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{BUFFY} vampire slayer (i_diedtwice) wrote in we_coexist,
@ 2011-01-02 01:08:00

Entry tags:

buffy summers, in arkham, john watson

The Tragic Case of Buffy Summers (Narrative/Open!)
Buffy Summers spent the majority of her time at Arkham Asylum in a catatonic state. Each day a pair of orderlies would bring her out into the commons, seating her at a table. The young woman spent hours in her chair completely motionless, frozen with her face arranged in a troubled expression. She looked so concerned, so deep in thought until, usually another patient with a sense of humor, took her arms and posed her ridiculously-- positions Buffy could hold the entire day until she was put back in her cell for the night.

Most days Buffy was silent. There were rare occasions, however, when the slayer would say some meaningless phrase, repeated over the course of the day. Phrases like, My skin should crack and peel, or, Don't give me songs. Sometimes she merely repeated what was said to her.

Every two hours, a nurse would attend to the slayer, taking a needle to her arm and injecting her with an unknown substance. Except today.

Today, Buffy was left alone in the commons for four hours. After missing two doses of the drug cocktail she was regularly given, her eyes fluttered open as if waking for the first time. She placed a hand on her head suffering from throbbing pain and intense light sensitivity. For the first time since Buffy had been placed in the asylum she was able to process her surroundings, of the people next to her. She looked down at the white linen clothing she wore, unable to recall when she'd been dressed.

"Where am I?" Only after she asked did the slayer power through her migraine to see if someone nearby could answer her question.

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i_blog
2011-01-06 12:04 am UTC (link)

John stared back levelly at the orderly. It was a calm, unintimidated, disappointed stare, and he held it until it verged on uncomfortable. Then he turned and made his way back to the table. When he got out, he told himself, he’d have a word with the organization that was responsible for oversight of the hospital. Until then? He’d sit with the poor girl. Drugged as she was, she probably wouldn’t notice, but it would make him feel better.

It was the only thing John could think of to do.

He slipped back into the chair and watched the orderlies. Sherlock would have found some exploitable weakness by now. John? John observed the way they carried their weight and the way they glanced around the room. Not trained fighters, but they’d clearly had experience in dealing with trouble. He exhaled through his nose, a huff of disgust.

Sloppy. It was one thing to handle a difficult patient and another entirely to create a difficult patient by frightening them.

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i_diedtwice
2011-01-06 03:22 am UTC (link)

It was the drugs, not her mental health, that put Buffy in a catatonic state. Normally the catatonia was something that health professionals tried to cure or limit with medicine, not recreate. But it was the only way they could keep the Slayer contained with any certainty. Even without her powers, the Slayer while not being smart was certainly prone to clever. Arkahm couldn’t risk it.

So she sat in the chair perfectly still. And two hours later a nurse came to give the Slayer another injection.

The next two hours went the same, as they always did, except with four minutes left Buffy’s eyes fluttered softly. After how many days of being pumped with chemicals the Slayer was either developing a resistance or learning how to fight it.

Three minutes now. It wouldn’t be enough time to move before the staff came in again. Buffy hadn't moved yet, but the vacant look in her eye had been replaced with awareness. She was trying.

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i_blog
2011-01-06 11:59 pm UTC (link)

The first time the nurse had come back, John had tried to ask what was wrong with Buffy. He genuinely wanted to understand what illness could require that level of sedation - was she dangerous? Violent? She hadn't seemed it, but he didn't have a lot of information to go on. He could've been wrong.

The nurse had patronized him, giving him a vague reply. 'She's ill,' or something like it. He didn't appreciate being brushed off - even if he were in for shock, he wasn't an idiot. If they couldn't tell that he had his wits about him, they were terrible medical professionals. He hadn't argued, though. He hadn't wanted to get dosed with whatever they were injecting into Buffy.

John had been telling stories, off and on. He was completely aware that the girl across from him wasn't paying attention; with the medication Buffy was on, he might as well have been talking to himself. It didn't matter. When he wasn't watching the other patients or the hospital staff, he was recounting whatever tales came to mind. Ghost stories from childhood, tales of his medical school days, and autobiographical reminiscences about his time rooming with Sherlock.

It was during one of his talkative spells that he noticed a change in Buffy's expression. "So then he borrowed my mobile and---" Hmm. The vacant stare wasn't so vacant anymore. Watson halted his story immediately and glanced at the door. No orderlies, but that didn't mean they wouldn't be rounding the corner soon. He'd been paying attention to the medication schedule, but he hadn't thought to measure the time it took to get from his room to the lounge. Why should he? That morning, there hadn't been a reason.

The fact that Holmes would've counted his steps didn't make Watson feel any better.

"How do you feel about risk-taking?" John whispered.

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i_diedtwice
2011-01-07 01:05 am UTC (link)

She'd had dreams, hallucinations. Sometimes she remembered things from her past. Other times stories of a Victorian Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were solving cases. Then there were flashes back to the asylum. Buffy tried hard to hold onto the memories of these dreams but they faded quickly. There would be no prophetic help or insight--

Just images of a tall man wearing a deerstalker and a shorter, rounder man following him faithfully. Buffy caught glimpses of tv adaptations occasionally, but she barely got through high school French-- she hadn't read the stories.

Her mouth opened minimally as if to reply, but she wasn't quite able to speak yet. Buffy was trying to make meaning out of the drug induced images fading from her memory. None of it made sense and the headache leftover from the drugs was excruciating.

There was a slight nod of her head in response.

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i_blog
2011-01-07 02:36 am UTC (link)

"Good." John whispered. If she was willing? Watson was happy to give his plan a try. He wasn't certain what had come over him, because he knew what he was about to do was reckless and unlikely to work, but he also knew he hadn't much time. The day was winding to a close, and there was no guarantee that she'd be there in the morning. The moment was passing - if he was going to take the opportunity, he'd have to do it now. "I think I can carry you if I have to, but it'll play better if you can stumble along a little. Hold onto me, keep your head down, and look ill."

He knew where he was headed - a janitor's closet a few doors down from the lounge. As a positive, it was near the restrooms, which gave them a plausible excuse for being up and about. As a negative? They now had about two minutes to get there, and the route involved walking down a stretch of open hallway.

John got up, reached for Buffy with both hands, and tried to hoist her to her feet. If he got her up? He'd slip under one of her arms and start for the door.

He hadn't thought as far as what he'd do once they'd reached the closet. Hide, and then what? It didn't matter. He knew he wanted to speak to someone lucid and sane(ish), and the only way to do that was to take some chances.

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i_diedtwice
2011-01-07 02:49 am UTC (link)

At first Buffy wasn't able to do much. Thankfully she was a petite woman. A soldier like John had probably worn more weight in kevlar and gear than what the slayer weighed.

But slowly her feet started to move. It wasn't hard to look sick, she felt sick. The room was spinning and being on the move wasn't helping that. But she did her best not to be dead weight and somehow, miraculously, they'd made it into the closet unseen by anyone who was unmedicated and self aware.

"Watson?"

Was that his name? She remembered John. Did he say John Watson or had that been a part of the drug trip? The words were still a little slurred.

"...like inthe ... Sherlock..."

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i_blog
2011-01-07 03:07 am UTC (link)

Chalk one up to minor miracles - in spite of all obstacles, they'd found their way to a hiding place. John honestly hadn't been prepared for success, so he couldn't help but smile as he barred the door with a cleaning cart. It was mad, running and hiding from the nurses, but they were in a madhouse. When in Rome.

As the sound of his name, Watson turned around. Why was she asking about his -- oh. Oh. "You were listening. I'm sorry, that probably made for fairly grisly entertainment. Yes, Sherlock. He's my flatmate. A 'consulting detective,' and before you say it, yes. I know that's not a real occupation. He does it anyway."

John kept his voice down - just barely over a whisper, as he was trying to listen for signs of commotion in the hallway.

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