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Tweak says, "We're here for the Feldman Bar"

{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
2011-01-07 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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