InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "welp"

John Watson internationally smuggles tea (imhisblogger) wrote in wariscoming,
@ 2012-06-15 23:41:00

Entry tags:

florence trumper, john watson

Who:John Watson and Florence Trumper!
What:Chatting and randomness.~~an invasion of John!~~
When: Some time after chatting with Kat!
Where:Complex kitchen.
Warning:I don't see any!

John Watson frowned as he looked down at his watch, for what must have been the hundredth time. He sighed. Only five minutes has passed since the last time he had checked. He looked around, half expectantly, half knowingly. He knew only to well that he wasn't about to see his friend striding towards him, all cocky smiles and no apologies whatsoever for the fact that the man had kept John waiting, once again. Sherlock was wrapped up in cases. That didn't mean John didn't worry or get annoyed.

Glancing down at his mobile at an empty textless screen he sighed. Sherlock couldn't even spare a minute to send him a text. John was concerned. Sherlock was isolating himself. He was working so much he was barely eating. John had to bring him meals just to make sure something substantial got consumed. If he didn't, Sherlock would work through the night. He'd told him it was unhealthy only ten million times, and each time he was blown off with a hand wave or annoyed statement of can't be bothered to care. Why should he then care? John questioned bitterly as he prepared yet another meal for his friend. If this was how Sherlock behaved towards people he liked, John pitied those Sherlock hated.

Tonight's menue was a frozen dinner. Again. Why should he cook something fresh when Sherlock wouldn't even stop to eat with him? "Can't be bothered to care." John commented scathingly as if it were the dinner's fault his friend was absent and he poked a hole in the plastic that kept the meal fresh with a knife He turned on the stove and waited for the proper heat. John sighed in frustration as he stared down the oven temperature meter and tried to will it to heat faster with his brain.

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notachesspiece
2012-06-16 07:09 am UTC (link)

Ordinarily, Florence would have made dinner in their flat and it would've been a fresh, pretty good tasting, home cooked meal. Or, of course, they'd have gone out. But she'd only just gotten home, they hadn't had time to go to the market yet, and frankly, she was beat. She loved traveling, she always had, but they hadn't exactly been lounging about. The first several days had been spent dealing with the press, watching the Tournament, analyzing plays, and entertaining her travel party. Then it was Project Avoid the Plastic and the sidetrip to Greece. And as fun as playing tourist was, it was exhausting.

So the last thing she had any urge to do was put together a nice meal with groceries that they didn't have. Instead, she slipped off to the Complex kitchen, secretly grateful they hadn't had time to find a place of their own yet. And now that Freddie was officially considered a competitor again, that time might not happen right away.

At first when she saw someone already at the stove, she considered turning back around. "Sorry!" she chirped up politely, "I'll come back later." But then she studied the man's back for a moment and grinned a bit. "Or I could stay and pester you. Glaring at it isn't going to make it go any quicker, you know."

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imhisblogger
2012-06-16 08:58 am UTC (link)

The truth was he did care. He cared a great deal and sometimes it annoyed him. He often found himself wondering how Sherlock's brilliant mind worked. How he was able to separate himself between reality and science. John couldn't do it. Try as he might his emotions occasionally got the better of him. Like now. He was left feeling underwhelmed by the recent changes in their friendship. One minute Sherlock was looking at him as if he were trying desperately to be concerned, and the next he was buried back into a case. Had John really put that much emotional stress on him?

Calming slightly as he finally heard the oven timer sound, he slid the dinner in and set the cook time. Sherlock had turned most of their flat into an investigations office. To the point of where John was worried about opening refrigerators and finding heads inside. So most nights he could be found utilizing the community kitchen. This night was no different than the past several.

Sherlock toiled away at cases, John gave his input whenever he was prompted to do so, but otherwise there was little social interaction. Sherlock needed a break. John almost chuckled at his train of thought, he hadn't taken one yet either. Maybe that's why he and Sherlock made such wonderful partners. He knew what made Sherlock tick, likewise Sherlock knew him. It was rare that Watson thought of himself before Sherlock. He was always concerned with his friends well being above his own. John knew once Sherlock became manic it was nearly impossible to break him out of his work but within the next few days he was determined to for the sake of his health.

"Quite all right Mrs. Trumper." John found himself replying automatically, hoping the worry and frustration didn't show on his face or betray him vocally. "It seems to make things work faster for Sherlock." He offered a small smile. "How was your holiday?"

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notachesspiece
2012-06-17 07:07 am UTC (link)

Oh, that wasn't like John at all. No, John was, if not chipper, at least not autopilot polite. Florence couldn't stop the worry from crossing her face if she tried. Her forehead wrinkled slightly, and she leaned against the kitchen counter, meeting John's eyes. "My holiday was fine. Apparently much better than things are here. As much as I love my new name, you never 'Mrs. Trumper' me. What's going on?"

Sherlock. Of course it was Sherlock. She knew John loved him dearly, but Florence really had very little respect for her friend's best mate. He was clearly a genius, but sometimes she thought that was about all he had going for him. Freddie was smart. Damn smart. But he cared about people, too. He made friends, true friends, and he stood by them. He didn't feel the need to trick them, or go behind their backs, or do ridiculous things like worry them needlessly.

And John was obviously worried.

Automatically, without considering, she moved to the cabinet where she'd stocked the kitchen with tea. Proper English breakfast tea, thank you. If she was going to have more money than she knew what to do with, then she was going to import the comfort drink of her youth, thanks. She pulled out a kettle and started the water on. She had a feeling John needed to talk, and tea was typically the best way to get someone to do so.

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imhisblogger
2012-06-18 09:33 am UTC (link)

John would do anything for Sherlock. His loyalty to the man was thicker than blood. If it came down to it he would even sacrifice himself for him without question or hesitance. The lengths he was willing to go for Sherlock would probably frighten people, but the idea of being without him again literally terrified him. Lately he'd been thinking on it a lot. If something did happen to Sherlock would he be able to cope with it? Every time the little voice in the back of his mind said no. Was terrified for his best friends well being. Terrified at the thought of potentially losing Sherlock again at this rate. The way Sherlock toiled away at the endless cases made things seem hopeless. John Watson was a man who needed hope to cling to. Sherlock could get along with facts and evidence just fine, but John needed something more. John was the balance.

When Florence moved closer he blinked tired blue eyes and looked away at the stove. John was never good about expressing himself, that was why he had a blog. A place to write what he felt. Only in this world he didn't, he didn't have a blog of his own or a therapist, or any sort of outlet for his issues. That was what had happened tonight, everything had bottled for so long until it finally exploded in frustration and left him irritated at best.

Then she came out with the tea and he knew he would have little choice but to discuss exactly what was going through his mind. The mere thought made him more nervous. Still Sherlock's dinner had forty minutes to cook, he had time. He was so bloody picky about food John had to make sure things were cooked just so in order for the man to even touch them. Everything had to be just so with Sherlock.

as John moved to sit down at the table, he still used objects to keep himself from slipping due to the return of his limp. As he sank into a chair he took an attempt at a calming breath and looked up at Florence. "I can barely get him to take a break anymore. He's gone into entirely manic mode."

When John did try to get him to stop, occasionally things got thrown in his direction. Most of the time he ducked, but even John had his mental limits. Right now they were being pushed to the brink.

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notachesspiece
2012-06-19 04:56 am UTC (link)

Florence watched him making his way slowly over to the table. She knew Sherlock believed the limp to be psychosomatic and he was probably right. Bastard was usually right about everything. That didn't mean she had to like it. In fact, it really just made him that much more infuriating. If he was wrong, it'd be possible to rub it in his face that he was, in fact, wrong. But he wasn't. And it wasn't exactly fun.

She'd never had many friends growing up. She was raised to be above her peers, to be someone they couldn't mock, to be better than what they expected her to be. And then she became a competitor and she had rivalries, not friends. Or associates on her team. Those who worked for her or with her or under her. And then Freddie came along and while they were close, they'd moved into a romance so quickly that she couldn't even call it a friendship, if she thought about it. So the friendships she was building here in Lawrence, she was hanging on to desperately. And she wouldn't see John run himself down like this. And she wouldn't allow herself to be pushed away, either. Call it a friendship or call it those maternal instincts, she wanted better for him.

"You're not his mother, John," she pointed out, hiding the bitter tint of her tone. She was damn good at keeping her voice level, thanks to years of dealing with an argumentative press and a boyfriend who loved to rile them up. There were few who could pinpoint when she was truly angry. Freddie, definitely, and Anatoly if he was paying close enough attention. No one else knew her well enough. And she'd likely never let them. Even Darcy would miss the subtle clues when Florence wanted to hide her anger. "You can't control him. Furthermore, he's a serial killer's most wanted target. I'm pretty sure I'd reach manic stages, too."

The simple act of making tea always calmed her nerves, but even that wasn't helping much. Talking about that man made her more anxious and angry and disappointed than most any other. Including Molokov.

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imhisblogger
2012-06-23 07:43 pm UTC (link)

John raised an eyebrow as Florence spoke to him. It was a tone from her he wasn't used to hearing. It brought his attention to her and he leaned back against his chair to look up curiously. "I know I'm not, but I'm his only friend. I can't just leave him alone." He seemed to calm down a little at least, giving her a sad sort of lopsided smile as he tried to reign in his annoyance and worry. He knew it was only worrying Florence. That was the last thing he wanted.

"I can't just let him go it alone." When it came to Sherlock there was no convincing John that he was anything other than a hero. John owed him so much and loved him dearly. Before Sherlock came along he was lost and alone. Sherlock stayed by his side when no one else would after the war. His loyalty to Sherlock was undying. It was only in Kansas John had made any other friends. Even they couldn't convince him Sherlock was anything but a hero. Sherlock himself couldn't do it.

"He doesn't always know how to talk to people, but he means well." John was sure he did. John knew the relationship he had with the consulting detective was a strange one most people didn't understand. "He's family." That was the best way he could describe it. "He claims he doesn't need people but he does. I know he does..even when he acts like a bloody machine." John paused and smirked a little though it was forced. "Called him that once, right to his face. Right before I lost him the first time."

In that moment John looked as though a gust of wind could have blown him down. He was haunted by that memory among so many others that tied him down. Still he wouldn't trade it for the world. His life with Sherlock made him who he was, made him the man he was. The fact that Moriarty threatened to take it all away all over again broke his heart that much more but he said nothing on it.

"You know, the first time I met him he knew everything about me before I'd even said hello."

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notachesspiece
2012-06-26 05:27 am UTC (link)

"The fact that you're his only friend says a lot," she reminded him, placing a teacup in front of him. "He's been here quite some time. Plenty of time to meet people, to get to know others." Not that she didn't want John to have friends. Of course she did, she wasn't heartless. But she felt like he didn't need to be leaning on Sherlock as much as he did. Or, more so, Sherlock shouldn't be leaning on him as much.

Her face did at least show some degree of sympathy for John's prior loss. She couldn't imagine, not really. She was only five when they left her father, and though he was presumed dead, she'd never really know, would she? And she hadn't gotten to know him, not well. Other than that, loss wasn't big in her world. Her mum was still very much alive and always there to scold her for one poor decision or another. And she'd never lost any close friends. No one who mattered to her the way Sherlock did to John. But she knew she'd be inconsolable if anything happened to Freddie, or to Darcy or Svetlana or any of her friends, really. Just her reaction when the twins had been kidnapped was proof enough of that.

"He observes things," she pointed out, knowing how that sort of thing worked. It was something she wished she could do. If she could, her game would be at least ten times better and maybe she'd have been the champion and Freddie would've been playing as her second. "It's a skill. A brilliant one." Taking the kettle off, she poured two cups before sitting down in front of him and meeting his eyes. "But he can't use that brain of his as an excuse to hurt people. Particularly you. That degree of loyalty... It's to be commended, yes, but it's also a danger to you."

Literally. She knew how badly he wanted to be the one to take out Moriarty. All in Sherlock's honor. But what if he didn't? What if it just made him a bigger target?

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