Dr. John H. Watson, M.D. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lightconductor) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ph_logs2023-12-02 05:42 pm
lightconductor) wrote in ph_logs2023-12-02 05:42 pm
(no subject)
Who: Watson (lightconductor) & you
What:A bit of a catch-all for general introductions and discussion
When: Backdated through November and into December, idk, time is soup
Where: Mostly downtown
Warning(s): Probably some alcohol/tobacco use. Will add as needed.
Downtown; apartments
There is nothing about Watson that is loud and attention-getting, and he settles into town... quietly. At least he hasn't been left to starve, which is a pleasant surprise. He finds himself settling into a modest flat downtown, nothing extravagant but also nothing too run-down, a few rooms he can call his own. It feels very lonely, but that, at least, is something he's used to.
He's quiet as he comes and goes, but there's a limp in his step and the quiet tap of his cane, and a new face is bound to stand out. Perhaps he's struggling with a few purchases that are necessary to keep himself fed and groomed, or perhaps he (regrettably) bumps into a new neighbour.
Clinic
Opening a clinic seemed the thing to do. It's an unassuming place, but it's at least something to wake up to and make himself do, which seems important just at the moment. He puts a little sign in the window -- he is admittedly putting off the task of seeing about making something permanent, as that seems to be admitting he'll be here for the foreseeable future -- and sits at his desk. The clinic has, at present only himself as staff.
He writes often while he waits for visitors or patients, scribbling into a small notebook with a thoughtful expression, and looks faintly startled if someone comes in when he's focusing hard.
The Oak & Iron, evening
Watson, for all his many and varied talents, is not much of a cook. He can handle a sandwich, or something very simple along those lines, but he can't quite live on sandwiches alone. He's a frequent sight in the Oak & Iron, most nights. Habitually he sits with his back to the wall, when he can, and quietly eats his dinner while he watches the other customers as discreetly as he can.
Wildcard
I am easy to find.
lightconductor) & youWhat:A bit of a catch-all for general introductions and discussion
When: Backdated through November and into December, idk, time is soup
Where: Mostly downtown
Warning(s): Probably some alcohol/tobacco use. Will add as needed.
Downtown; apartments
There is nothing about Watson that is loud and attention-getting, and he settles into town... quietly. At least he hasn't been left to starve, which is a pleasant surprise. He finds himself settling into a modest flat downtown, nothing extravagant but also nothing too run-down, a few rooms he can call his own. It feels very lonely, but that, at least, is something he's used to.
He's quiet as he comes and goes, but there's a limp in his step and the quiet tap of his cane, and a new face is bound to stand out. Perhaps he's struggling with a few purchases that are necessary to keep himself fed and groomed, or perhaps he (regrettably) bumps into a new neighbour.
Clinic
Opening a clinic seemed the thing to do. It's an unassuming place, but it's at least something to wake up to and make himself do, which seems important just at the moment. He puts a little sign in the window -- he is admittedly putting off the task of seeing about making something permanent, as that seems to be admitting he'll be here for the foreseeable future -- and sits at his desk. The clinic has, at present only himself as staff.
He writes often while he waits for visitors or patients, scribbling into a small notebook with a thoughtful expression, and looks faintly startled if someone comes in when he's focusing hard.
The Oak & Iron, evening
Watson, for all his many and varied talents, is not much of a cook. He can handle a sandwich, or something very simple along those lines, but he can't quite live on sandwiches alone. He's a frequent sight in the Oak & Iron, most nights. Habitually he sits with his back to the wall, when he can, and quietly eats his dinner while he watches the other customers as discreetly as he can.
Wildcard
I am easy to find.
Oak & Iron, Evening (CW: very mild disordered eating habits)
This is stupid. It’s stupid. He has no idea why he can’t just eat in a restaurant like a normal person.
(Because he’s not worthy of being waited on. He doesn’t deserve the convenience—he causes problems just by requiring food and people get hurt.)
He’s trying to fix it. He eats in his room, then goes downstairs to find a table in the back, against the wall, as isolated as possible. He sits, and has every intention of ordering a drink.
He never orders the drink.
Tonight is no exception—he’s got paper and pencil, sitting not far from another man dining (old fashioned demeanor and facial hair but also attractive, now that John is letting himself notice) and sketching out more ideas for weapons to show River. Maybe she can’t manage them, but the challenge could be fun, and he likes the idea that maybe they could try together while he learns a little about her work.
Occasionally, a server ventures in his direction. Each time, John visibly composes himself…and each time, fails to even attempt signaling them.
And each time, he goes back to drawing, more visibly troubled than the last.
no subject
There is, however, a limit to what he can watch.
Watson rises from his table, casually, with a little more movement than is strictly necessary because he wants to be sure he's been seen. When he's sure he's been noticed, he takes a step closer to the other man's table and bends down to speak in a low voice. "If you'd like some help, my friend, I can at least help catch the waiter's eye for you."
no subject
The offer is well meaning, but doesn't help. It does make his heart race a little faster, but mostly makes his cheeks burn at being caught out for being...
(Afraid. Coward. Broken.)
"'Preciate it," he replies quietly, "but uh...the waiter's not the problem."
It's what he wants from the waiter. The stupid, inconsequential, simple thing he can't do anymore for fear of emptying his stomach if he gets too close to the reality of it. Even the meals in his room made him a little uneasy at first--someone knowing, aware, giving him food because they knew his issue. That passed quickly, but this?
This--even just a cup of coffee, he can't even do that. It's just...ridiculous. And he hates that it's so visible.
no subject
His voice is friendly, his tone reassuring but casual, as though there were nothing unusual about the situation. It's the tone of a doctor at someone's bedside. It's a very carefully practiced tone for him, slipping into it almost automatically. "I don't mean to be too terribly nosy. My name is Watson, by the way. I'm a doctor."
no subject
John doesn't mean to actually say it out loud, but he does--and it's scary, but not as scary as it could be. John chalks it up to the fact that the guy looks a little old fashioned, but he's...well, pretty chilled out. He's reminded briefly of the rare few flower children he crossed paths with who weren't out to get him for what the Army made him.
John didn't think any of those folks would even blink if you shot a target right next to their head.
That stillness, that unflappable but not unkind demeanor eases some of John's tension as he finds himself nodding a little to the open seat at his table.
"John Rambo--and I don't mind nosy. You can hang over here if you want...I may not be eating myself, but I know it kinda sucks to eat alone."
no subject
Watson moves his plate over and settles himself down, cane leaning safely against his chair. "I know all about complicated, if it's any comfort. Complicated does not bother me any."