{BUFFY} vampire slayer (i_diedtwice) wrote in we_coexist, @ 2011-02-01 15:49:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | buffy summers, john watson |
Welcoming Committee [Log]
With a forced stay in a mental institution by way of introduction, it was little wonder that Watson was still jumpy about being in the City. Not just disgruntled, not just angry or nostalgic for home - genuinely jumpy, as if trouble could lurch around the corner at any time. Sure, he was wearing proper clothes. His own, in fact, as the city had perfectly replicated a striped shirt and one of his favorite sweaters. He had on real shoes, and he was free to wander.
None of it made him feel more comfortable.
He was in the open, seated in the park with a coffee and the newspaper. If he were stuck in a strange place, he wanted to know something about it. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much in print - just a few articles about weekend events and a cover spread about a big gala opening at the local science museum. Frustrated, John crumpled the pages into a giant ball and dropped it unceremoniously at his feet.
He sipped his coffee and frowned.
Buffy tried to return to her regular schedule; eat, sleep, patrol. It was one unenthusiastic motion for her now, as if she were rehearsing who she was supposed to be. She hadn’t seen John, the man who tried to help her back in the hospital, since leaving that place with all its terrible associations. She thought about him often, if only because she was worried and weighted by guilt. What if he was still there? What if she had left him behind? She’d promised she wouldn’t.
So when she saw him on the park bench ahead it was the first real smile that had crossed her face in ages. Before she realized what she was doing, Buffy jogged toward him, just thankful to see someone she recognized.
“John!”
She almost shouted Dr. Watson! But doing so would have felt out of place-- even for The City. She still wasn’t sure how much of the Sherlock dreams she had were drug induced and how much of it was real. John looked far too modern-- and thin-- to be the television versions of the famous doctor she’d caught glimpses of.
Buffy was also thankful that on this particular patrolling mission she only carried a wood stake concealed in the sleeve of her jacket.
At the sound of his name, John looked up. There was something slightly startled about his wide eyes, but it ebbed as he spotted Buffy. She hadn’t been a figment of his imagination. She was real and free - and until recently, he’d been concerned that neither of those things were true. “Buffy,” he greeted. “Buffy Summers, right?”
So much for the coffee. Watson sat it down on the bench and got to his feet. He’d worry about the trash later, but for now he wanted to be sure that his mind wasn’t playing tricks.
“I’m so sorry - I did go looking for you, but you’d gone. I thought that maybe, ah,” she’d been a figment of his imagination? No. Instead, Watson filled in the other alternative. “I thought they’d caught you.”
“Free as a bird,” Buffy quipped easily. “Rockin’ my Free Bird self.”
Now that she wasn’t being constantly sedated, her blonde California personality was more readily apparent. Still, her expression became more sympathetic. “How’re you holding up? I see you’ve met The City. It’s sort of crazier than the asylum. I would have tried to warn you but: asylum. ….I really wasn’t in a position to. If it makes you feel better, you’re not crazy and you’re not in some wiggy afterlife. Those are the two most common reactions to this place.”
He was either going to believe her (and believe in his own sanity) or he wasn’t.
“So, John?” Either way, a change of subject might have been in order. “...Did you say your name was Dr. John Watson? And that you had a roommate named Sherlock Holmes?” Buffy’s eyebrows rose as if there was something strange or incredible about what she’d just said.
It took Watson a moment to process what Buffy had just said. Rocking her -- OH. He cracked a smile; it was clever, the reference, now that he understood what she was talking about. “I thought I’d gone ‘round the bend for a bit, but if an asylum couldn’t convince me, neither could a bizarre replica of 221B and a closet full of my favorite jump-- err. Sweaters.” Right. Americans. American slang.
John tucked his hands into his pockets, primarily because he couldn’t think of anything else to do with them. “So we’ve just... been abducted? Just like that. And of course there’s no train out, or aeroplane, or motorway. We’re stuck.”
The thought should have bothered him more. It did on some fundamental level; no one liked to be trapped. He felt like fighting simply because he knew it was futile - because ‘going along’ felt like giving in. But, really, there hadn’t been much for him in London. A few friends, a nice girl, but Watson wasn’t a man with deep roots.
“Ah, yes.” He confirmed. “My flatmate, right. I am sorry for those stories - I know they’re a little graphic, but they do pass the time. Dr. John Watson, at your service. Sherlock isn’t here - that is, I haven’t seen him. I think he’d have contacted me by now. If for nothing else than to send me to the store, or borrow my mobile.”
Buffy winced. “...So about you not being crazy.”
Never a good way to segue into what might potentially be a difficult conversation.
“You’re not,” She decided she ought to preface what she was about to say with that much, “I just thought I should warn you that to a lot of people those are pretty famous names. Really famous. Considering you’re not, you know, going with the bowler hat, frock coat look-- I’m sure you’re not that Dr. John Watson. ...You said you lived at 221B? ...Baker Street?”
There were only a few things she knew about the Sherlock Holmes stories, having never read them. She knew their famous address, approximately their iconic portrayal in pop culture, and that supposedly the famous detective said Elementary, my dear Watson a lot. Also there was a story called Hounds of the Basket Case... or something like that. Probably not that.
“Ahhhh.” Huh. Frock coat? “No,” Watson agreed, “I don’t own a frock coat. When you say famous - do you mean the people that read my blog? But I don’t get that many hits. I’m writing for myself, mostly--” My therapist told me to do it? No. John thought the better of sharing that last bit. “And I certainly never gave my address. But yes; it’s Baker Street. The City did a good job of replicating the flat. You can come have a look, if you’d like.”
But now John was suspicious. Not of Buffy, necessarily, but of the situation. He frowned as he tried to reason through what was bothering him. Why would she ever think he owned a bowler hat? It was pretty specific imagery, and the wrong century in terms of fashion.
“Blog? No. There are, uh...” Buffy paused. She wasn’t sure if she was the right person to tell him this, but she was currently the only person. “...Stories. About a famous detective. Named Sherlock Holmes. And his side-- err-- partner, Dr. Watson. And they kinda, erm, go around solving crimes. I never read the books, I sort of got expelled from school that particular year... But they’re really old books. Like gaslight, cobbled streets old. And... OH!”
Buffy remembered another detail from the stories. “Mori-- Er... Mori-hairy ...something. Bad guy. Kinda like the Big Bad in the stories. You’re totally not... the same... as...” Buffy trailed off.
“I bet the library has a copy,” she tried adding helpfully.
John was taken aback - literally. He took a step back, eyes wide. “Moriarty?” Alright. This had just reached a new level of surreal. He opened his mouth to ask how she knew about Moriarty, but she’d just explained: books. In school. So either she was lying, or there were books about a Victorian version of his own life.
It was slightly unsettling. More than, in fact. None the less? Watson resolved to put his hands on copies of whatever books were out there.
“I’ll need a library card. Do you think they’d issue one to John Watson, 221 B Baker Street, or would they think I was having a laugh at their expense?” He’d just gotten through with people treating him as if he were mad. He didn’t want to go through it again.
Buffy’s eyebrows raised sympathetically, “Check your wallet?”
It was a shot in the dark, but generally, when Buffy followed her instincts they were correct. If The City wanted him to have a library card, it would have already issued him one.
“This way, I think.” You could never be really sure where The Library was because The City liked to move entire streets. But Buffy decided to leave that part out and reveal one crazy thing at a time. That she was a vampire slayer? Could probably wait. ‘Til never. At least, not until John had his feet under him. He was new. It seemed mean to lay anything else on him.
Looking skeptical, John pulled his wallet to find, along with his other means of identification and his credit card, a library card bearing his name. Huh. Well, if the City could make a flat appear out of nowhere, it wasn’t a stretch to believe in magical library cards. He stuffed the wallet back into his pocket and broke into a trot until he’d reached Buffy’s side. The newspaper and coffee were forgotten - he’d feel guilty for littering later, but now? He had a mystery to solve.
“I’m not changing my name,” he said. When things loomed large and strange, it was nice to focus on the parts you could control. “And I’m not sure I’d know where to find a frock coat.”
Alright. So the latter was a joke. The situation was weird, no lie, but John still had a sense of humor.
“I like your coat-coat,” Buffy said, eyeing his modern attire briefly. She wondered if The City had somehow modernized him for his comfort. But that didn’t make any sense. When had The City done anything for the sake of anyone’s comfort? Sure, Buffy had her house, but that seemed more like a display of power than anything else.
It was a wonderfully uneventful walk to The Library. Buffy was very familiar with Libraries-- but usually she stuck to her watcher’s private collection of volumes. She didn’t do much research in the way of the searching part. The UC Sunnydale Library hadn’t been the friendliest place to spend her time in. So once she was inside she looked lost.
Thankfully, a librarian spotted her and knew that look very well: “Can I help you?”
“Sherlock Holmes?” Buffy asked. Just Sherlock’s name. It hadn’t occurred to her that might sound strange asking for his name and not both their names.
The librarian led them through isles made of bookshelves into a large territory of books labeled ‘FICTION.’ But the shelf reserved for the famous detective was strikingly bare. Just one book not picked over or checked out: A Study in Scarlet.
“Sorry,” said the librarian before leaving them, “Looks like most of them are out.”
Buffy glanced at John as if to silently confirm he wanted to read it.
“We are never going to tell him that you can say his name and the librarian will take you to an entire section of the library,” Watson whispered to Buffy. “Promise me. I have to live with the man.”
It was another joke, because his nerves were really starting to fray. None the less, he reached up and claimed the book. It was very long, surprisingly long - his blog posts were detailed, but this was an actual novel. John blinked and flipped the volume over to read the back. The dust-jacket summary was barely a sketch, but it was enough to go on. Poison pills, a cabbie, and -- and Mormons?
John huffed. “Mormons? There were no Mormons.” But the rest? Fairly dead on, if a century or so too early. Looking a little unsettled, he tucked the book under his arm. It was going home with him for further reading.
“I’d ask how this was possible, but I’m not sure I want the answer.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if he shows up. Though...” Buffy thought about meeting Willow and Xander from her future timeline. “...there’s the possibility it won’t be your Sherlock Holmes that does. It could be that Sherlock Holmes. I’ve been here five years. I’ve had friends from my future show up. A lot of people come and go. You may not be here that long. I guess it depends on whatever is responsible for The City.”
The idea of a Victorian Holmes was too much. It shouldn’t have been funny - really wasn’t funny, when you got down to it - but Watson started giggling anyway. He couldn’t help himself; it was easier than taking the idea seriously. “I don’t think he’d function if he couldn’t text,” he manged through breaths of air. “And no refrigeration? His experiments would go off.”
Alright. He really needed to get a grip before his inappropriate laughter got them kicked out of the library. John tried to breathe - long, soothing breaths. The tactic was only moderately successful.
“Sorry. I’m sorry, I’m just picturing --” And then the laughter began again, silent but strong enough to shake Watson’s shoulders.
Buffy, having been turned into a pre-Victorian damsel in distress on Halloween once, wasn’t entirely sure what Watson found so amusing. But laughter was better than crying, she supposed. Unless this was some sort of pre-nervous breakdown laugh.
“You want me to walk you home?” Buffy only realized that sounded strange after she’d already said it. “I mean, not that you need someone to... walk...”
Actually. They were in The City. Maybe he did. But she decided not to press that point.
“--I just meant more like, maybe you wouldn’t want to be alone? Right away. I mean, being how The City is big on the weird. ...Aaaand I’m not making this offer sound any less patronizing am I?”
“You remember my name. I spent several hours being abducted by a girl, once - met her again later? Couldn’t remember my name. That’s patronizing.” John made a face. It hadn’t been his proudest moment. He did not mention that he’d also (unsuccessfully) attempted to ask said girl out. “You can walk me home. See the replica of my flat, if nothing else.”
His clean flat. No severed heads in the fridge, no eyeballs in the microwave. All of his appliances, usable and body-part free. He honestly wasn’t sure what to do with his windfall. Make popcorn that he could actually eat without worry, perhaps. Sure, he missed Sherlock’s company, but he wasn’t sorry for the lack of gruesome experiments. For one, he could bring a young lady home without embarrassment.
He thought briefly of Sarah and felt a twinge of guilt, but it wasn’t as if he were bringing Buffy home. He was asking a friend ‘round for a cup of something. A slightly patronizing but well-meaning friend who’d shown him the ropes of the City. That was all.
Had he been American, Buffy would have sworn that he’d just invited her up into his flat. In a non-platonic sort of way. But he was British. And boy scouty. Sort of like a weird Riley-Giles combination which she immediately promised to never think of him in that way again; it sort of felt like comparing some guy you just met to your Dad. There was something not right about that.
“Lead the way.”
They had to check out, of course. Once the book was loaned-- the librarian at the checkout desk didn’t seem to notice or acknowledge that a John Watson of 221 B Baker St was checking out a Sherlock Holmes story-- they were back onto The City street.
Apparently the key was looking as if you belonged there. The librarian didn’t give John any trouble over his library card and, once the book was solidly in his coat pocket and his wallet was back in his jeans, he led Buffy out of the library and back onto the street.
“So. Please forgive me if I’m prying, but how long have you been here? You seem --” Knowledgeable? Comfortable with the insanity? “Experienced. You knew about the library card.” More questions would follow if this one went over alright. Watson had plenty, from ‘why the asylum’ to ‘how is this possible’ and ‘why would people from my future show up?’
He didn’t want to overwhelm her, though. Perhaps he’d hold off on the more difficult and existential questions until they’d covered the basics.
“Five years.” Of course she’d had more experience with the strange before that, but she didn’t want to overwhelm him. “It’ll get stranger, trust me. The streets move, for one. Sometimes you’ll get somewhere just because it’s what you’re thinking about, other times The City will redirect you to where it wants you to go. There’s more. Usually it’s not anything you can prepare for-- like putting all those people in the asylum. A lot of weird things happen like that, but usually it’s temporary.”
Buffy was not going to mention being trapped in the musical Grease, zombies, Cupid, godzilla or the more mundane snow storm that left them all trapped. The City didn’t tend to repeat itself anyway.
“That sounds completely mad.” It was out of Watson’s mouth before he realized he was speaking, and he immediately felt the need to lift his hands, palms out, in defense. “I know you’re telling me the truth. You were right about the asylum and right about the books. But. The streets move? Fact or not, it’s--”
Insane. He was really going to have a lot of adjusting to do.
“Five years? And you haven’t -- I’m sorry, this is nosy, but I have to ask. How have you been able to go on? How does this city go on? A bunch of strangers, dropped into a place and asked to get along - it sounds like a social experiment from one of those books you’re forced to read in school. Very Lord of the Flies.”
Yes, Watson. Way to be optimistic.
“The same way I did before I was brought here, I guess. There’s not a whole lot of other options. If it makes you feel any better I only know one other person who’s been here that long. The other people I’ve come across usually disappear again after about six months or so. I’ve tried keeping track, but it’s hard.”
Buffy crossed her arms over her chest as she walked.
“And not everyone was brought in. The people who look like they belong here? It’s kinda like they’re native. I mean-- they are. It’s hard to explain. They’re not pod people or anything like that, but they’re completely oblivious to how weird this place is or how outsiders are brought in.”
“I wonder if they’d let me practice medicine. It’s not as if I have credentials that anyone would believe - not if I’m meant to be Victorian.” John was still looking for the humor. It was harder to find now that he was thinking in the long-term, but he wasn’t really the ‘wallowing’ sort. “Well. It wouldn’t be my first fresh start. At least I’ll never be bored.”
When faced with something one couldn’t change? One made the best of it.
“So what do you do? Work, school?” She looked young, but not that young. Mid-to-late twenties, perhaps - no more than ten years his junior. Perhaps a little old for school, but it seemed rude not to include it in the list of choices.
“I, uh...” Buffy blushed while looking just slightly alarmed by the question. “...Can you be between jobs if you’ve never technically had one to begin with?”
It was a joke. But. Why would a slayer bother with a job? At twenty-six, Buffy was geriatric when it came to slayers. She wasn’t exactly expecting to see her thirtieth birthday. Had she really been a slayer for nearly half her life?
John, she assumed, didn’t know about monsters. And the City, she reasoned, had already done enough to him. But Buffy’s real motivation for not telling him about being a slayer? She enjoyed just being a normal girl. If she told him, she justified, not only would it be one more thing to worry him with but she wouldn’t be Buffy, she’d be Buffy the Vampire Slayer. That part of her life could take a (very short) break. At least until she walked him home.
“Oh, of course.” To be honest, John didn’t know the answer to that question, but Buffy had been kind to him and the least he could do was say something supportive in return. “It’s just a very, very long ‘between.’ What do you do to pass the time, then? Or does the City throw enough your way to keep you busy?”
Now that was an alarming thought. If it were true, though, he wouldn’t have to worry about licensing or jumping through hoops to be able to practice medicine. He’d have other things to occupy himself.
“I’ve been between jobs myself,” he confided. He was asking a lot of personal questions, so sharing was only fair. “I started at a clinic not long ago, but before that I’d been living on my pension. I was shot. In the shoulder, in fact. One of the occupational hazards of being a soldier.” He shrugged. Watson wasn’t quite over the experience, but he was good at making light of it. Sherlock could see right through him, of course, but enough people bought his nonchalance to make feigning it worthwhile.
“What happened? I mean, I know you were shot but, where did it happen?” Buffy had left her timeline in 2001 before September 11th. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan hadn’t happened yet. She also didn’t have a good grasp of the Sherlock Holmes stories to know that Watson had come home from a war. “...You don’t have to answer that, if you want. What year was it, where you’re from?”
Buffy only half tried to avoid the ‘How do you pass the time?’ question. She would wait to see if he said anything about it first.
“Afghanistan.” Apparently it wasn’t so personal that Watson wouldn’t answer, although he didn’t elaborate on the circumstances. “It was early 2010. It wasn’t the first time I’d been deployed, but after I was shot...” John shrugged. “Why, what year -- oh. Right, you’ve been gone. Well, if you’ve got questions, I can give you the recent history. It’s been a rough few years all around.”
Although. Given that fact, Buffy might not want to know. Watson made a face.
“Or I can just tell you that things are ticking over. There’s still a United States, there’s still a UK.”
He didn’t ask about her pastimes. If he’d noticed, he must have decided that it was impolite to press her for details.
“It was spring 2001 when I --” Died? “Left. I think it’s probably safe to go all Back to the Future and not know too much about what happens. You know, seeing as it’s all futurey. But glad to hear there was no apocalypse. Those are always a pain,” she grinned. “Unless there are flying cars. If there are flying cars, I think you should probably tell me. That seems like it might be important to know about.”
At least Buffy knew how to change the direction of a conversation and lighten the mood.
John chuckled. “No. No flying cars. The futurists have lied to us; 2010 and I’m still waiting on mine.” In spite of himself, and in spite of the fact that the conversation was quite serious, he kept on smiling. “Alright, I’ll keep the hints to myself. I’d hate to do permanent damage.”
It was nice to be silly, to joke about impossible things. After how serious the past few weeks had been, Watson rather liked having a chance to pretend things were normal.
“So, I mean, how does this work -- am I in the phone book, now? Are you? Can we just call each other up? Because I’ve met all of five people since I got here, and I’m fairly certain that three of those were actually, genuinely mad. I hope you’re not looking to get rid of me.”
“Aw, John. Are you asking for my number?” Buffy half ribbed, half flirted. It had been ages since she’d done anything remotely flirtatious, unsure if she remembered how. And strangely, for a female human being from a first world country, she did not carry a purse. No purse meant no pen meant no paper to write it on. Buffy pulled out an older style Razor phone, ready to input his digits. “Know your number? I’ll call your phone so you can save it.”
Uh. Alright, ordinarily, the words ‘can I call you’ would have been outright flirtation, but John was just so glad to know someone that the layers of meaning hadn’t dawned on him. Oops. But, rather than stammer through and try to explain, he let it lie. Buffy hadn’t gotten offended, so where was the harm?
“Actually,” he said, while he reached into his coat to rummage for his smartphone, “I’ve got it right here. Let’s see.” He proceeded to rattle off a telephone number different from his London mobile; the City had provided a replacement for his now-dead iPhone. “I have to say, for an abduction, this isn’t as bad as it could be. What sort of kidnapper thinks to give out smartphones as welcome gifts?”
Buffy dialed the number and waited to hear the phone in his hand ring before ending the call. There. He had her number now. And she had his.
“The ones that want to be able to keep track of you, I guess.”
Which was sort of a downer for an answer. Buffy shrugged. When they arrived on Baker Street it wasn’t just the apartment that The City had replicated, but the entire street. Though it was a modern city street there was something distinct about the buildings, as though somehow this one block or two of street had become The City’s Little Brittan. Buffy scanned her surroundings, “I always wanted to go to Europe...”
“It’s just down the block.” John lifted a hand to indicate a plain black door about a quarter of the way down the street. The number was there in gold lettering just above the knocker, but Watson didn’t bother with summoning the occupants. There were no other occupants. Instead, he fished in his pocket for a key.
“It’s funny - two blocks in any direction, it’s just like home. Then, surprise - new streets. I wonder if it’s pulled from my memory, or of this city just cut out a bit of London and dropped it here.”
Watson loitered in the doorway. Inviting Buffy in seemed a little forward, but he didn’t want to shut the door in her face, either.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “It’s the same story with my place. A couple other places, too. Just a warning, if you ever have to break into The Magic Box for any reason try not to touch anything.”
Although John was new to The City, it hadn’t really occurred to Buffy that he didn’t truly believe in magic. He was here, wasn’t he? She took the existence of magic so entirely for granted that it didn’t bother her to lay that one out on him.
“I should probably go,” Buffy finally added. It seemed a little forward to just invite herself in and she had patrolling to do. The City did keep her busy importing all kinds of monsters.
[End!]