, allure is her currency. irene adler knows what a man wants, and john watson is a simple man, in that regard. most of them were. she parts his knees with a slight movement of her own, & still holding his gaze captive, leans into the chair once there is room.

she presses her knee up between his legs, all too aware of what she is touching. the woman smirks, her nail digging slightly into his chin.

it's like she is appraising him for something... then, suddenly, irene grabs a fistful of his hair and tugs his head backwards, her free hand now cupping his jaw as her lips hover over john's. ❝ but you see, in my trade, i know for a fact... that every good boy wants to be bad once in a while. is that you, john? do you want to be bad with me? ❞

[storyuntrue]

The   medical   kit   neatly   packed   and   set   aside,   John   grasps   onto   the   arms   of   his   chair,   so   he   could   push   himself   up   into   a   standing   position.   The   grimace   on   his   face   quickly   fades   into   a   curious   smile,   clear   eyes   searching   Holmes’   features   for   any   traces   of   lie   or   mischief.   It’s   a   habit,   to   make   sure   that   his   leg   is   not   being   pulled,   and   that   the   words   the   consulting   detective   uttered   were   honestly   meant.   Of   course,   his   success   rate   at   spotting   such   things   was   not   entirely   admirable,   but   that   didn’t   deter   John   from   trying.   

“Wouldn’t   that   fill   the   stories   with   my   own   vanity,   then?”   A   challenge   to   Holmes’   statement,   John   gives   him   a   knowing   look,   snatching   the   medical   kit   from   the   coffee   table   in   order   to   bring   it   back   to   its   usual   place.   “Should   I   start   boasting   about   my   own   involvement,   help   and   expertise   within   these   stories,   don’t   you   think   that   people   will   start   calling   me   a   jealous   fraud?   Rumors   would   start   flying,   no   doubt,   that   I’m   attempting   to   steal   your   fame   and   intellect. No, no, Holmes,  I   believe   it’s   best   to   keep   the   stories   as   they   are,   for   the   sake   of   both   our   peace.”   

Holmes knows he doesn't say it often enough. He couldn't possibly, as it would be a near constant distraction if he tried. But the truth is he values Watson's loyalty, his readiness to action, his bravery, and his expertise as well. He may be no genius, but possesses plenty of intelligence (if a writing tone more inclined to mawkishness than scientific enquiry) that combined with his other qualities make for an admirable human being and a marvelous friend.

But how can he bring himself to say all that? He, whose great brain supposedly chafes at sentiment like an oyster with a grain of sand. Well, perhaps if he lets it past his shell, it will become a pearl in time— perhaps it already has. "Yes, all right, Watson," he says in a tone not in fact meant to dissuade him, "no need to lay it on quite so thick." The amused sparkle in his eyes tells a different story. Of course he enjoys a bit of praise, even wrapped up in teasing. But the corners of his lips flatten at receiving his friend's full stare. He feels pinned; the unfortunate metaphor that springs to mind is one of the murderer Stapleton's butterflies. "Just this: you have often underplayed your own contributions to either 'improve' the story or to emphasize my own efforts. I abhor false humility as much as vanity. You must tell the precise truth of how much an asset Dr. John Watson is."