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.
never apologise
"'Pizza'?" he asks at last. "Isn't that... an Italian working class dish, isn't it? I'm the wrong man to ask about that."
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Watson stares off into the middle distance for a moment, trying to work out what the most appropriate response to this is. Of course, there's another question before he can ever possibly work that out. "Trolleys? I should say not. Frankly -- sir, I fear you aren't making very much sense."
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He is trying, really he is.
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Though being asked if he's afraid of trolleys is still somewhat strange. Watson runs his hand over his face and then attempts to put on a warm smile. "And I admit that sounds like something I would like to try. It's certainly generous of you, considering we haven't been introduced." He offers his hand to shake. "Dr. Watson."
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But he accepts the praise with a warm smile of his own, because he is proud of the work he's done.
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His smile is... strained. But he is, regardless, trying to smile.
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He recognizes the strain in that smile and dials down the shiny a hair.
"Is there anything else I can do, to help you in settling in?"
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"I'm not sure there's an easy answer for that. People are generally quite kind, but this situation is intolerable. Monsters that normally I would not believe in, people from various times and places, whatever is going on with that First Aid automaton." Nothing personal, First Aid, he's just a man of his time. "My life before this was... well. I thought my share of excitement was passed, is all."
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"I'm going to ask a nosy question now: why did you accept Mortanne's offer to bring you here, if what you wanted was peace? You could have been in a very peaceful grave right now, instead, if you had wanted."
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"I have nearly died several times in my life," he says. "I am very good at not dying. And I do not want peace, not really. I do not feel ready to rest just yet, because while my life before I came here was very peaceful, it was not peaceful by my will, but rather because I had lost everything that did not make it dull."
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And then Cecil shrugs, turning back to his pizza topping choices.
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Watson is quiet for a moment, at a loss for words. "And I seem to have chosen, even if my choice involves any number of things that make very little sense to me. Forgive me for my apparent need to complain about it."
He's a little bashful.
"I will certainly attend your pizza dinner, if I am welcome."
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And he sounds so very serious about that, too.