thearena | Watsons

Entry tags:

Watsons

Who| Joan Watson and John Watson
What| Joan has a delivery for a John Watson from an unexpected source
Where| Arena 2
When| Beginning of the second week
Warnings/Notes| None yet

Joan has been wandering the dark for a few hours now. Her felt armor is an asset at the moment, keeping her from freezing outright, but she's still cold, the armor and the motion keeping her just warm enough to keep going. She should stop, make a fire, zip herself into the sleeping bag that dropped from the sky back on the boulder. But she pushes on. She's bundled up all her supplies in one of the silver parachutes, and is holding them slung over her shoulder with one hand. Curled in the other is a note. It came with the latest container, and it's the reason why she left her own fire and went searching the darkness.

Find John Watson. Help him, and more coming. -SH

Joan sees a glimmer of a fire not too far away, and heads toward it.

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((As discussed with you on plurk we'll be buying John and Joan out, with 60 credits from Joan and 140 from John's stash, leaving him with 330.))

John never saw the note. Reflexes not yet dulled from his time out of the army, he twisted and pulled the throwing knife out of his belt, the weight of it lying evenly in his palm.

"Really unarmed?" he asked Joan, eyes steady on the creature. "Now would be a really good time to admit you lied..."

Not that he thought she had. He ran through his options quickly. Three throwing knives wouldn't go far, and he regretted not for the first time having left the scythe behind- but throwing knives were a start. Aiming for the creature's throat, he hurled it straight and true before ducking to grab the remaining two. Hopefully they could convince it there were easier pickings elsewhere if nothing else...

"Wishing I had," she replies grimly, scrambling back. She has a folding knife in her pack, but it's hardly a weapon against a person, much less whatever the hell that thing is. She glances around for rocks to throw, but the ground is sand and gravel. If she's going to throw something, it's going to have to be something in her bundle.

John's knife thuds into the thing's neck, and it hisses and howls in pain.

"Nice!" she cheers.

Enraged, the creature staggered towards the tributes, a horrific gurgling layered over its otherworldly bark as blood bubbled up in its mouth- John's knife had pierced something important, but not important enough to stop it tensing up and charging towards them, all teeth and claws and spines and pain.

"Joan!" he called out in warning as he scrambled out of the way, watching in horror as the reptiroo charged straight through the fire towards her.

She's in the process of tearing into her bundle when the creature charges at her. It takes all the presence of mind she has to keep herself from just running. Scrambling back, she sweeps her hand down, grabs a handful of sand and gravel, and flings it into the reptiroo's face. The beast slows a little, snarling as it claws at its eyes, and gives Joan just enough time to crouch at her bundle and pull out cans. She throws them at it, as hard as possible.

Thrashing about blindly, the creature howled and snapped, only really succeeding at scattering John's carefully ordered pile of supplies. John hurled the second of his throwing knives straight at the creature's neck and watched it scream as the blade buried itself in the strange, alien flesh.
The reptiroo screamed, lashing out and charging back through the fire, away from Joan and the camp John had made, trampling everything in its path. It seemed, at least, that it had decided there might be better places to be, but John kept a careful eye on it just in case, the last of his knives safely in hand.

Joan is up on her knees, another can in her hand, drawn back and ready to throw. She watches the creature as it runs off into the night, dark ichor from its two wounds leaving spatters in the sand. She stays up and at the ready for a few more moments, making sure it was actually leaving and not just withdrawing to regroup. Once it seems like the encounter may well be over, she sinks back to sit on her heels and lower the can. Her breath is a little heavy and fast from exertion and fear, and she's shaking, just slightly.

"What the hell was that?"

Edited 2013-07-09 16:56 (UTC)

"Not a clue," John replied, following the creature with his eyes until it disappeared behind an outcropping of rock. "But it's gone now."

He looked at her, wetting his lips as he checked her over. She didn't seem visibly wounded, which was a relief- but she was definitely suffering from the shock. "Nice one with the cans," he offered, cracking a shaky smile. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah...yeah, I'm fine."

She sets that last can down, noting that it is actually her last can. Good thing the creature ran off when it did, otherwise she probably would have had to start throwing water containers. She stands and brushes off her hands, then turns back to John.

"You're really good with those knives. Are you okay?"

He nodded. "Thanks. No, it didn't touch me. Trashed my camp though--"

He looked over the destruction with a sigh- the fire he'd started was mostly out, packs of food had been torn open and spilled onto the sand- and the knife in his hand was a reminder of the two he'd lost fending the creature off. At least his tent was still up.

"We're alive, though. That's a good thing."

Joan looked around, and could see in the sand a couple of the cans she had thrown at the thing. They were dented, one of them cracked and leaking. The rest were probably out in the brush somewhere, and you couldn't pay Joan enough to make her go out there now.

"I'll help you clean your camp. We should do something about that food, before it attracts anything else."

"I'll trade you a share of whatever I've got left for another pair of eyes," he offered, stooping to begin the work of clearing up the spillages, grimacing at the loss of his oatmeal. "We'd be better off working together, if you're all right with that."

She smiled as she crouched down to begin cleaning up as well. At least the sand absorbed a lot of the liquid.

"You don't need to trade me anything," she answered. "I'm happy to work together. That's probably what Sherlock had in mind. Besides, considering what a good shot you were with those knives, I suspect I'd be getting the better of that bargain."

"Only got one left," he sighed, offering her a wry smile. "But somehow, I'm not really feeling the urge to go retrieve the two I threw at it."

He kicked sand over a spillage of the creature's blood, hoping that would be enough to hide the scent. The last thing they needed was more monster attacks.

"We could try and find the cornucopia in the morning, if there is a morning- or we could stay put and hope Sherlock can arrange for a few more parcels. What do you think?"

Joan considered gathering up the food and bringing it away from the camp, but that would necessitate going out into the dark, so she buried it instead.

"What's a cornucopia?"

He wet his lips, watching her face. So she was one of the unfortunates thrown straight into the Arena without any explanation? He didn't much relish the thought of being the one to lay it out for her.

"It's-- well, usually, it's at the beginning of an arena, a collection of weapons and supplies that everybody fights over, but I found it out in the dunes... a while back. It's hard to tell how long ago without proper day and night. There wasn't anyone else there. It might be our best option for getting food, water and ways to defend ourselves, but everyone else will be going for it too."

She stood and brushed her hands off on her leggings, surveying the dark.

"I guess it depends on how long this night lasts. And how many of those care packages Sherlock is able to send. By the way, how is he able to do that? Is he not in this fight?"

"Sherlock..." John cut himself off, pressing his lips together and glancing up at the sky as he composed himself. He was absolutely determined not to focus too much on his failure, yet again, to protect his friend.
"He died, and is back in the Capitol, where he can send us things to help us survive. Or win, really, that's what we're supposed to do."

He was obviously upset, and Joan moved closer to him. She didn't want to bring up how he died; didn't want to upset him, and didn't want to know herself. After all, apparently he was alive now.

"How do you know Sherlock?" she asked instead. "Did you know him in London?"

He nodded, grateful for her restraint. He'd thought it would get easier, but even knowing Sherlock was fine now didn't ease the guilt.
"We met there- he was my flatmate, back home. Nice little two bed place in Baker Street. How about you?"

"I met him after he came to New York. We're partners. We solve crimes together."

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes slightly.

"It's weird, though. I mean, getting Sherlock to talk about his past is like pulling the teeth of, I don't know, a bear or something. But I'd think he would have mentioned having known a John Watson when he met me. A doctor, too."

John smiled, a little tightly. Sherlock had, as far as John was aware, never been to New York, and he'd never worked with anyone else either. The whole alternate universe thing was looking more and more likely, but he doubted his ability to explain it properly.
"I don't think your Sherlock has met me," he began, slowly and carefully, his tone low and dubious. "And I'm not sure my Sherlock has met you. I think they might be different people."

She laughed.

"Right, because there are two people in the world named Sherlock Holmes."

She glanced at him, and her smile faded.

"...you're serious. Okay. Weird, but okay. Tell me about your Sherlock?"

"Three, I think," John admitted with a wry smile. "At least. But mine is- Tall. Skinny, pale, blue eyes. At least, I think they are blue- they're light, anyway. Curly dark brown hair, wears a scarf when it's really to warm for one, same goes for this... long black coat he has. And he's brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant, and he knows it- he's mad as a hatter, mind you, collects hundreds of types of cigarette ash and thinks it's perfectly fine to invite himself along if I have a date, that kind of thing. We work together, solving cases- then I write them up on my blog, and he complains that I've made it sound too exciting and haven't written enough about his methodology and how much of a genius he is. Sound familiar?"

She shifted, tilted her head.

"Some of it," she answered. "The physical description definitely isn't him. Or, mine, I guess. My Sherlock is tall, kind of skinny, but with short brown hair and brown eyes and constant stubble. And tattoos. He likes tshirts, or collared shirts buttoned up to the top, and jeans."

She took a step closer.

"But the rest is very familiar. He's brilliant, and knows it. The cigarette ash? He wrote a monograph on how to identify 140 different kinds of cigarette and cigar ash. He's gotten better about the whole personal boundaries thing, but he has hacked my email and made calls on my behalf before. I don't doubt that he'd show up at any date I was on if a case came up."

"Stubble."
He grinned, settling down by the embers of the fire, and gesturing for her to join him.
"I don't think I've ever seen Sherlock with stubble, and I doubt he'd be into tattoos. Too identifying. But the hacking into email and all that? Textbook Sherlock."

She sat next to him, clasping her hands over her knees.

"I can't even imagine Sherlock without his tattoos," she said, looking at the glow of the embers. "They're such a part of him. He did a lot of them himself."

She considered for a moment.

"So, two Sherlocks. And two Watsons." She turned her head to smile at him. "I used to be a doctor, too."

He looked over at her and smiled- a careful edge to the curve of his lips, but a warmth, too. It was definitely interesting, meeting a counterpart version of yourself- and he couldn't help wondering what, beyond the obvious, set them apart from each other.

"Surgeon?" he asked. "That was my area of interest when I was studying. I probably would have specialised if I hadn't become an army doctor."

This was definitely interesting, in a weird and impossible way. She remembered what that guy Punchy told her, though, to stop expecting reality, so she was rolling with it. Better that way.

"Surgeon," she confirmed. "You were in the army? That's interesting. And one difference between us. What made you want to join?"

He picked up a charred stick and poked at the fire with it, watching the sparks fly up.
"My grandfather, mostly. He was an army doctor. And it's- there aren't many things you can do that are as useful, I suppose. How about you?"

"Why did I choose to be a surgeon, you mean?"

She looked back at the fire, at the glow as it grew with the attention, and shrugged a little.

"It was a challenge." She smiled wryly. "Not to mention it made my mother happy."

"Should try the army," he laughed. "My dad went on about how proud his dad would have been for weeks, and my sister still ribs at me for playing hero. I suppose I should be grateful- good use of my skills, good practice for all this, really."

He sat back, having given up on the fire. It would die soon enough- too scattered by the attack.

"We should take turns to sleep, if you're comfortable enough trusting me. We could use the rest. I don't mind you using my tent."

She smiled.

"Considering we seem to be alternate versions of each other, if I can't trust myself, who can I trust?"

She glanced at the tent.

"Sleep would be so nice. The only sleep I've gotten here was on top of a boulder with a zombie trying to eat me."

He grinned. It was odd, but knowing that she was him, albeit a very different configuration- well, it made it easy to trust her. He could take a good guess at where her limits were.

"There is that. Go on. I'll wake you when I start getting too sleepy to focus, or if we have trouble."

"Thank you," she said, returning the smile. She stood and brushed the sand off of the felt of her armor, then went to her pack and pulled out her sleeping bag.

"Don't hesitate to wake me up if you need me, okay? Even if I haven't been sleeping long."

"Yeah. I'm not going to risk our lives on machismo, trust me."

He settled himself comfortably, tucking the last of his throwing knives into his belt. "Sleep well."

"Better not," she teased gently. "Good night, John."

She climbed into the tent, and zipped herself into the sleeping bag. The ground was hard, and her body ached, but that didn't keep her from dropping off to sleep almost immediately.

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