InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "igaveuthebestminutesofmylife."

John Watson internationally smuggles tea (imhisblogger) wrote in wariscoming,
@ 2013-03-08 10:56:00

Entry tags:

john watson, rose tyler

Who:Rose and John
What:a seemingly normal Moriarty-free morning. But it's John, and the theme seems to be if there isn't Moriarty I'm doing it wrong??
When:As the mist kicks in
Where:Their flat
Warnings:idk

John was per usual up in the odd early morning hours when the mist settled over their town. He hadn't noticed it sink in or he might have said something, no instead he was bustling about the kitchen. There was a tea pot on the stove preparing morning tea and breakfast being microwaved. He'd been staying indoors an awful lot lately, but the window was open. It seemed a proper thing to do with all the curses flying about. What could he really do about magic? Besides it would be less stress on Rose if he remained out of this one. He knew she was already having a difficult time with it, so he was determined not to make it harder by doing something stupid.

So he spent his time keeping to himself. Offering support like a good best friend should when it was necessary and checking on Sherlock daily. The man was still holing away. Though this time John couldn't even fault him for it. Every now and again he brought him tea and biscuits as he liked them, lunch or dinner sometimes too from some take out place or another. Today was no different. This time however the tea was Roses pick. Her friend was hospitalizes, her boyfriend was swapped into a far mre desirable person if he did say so himself probably. Not that he'd said anything, but Robin was in Gisborne's body and that meant Gisbrone was probably in his though he hadn't said anything yet. John much preferred the outlaw.

There were three cups of tea getting their usual customizations. The house for now was quiet, but he knew it wouldn't be long before Rose woke. He did hope got any sleep at all, but in her position he wouldn't have. This entire thing was rather mad.

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plusone
2013-03-09 05:01 am UTC (link)

This sucked.

To put it bluntly, this really, really sucked. Her friends were dropping like flies. Jules was in some sort of coma type state. Elena...well, Rose wasn't stupid. Something wasn't right there. Her boyfriend wasn't even in his own body, and rather, he was in a body that the woman she was pretty sure he was still in love with loved. Ruby's little girl had gone missing and Jefferson's, too, and there was no question who had them. And Peter was under a curse that made him a spy. Frankly, thanks to the fear and the stress, she preferred to be holed up in her room, usually sneaking Toby in for massive amounts of cuddles. Until he got bored and abandoned her, too.

But at some point she'd have to leave the room. Get food, she supposed. Maybe some tea. And on opening the door, she smelled the familiar comfort of a brewed kettle of hot English breakfast tea. And for the first time all day, she smiled. She was British, after all. What couldn't she get through so long as there was tea?

Tea and her best friend and she smiled sleepily as she padded into the kitchen, watching John perform the familiar habit of pouring tea. "Morning," she offered, though with her weird sleep schedule lately, it could actually be afternoon. With the insanity around the city, she'd closed the center briefly. Gas leak. She was getting pretty good at faking excuses and in a place like Lawrence, people bought them.

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imhisblogger
2013-03-10 04:08 am UTC (link)

This of course was John's theory. The city could be on fire but as long as there was tea, everything would somehow be all right. The scent of the tea was calming his strangely edgy nerves as he added creamer into his own and no sugars. He never was a fan of sugar in tea. If the tea was good it would be fine without sugars. He took a sip and leaned against the counter with it. The morning was quiet enough despite the threats to the city, and that should have been odd. It wasn't though. He was barely even phased out of his typical routine. He was a man of habit after all.

Wake up, shower, tea. Sometimes tea first then the others, but somewhere there always had to be tea. The open window was almost enough to bring a sense of normalcy. It was sunny outside. Cool but sunny. The world outside them continued on as though nothing were happening at all. John had his paper in hand when he heard the voice of Rose enter the room. "Morning." He responded without even looking up at first. Why should he? It was the same thing every day and John needed the routine desperately.

Then however he had the brilliant idea of handing Rose her mug. When he did finally look up he realized it was not Rose at all. For half a second he faltered. He dropped the mug and reached for his gun. "Get out of my flat." It was the same face he saw in his nightmares when he went to sleep at night staring him down in his kitchen. Was he still sleeping? Was this still a nightmare? Sandy blond brows knit together under the stress and confusion.

He should be dead. Buried six feet under in the same graveyard as Sherlock, though he didn't deserve that at all. But John still dreamt about him as though it were as real as the day Moriarty took him away. He rarely spoke of the dreams anymore, but they still lingered, still haunted.

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plusone
2013-03-10 08:49 pm UTC (link)

He looked so normal, so calm. For the heat he often took over his breakdown, Rose knew how much better he was doing. He'd come a long way and she was proud of him. Maybe he'd never be fully recovered from his best friend's death and really, she didn't blame him. Few understood what it was like to lose someone multiple times. She was on three, after all. And while yes, she'd picked herself back up and kept moving, it was hard. She'd thrown herself into her work, into the Center, into her friends' lives and most recently, into her newfound relationship with Guy. Always moving, never stopping, because when she did stop, the hurt kicked in.

John handled differently. And that was okay. Frankly, so long as she never again found him there, holding a gun, intending to use it on himself, she was fine. Let him heal how he wanted. And if she did find that, if he did reach that point, screw everyone. She'd help him all over again. Because he took care of her when she needed it and vice versa. It was called being a friend, after all.

Well. Friends didn't typically pull guns on their friends, did they? And John was, in fact, holding a gun on her. This was...awkward. And not the way she'd intended to start her morning. It was rare that Rose was unarmed. She had three different handguns in her possession. One stayed in the glove compartment in her car, one stayed by her bedside, and one stayed in the holster that usually sat at her hip. None of them were part of her pajamas, which she was still wearing. Dammit. Not that she had any intentions of shooting her friend. But some self-defense just then might've been nice.

"John, what the hell?" she asked slowly and quietly. She stepped backwards, hitting the wall, and realizing she couldn't get away if she needed to. Dammit again. "Any particular reason you're kicking me out? And if you hate when I leave dishes in the sink that much, you could've just said so."

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imhisblogger
2013-03-14 08:40 am UTC (link)

It wasn't as if he'd planned to snap, he'd seen death before. He'd seen it frequently actually and rarely did it ever bother him. Sure it was awful, and he felt for the family of the victims he and Sherlock worked with, but they weren't people he knew. Life was precious, all life was. But Sherlock's was one he cherished. Sherlock gave him reason to wake up every day. Gave him reason to forget the terrible things that'd happened in the war and just continue living. If not for him, John would have been alone. He wasn't the most social sort. He wouldn't have sought anyone out, but his friend in common had done it for him and Sherlock accepted.

He was dealing, but on his own terms. Nobody else could rush it. That wasn't how it worked. The seal kept trying by showing him Moriarty's face though. Maybe it was a little nudge, John was no longer the scared fragile man Moriarty had broken him into months ago. It still hurt him to discuss Sherlock, but Moriarty was getting easier to mention. Maybe that was a good sign. At least it was until the barrel of his gun found it's way into Roses face. But it wasn't Rose he saw, it was that twisted lunatic and he was tired of it. He'd had enough. He didn't know what was going on but with all the curses going on he could take an educated guess. It was probably some sort of curse. Illusion maybe.

"Get out. Get out of my head. You belong in hell Moriarty, not my flat." His hand white knuckled on the weapon. Not shaking even in the slightest. He wasn't going to run anymore. He wasn't going to hide. His sandy blond brows were furrowed in distress. "What are you on about?" Dishes? Why would Moriarty give a damn whether or not he cared about unkept dishes?

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