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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.

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John takes his dinner in his room, as he usually does…but the longer he spends eating in his room, the more annoyed with himself he gets.

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.

Watson had very much intended to mind his own business. He's not sure exactly what has been going on with that odd man, but there's something a little familiar in it. He's observant enough to catch someone else who likes their back to the wall, at least in a strange place, and in days gone past when Watson himself had been fussier about that sort of thing than he is now, he had often hated to feel as though he were a spectacle, an object of pity. It was better to be ignored.

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."

Watson is quiet, trying to keep his head down, trying not to be noticed. Cecil, meanwhile, is in the general store with a solid armload of jars of pickled and preserved vegetables, a grin the size of Texas on his overly expressive face, and absolutely about to disturb Watson's peace.

"Okay, what do you think? Is pickling vegetables going to make them unusable as a pizza topping?"

Opening up a clinic in another part of town had been a great idea, by all accounts. Just one tended to get swamped just by dint of being the one that the townsfolk were familiar with, one was only run by one man that seemed to like it that way, and Watson was brand new to Pumpkin Hollow, himself.

A few days after he's set up for himself, a knock at the door precedes a visitor coming in.

"Excuse me, sir." A young man steps inside, hands around the strap of a cross-body bag holding books and documentation that rest heavy against his side. "My name is Bart Torgal. I've been sent over to assist you here, should you need it." Sent over, as if he hadn't talked it through with the staff at Winterbottom's clinic where he'd been volunteering his time and agreed that he should try and offer his help.

Watson listens to this sentence, and pauses in the way of someone who has understood most of the individual words and concepts, and yet somehow does not quite understand what is being asked.

"'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."

He glances Bart over briefly, his expression more... quietly baffled than anything.

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Torgal." Watson stands, and offers his hand to shake. "Might I ask, sent over by whom?"

From his perspective, which is still a good deal suspicious about everything here, that's a very pertinent question.

The handshake is immediately taken and returned, grip steady and warm. His tone is quite bubbly, as if accustomed to facing this sort of suspicion at first glance.

"The pleasure is mine, Doctor. Truth told, we're perhaps a bit over-staffed at the other office, and thought you might benefit from an extra pair of hands. I've been working over there with them for a few weeks now and have their approval to come and join you here."

"Oooh! So you're lucky ten kay on the subject? Excellent, good to know." Cecil lights up like a Christmas tree, giddy at the idea of yet another person he gets to introduce to the matter. "You're not afraid of trolleys, are you?"

"Oh!"

Well, that's unexpected. Watson's tone shifts, a little less formal, a little warmer. "I wasn't expecting that at all. It's reassuring to hear that we are all on the same page as far as social good goes. Sit down, let us talk. I have some coffee in the pot, if you're at all interested."

He nods at a chair. "Why don't you tell me about yourself, Mr. Torgal?"

"I'm the lucky -- what?"

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."

“Right. Okay. From the top: there has been a pizza oven built on one of the farms outside town, and it can be reached by trolley and I will be feeding people proper pizza this month, because my work has been lucrative and everyone ought to try it! Does that now make more sense?”

He is trying, really he is.

There's an instant softening of his posture at the warmth in response, and Bart nods, moving to take a seat and place his bag down on the ground beside him. "Thank you sir, that sounds lovely.

"First and foremost I must admit that my medical knowhow is actually somewhat limited. I was educated as a biologist, specifically geared toward the adaptation of crops to sustain spacefaring populations, and studying alien life in all its forms on frontier worlds. Xenobiology and engineering were my specialties, and of late I've had fairly extensive hands-on experience in practical first aid, though nothing truly traumatic. The only thing that may qualify was the line of inquiry that I had been pursuing shortly before my, erm. Arrival here." At that he rolls up the sleeve of the basic linen tunic he'd arrived in, to show the traces of blackened veins up the pale skin of his upper arm. "I fear this may be permanent, but aside from some weakness in my lungs, it should present no problems at all in the day-to-day.

"But, what of yourself, sir? I will admit to a measure of amusement at learning that we had our own Doctor Watson here, my first thought was of a character from a very old story collection from my world."

John's so keyed up that he's not just aware of the other man, but aware of the deliberate manner in which he makes his approach visible and hates how grateful he is for it.

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.

"... yes, that does make more sense."

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."

"Is that so? Well, I suppose 'Watson' isn't so uncommon a name. I rather hope it's a good story, at least."

Watson turns back from pouring coffee to see Bart's arm, and his expression flickers somewhat. This is perhaps less shocking than it might be, considering he has already met two members of the undead, but an arm of blackened veins is... alarming, to say the least. He sets the coffee down in Bart's reach.

"Good lord. I admit that looks -- does it pain you? That has every appearance of being very serious, at least to my eye."

"Cecil Palmer, with the Pumpkin Hollow Gazette." He accepts the offered hand, shaking enthusiastically, as the man seems to do everything. He vibrates with life. It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson."

"Well," Watson says, with a faint intake of breath, "you're welcome to tell me about the real problem, if you'd like."

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."

"Absolutely. It's been some time since I had the opportunity to sit and read them, but I remember them fondly for making very long trips more bearable."

Bart reaches up to take the coffee and put it down on the table in front of him. He doesn't immediately reach for the sugar, as unaccustomed to having a sweetener in this form he actually is.

"No, sir, not anymore. It used to be much worse, but now I think the marks are more akin to the pox marks that people are left with after they recover. The bacteria attacked the pulmonary system and caused rapid deterioration by altering certain parts of genetic code expression. A bit like a virus, really. The more alarming part was the compound in it that would react to T-Lymphocytes and turn bright green. Imagine, walking around with phosphorescent spots."

Watson is unable to keep from cracking a smile. He's cautious and suspicious, not truly unfriendly. "Ah, so you're the one behind our little newspaper. The pleasure is mine, Mr. Palmer."

Watson listens to this, his expression faltering. He has spent his professional career trying to keep on the edge of medical science, reading new papers and theories even when he wasn't fit to work. He has always thought he was a good doctor, if his habit of running off to poke around a murder scene with Holmes can be forgiven. There are still several words in Bart's explanation that he does not understand, and that hurts his pride a little.

"You may not be a doctor," he says, picking up his own, abandoned coffee cup, "but you certainly know things that were never a part of my education. I think I understand the general concept, though I'm not sure what a virus might be. If you were truly phosphorescent, though... well, you seem much recovered, fortunately."

While it's clear that he's excited to be able to pass on as much information as seems appropriate in the moment, Bart's smile fades when he realizes that what he's saying is once again going over someone's head. But he rallies, and straightens up with his hands around his mug to keep from gesturing with every word.

"Part of my work before starting at Doctor Winterbottom's clinic was to write down everything that I could remember from my schooling before it got away from me. Without the neural implant in my cerebrum to support the extra information processing and retention, I fear that over time I may forget a few of the smaller things, so getting it all down on paper is imperative. I'll bring you what I've got so far, and continue to work on anything else that floats to the surface over my time here. I would be happy to keep my journals here for you to read in your own time, if you like! I want to look into binding some of what I've already done into its own volumes, disorganized though some of them may be. I fear it will look a bit like Naturalis Historia, though hopefully with a good deal more scientific efficacy."

"Well, not entirely by myself. I work with Yorick Aberdeen; back in my own world, I didn't write for a newspaper at all, so I've had to be taught quite a bit."

But he accepts the praise with a warm smile of his own, because he is proud of the work he's done.

"I would greatly appreciate that," Watson says, immediately. "I hate to think of the gaps in my education -- if I intend to operate a practice here, then I must know everything I can, particularly as, well. I have already discovered that there are people here from my future."

This is... distressing, but he's trying.

"I've enjoyed having it," Watson says, honestly. "It's been... well, helpful as I continue to settle in to... whatever this new life I find myself in is."

His smile is... strained. But he is, regardless, trying to smile.

"Well, you've already gotten a preview for my article in this month's paper. Pizza and pizza byproducts. Feed the town, relax a little, hope nothing deadly attacks the oven or anyone celebrating nearby."

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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Oak & Iron, Evening (CW: very mild disordered eating habits)

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Downtown, I am so sorry

Clinic

never apologise

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