Watson; Dr. John H. (i_blog) wrote in we_coexist, @ 2011-02-01 17:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | buffy summers, john watson |
You know, you could totally bring the handlebar mustache back. I’m just saying. (Log, complete)
John had never much gone in for television - oh, he watched it. During his brief period of unemployment, he’d watched quite a lot. Daytime talk, game shows, dramas and comedies and whatever else was being broadcast when he was home. He hadn’t enjoyed it, not really, but it was a pastime until something better came along.
It wasn’t enough. In the City, it seemed that a healthy knowledge of popular culture - British, American, Japanese, every sort - wasn’t just useful for recreational pursuits. After Buffy had shown him the section of the library with his own stories on the shelves, he’d been back several times. None of the other Conan Doyle books had come in, but he’d stumbled across a book of literary criticism that he was frankly frightened to open.
‘Mrs. Hudson: A Legend in Her Own Lodging House.’ ‘The Avant-Garde Sherlock Holmes.’ And, most terrifying of all, ‘What Do We Really Know About Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson?’
They might as well have titled the entire section ‘biography.’ John abruptly decided that it was possible to know too much, and left well enough alone. So, he’d wandered into the DVD section. He caught sight of a single name - Buffy - and stopped reading immediately. It probably wasn’t her. 99% certain. But, well. It was possible to know too much. He left the library with a book on urban geography and another on local history. Then he made his way to a cafe just down the road so that he could flip through his finds.
“Hey,” Buffy let her presence be known with a brief touch to his shoulder before taking a seat next to him. “Reading anything good?” She had half heartedly tried to peek and see if it was another Sherlock Holmes book. On a half glance it didn’t look like it.
This time Buffy did have a purse. It wasn’t just the accessories though. There was something about the young woman that looked much more casual. Her body language was more relaxed. She removed sun glasses and her hair and make up were more done than normal-- not too much. Buffy knew how to clean up well.
John hadn’t expected the company, but that didn’t mean it was unwelcome. At the touch on his shoulder, he looked up and, upon recognizing the familiar face, he smiled. “Not really. I thought I’d try to get my bearings, but it’s useless. I’ll just have to explore, I suppose.” Watson shrugged. Half of the history book sounded like make-believe anyway, even if they’d done a good job of fabricating the reprinted news articles. Godzilla? Seriously?
“I did a good job of scaring myself, though. Do you know there are shelves of literary criticism on this ‘Sherlock Holmes’ stuff?” John caught himself up short before he could say as much, but he’d gotten enough analysis from his psychiatrist back home. “And. DVDs.” He had a paper shopping bag that he carried in lieu of a briefcase. In went an arm, and out came a sampling of Sherlock Holmes fare. The Jeremy Brett era. A restored Basil Rathbone film. The Guy Ritchie version. Conspicuously absent was the 2010 BBC miniseries - the library had it, but Watson couldn’t bring himself to check it out. The others were humorous - different enough from John’s reality to be entertaining. He had a feeling that the 2010 option would be too close to biography - like his blog put to film.
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to sit through them by myself. Possibly too weird. Would it be too weird? I don’t know, I think they could be a laugh - although, if there’s a universe where I’m actually Jude Law, I feel sadly cheated.”
He was joking. John grinned and started putting the DVDs away again.
“We could totally have a movie fest at my place if you want. I’ll put the Bollywood on standby in case it gets too weird.” Buffy was happy to be the supportive friend. “There’s no subtitles. My friends and I used to watch them and just sort of guess. But they have some catchy musical numbers.”
The Bollywood was usually a good antidote to a night of slaying and magic. Sometimes even the slayer needed a good dose of banality in order to fall asleep.
“I wonder who would play me in a movie.” But as soon as Buffy said it she looked mortified. There was nothing about her life, from her perspective, that felt especially entertaining. Angel turning evil? That wacky dream from calling upon the first slayer? ...God, she hoped there were no movies. “You know, on second thought I’m okay with never knowing.”
“That... actually sounds like it could be fun. My Hindi is nonexistent, so I’d have to join you in making up dialogue. Maybe we ought to alternate - Guy Ritchie first, because I’m having a hard time imagining the fellow who made Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels rendering my biography. It promises to be hilarious. Then some Bollywood, because I’m not sure I’m ready for a steady diet of tweed and silly hats.”
As for Buffy’s movie? John hid his expression in his coffee. He was not going to be the one to tell her that he’d seen her name among the shelves - not, at least, until he knew her a little better. He was only taking the news well because it had been accompanied by a whole lot of other strange news. When you were dealing with being abducted by a sentient location, what was a novelization of your life’s story? It wasn’t as if he weren’t already putting it out there on a blog.
“My place at six? Unless you’d rather do it at yours?” Buffy only offered her place because she knew she had a comfortable couch long ago that had hosted many post-saving-the-world movie marathons.
“No, yours is fine. My flat’s not really built for much company.” Sure, there were chairs and a sofa, but even in its pristine, body-part-free state, Sherlock’s things were everywhere.
So, arrangements were made. At the agreed-upon time, John arrived with the movies, take-away from what he hoped was a decent Chinese restaurant, and his sense of humor. At least he had company - company that had seen him in his pajamas and hadn’t yet judged. First up: what promised to be either a good laugh or completely and utterly mortifying: Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes.
“You’re a good sport to humor me.” John said, after the hellos. “I never did ask - why Bollywood? Is it the catchy musical numbers?”
“I’m easily bribed with food,” Buffy replied easily. “Usually it’s either Bollywood or old Kung Fu movies. My friends and I would watch them whenever we had a rough day.”
Buffy closed the door behind John. The street was a suburban neighborhood with newer, cookie-cutter houses and white picket fences. Perfectly mundane and boring. The inside of the house matched, complete with pictures of Buffy, Dawn, their mother and the old Scooby Gang. Buffy hadn’t taken the pictures down or changed much about the house. She did keep it neat. The smaller weapons were kept out of eyesight in a chest, the larger items were either kept in the basement downstairs or in her bedroom. She gave John a quick tour of the main floor, only pointing to the doorway that led to the basement or the stairway that led to the bedrooms on the level above.
Then it was time for the first movie. It started out promising enough. With Robert Downey Jr and Jude Law, how could it not? It was hard to see much of a relationship between the modern man siting next to her on the couch and the man with the bowler hat on screen. She did occasionally banter to keep the mood light, “You know, you could totally bring the handlebar mustache back. I’m just saying.”
“Right. I’d look ridiculous. I’ve got a round face.” That could grow a mustache, granted, but it wouldn’t be impressive. It’d be silly. “I do own some vests. Never wear them. They sit in the closet with the suits for job interviews and special occasions.”
As the film went along, John couldn’t stop himself from providing a running commentary. “He really does shoot the wall, you know,” He confided. “But Mrs. Hudson was his friend. She set him up with the flat, I came later. And we haven’t a dog. God, no - even with the two of us, I wouldn’t trust an animal in our flat.” Between the noise and the smells and the constant activity? It’d be torture.
“And -- wait. Wait, hold on. Am I supposed to be engaged?” In spite of himself, John sounded a little horrified. Sarah was lovely, and he enjoyed her company, but they’d been together for a relatively short time. Engaged?
Well. They were Victorian. Maybe things moved faster back then.
“......and her name is Mary? I’ve never even dated a Mary.”
“It’s Hollywood. They could just be adding things? Maybe it’s better that way.” It was sort of strange to watch the movie while sitting next to the person it was based on. “I mean, if they changed the names would even be anything like your life? Besides the wall shooting part.”
Buffy took a bite of Chinese food thoughtfully.
“On the plus side, it’s not a bad movie. It’s just a movie is all.”
“It’s the dressed-up version of my life, if my life were happening a little over a hundred years ago and if I could wear a mustache with any dignity,” Watson agreed. Buffy’s observation cheered him up a little, and he managed a laugh. “My life’s a lot more - well, not dull, but if Sherlock has ever investigated evil sorcery, he’s certainly not told me.”
Fiction. Entertainment. John tried to put himself in that mindset, and once he was there he enjoyed the film a lot more.
But he didn’t stop talking. “Do you miss them, your friends? The ones who used to come over. I know, personal question. You don’t have to answer that.” John knew as soon as the words had left his mouth that he was prying, but he was still curious about Buffy. He knew so little about her, beyond that she also preferred action to waiting.
“No, it’s okay. I do miss them. It’s just. I feel like I’ve been gone so long that maybe we’ve also grown apart. I miss my sister most of all. I try to imagine what she’s doing now. Graduating from college, maybe.”
Buffy stared at the small, older style television screen. She didn’t have one of those newer high definition screens. It was amazing the TV had survived this long without needing replacement.
“Wow. Sherlock Holmes is a lot more actiony than I thought. And shirtless.” Buffy paused as they came to the infamous hotel scene were Irene Adler tricked Holmes and had him handcuffed to a bed. “...And naked.”
“Oh God.” At the first hint of skin, John covered his eyes. It wasn’t that Robert Downey Jr. was naked. Watson was a doctor, and beyond that, he was comfortable enough with himself to be able to look unemotionally at the anatomy of both sexes. But, well. This was different. It wasn’t just a nude actor. It was a nude actor who was impersonating his flatmate. Impersonating his flatmate, and in a compromising situation. The fact that someone had gotten the better of Sherlock - even a fictional Sherlock - was far more embarrassing than any amount of skin. “Tell me when he’s gotten free. Please.”
With his fingers between himself and the screen, John had time to reflect on Buffy’s answers. “I’ve got a sister,” he admitted. “If I said that I doubted I’d miss her, would you think I was horrible? We’re not close; she has her life, and I had mine.” There was more to it, of course. John was such a controlled, private man, who made deliberate decisions and didn’t generally doubt them afterwards. He and Harry clashed, plain and simple, in no small part because she was too much like him. Harry made decisions that she didn’t regret, too. And, like John, she didn’t apologize, not even when he disapproved. Not even to save relations with her brother.
You could love your family without particularly liking them. Such was the case with the Watsons.
“No, I get it. Trust me. My Dad couldn’t be bothered to show up for my Mom’s funeral. He isn’t exactly on the Christmas Card list.”
It was nice having someone to talk to. Though they hadn’t known each other for long it was a little comforting that he felt as confiding in her as she did in-- except one thing. One important thing. Buffy frowned. She could start that conversation, right? Just open your mouth and...
“My life can get sorta complicated. I mean, I’m not really talking about the family stuff. There’s other stuff. I feel like it’s the sort of thing I should tell you, and I do. I want to. Tell you. But I’ve also been here five years. I think maybe I’ve made one friend that entire time who just sort of disappeared. And I know I’m in ramble mode right now and not making any sense...”
John dropped his hands from his face the moment Buffy mentioned her mother’s death. Anything he might’ve said about her father, however, was cut off by what came next. At first he’d resolved to let Buffy talk it out, but then it became clear something was really on her mind. Something she wasn’t sure she could say.
“Hey. I spend all of my spare time tagging along to crime scenes. My flatmate keeps human body parts in our refrigerator to examine -- I don’t know, whatever it is that he’s studying. Believe me, if it’s ‘complicated’ that you’re worried about, I’ve seen it.” Or thought he had, at least. “I don’t startle easily. But I also don’t expect you to be comfortable talking to a fellow you only just met. In a mental hospital.”
The edge of John’s mouth twitched. “As long as you’re not a criminal mastermind or a serial killer, we’re fine. It’s not a secret I have to know. Although I’ll warn you, if Sherlock ever does come around, no secret’s safe. Not even the ones you’d like to keep.”
As he well knew from experience.
Buffy smiled, relieved. “Not a serial killer or a criminal mastermind. I guess I just like being Buffy. Just Buffy. Hanging out with her friend John. Watching movies. For just a little while longer, it’s kinda nice.”
Buffy turned her attention to the small screen and changed the subject. “And hey, no more naked Holmes. To think this movie is only PG-13,” she teased.
“I fear the ‘R’ rating. Hollywood sensationalising or not, that’s privacy invasion on a scale that I’d hoped never to reach.” And, frankly, a level of weird that John just wasn’t ready to face. Now that they were back to joking, he relaxed again and lowered his arms back to his sides. No more mortification, no more worry.
“You can be ‘just Buffy’ for as long as you’d like. You -- oh God.” Onscreen, the wharf had just blown up. Apparently that sort of thing happened to him, no matter what the century. John stared blankly for a few seconds, then searched (in vain) for something to say.
Buffy did a double take between John and the screen.
“Are you okay? John?”
Buffy took the remote and paused the movie. She leaned forward to get a good look at his face. Her eyebrows raised as she tried, a bit futilely, to read him.
“We don’t have to watch this if it’s too weird.”
“Hmm?” It took John a moment to register Buffy’s question - the explosions, real and imagined, were ringing in his ears. “Oh. Sorry. It’s just, ah - sorry.” Apologies were, for a moment, all he could manage. “For every five things they’ve gotten wrong, they get one right.”
But he wasn’t wearing the explosive vest. He was in one piece and, as far as he knew, Sherlock was safe somewhere in London. Bait. Leverage. No matter what the word, Watson abruptly felt less like a person and more like a thing. Something to be used. He swallowed and forced his breathing to normalize. “I’ll be alright. It’s just a movie.”
Really. John forced a twitchy little smile. It wasn’t convincing; he wouldn’t even have convinced himself, had he been in Buffy’s place.
Buffy turned the television off with a click from the remote. The screen when blank. Buffy picked up a plate of the Chinese food and started picking at it and eating as if nothing had just happened there.
“You don’t really strike me as the television watching type, anyway. You wanna go on a walk or something? Sit and chat about chatty things? Stare at each other in awkward silence?” Buffy managed a small grin. She could keep talking, if need be.
“Let’s skip the awkward silence. Too much like Christmas dinner with my sister.” Ah. There was a smile, if a small one. “We can talk and walk all at once. You’re right, I just need to -- “ John shook his hands, as if the motion could shake off whatever was bothering him. “You can tell me about the United States. Or your sister. Or whatever you’d like.”
Watson would have offered to tell his own stories, but at the moment they were part of the problem.
“Come on. The City actually has some nice parks when it lets you find them.” Buffy stood up quickly and offered her hand. Not that he needed a hand, it just felt like the friendly thing to do-- help pick someone up when they were obviously down. She just had to mind the slayer strength.