(no subject)
Who: Watson, other people.
Where: The lobby.
When: Early-to-mid-morning.
What: After discovering an extremely unpleasant discovery regarding Sherlock Holmes, Watson finds it necessary to blow off a little steam.
It was, to begin with, a normal awakening, or at least as normal as any he'd had in this hotel. Watson stretched under the covers, unwilling to stir any more than was strictly necessary. Acting entirely on sleepy instinct and without much in the way of rational thought, he sought out with a hand for someone else who might be in the bed with him, and found nothing.
He was awake at once, sitting up to look around his room in some confusion. Watson was a light sleeper by nature, a skill he'd learned by necessity during his time in the army. If anyone could have slipped away without waking him, he felt certain that it would be Sherlock Holmes, of all people, but it was still very odd.
He rose, and after a cursory search of his room -- no sign of Holmes anywhere, nor his clothes, so he had apparently dressed and left without a word to Watson -- washed and shaved and dressed, not feeling in any particular hurry. Faintly, in the back of his mind, a worry was growing, but he was very careful to pay it as little mind as possible. There was no sense in obsessing over the faint possibility that it had happened again. That was too impossible, far too cruel.
Still, as he went down the hallway and passed by Holmes's room, Watson paused and gave a short rap on the door. "Holmes? Are you in there?" There was no answer. "Holmes?" He tried the door, found that it opened easily for him.
The room was empty. No personal belongings, no mess, no Holmes. As it had been before, the last time...
Watson passed his hand over his face, feeling a despair so sharp it was almost a physical pain. He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, needing the support, needing something.
The next few minutes were a bit of a blur; he wasn't thinking rationally, hardly thinking at all, when it came to that. He had a vague recollection of retreating into his own room again, but not what he did there, and when he strode downstairs into the lobby there was a comforting weight in his jacket pocket. The stiffness in his leg and shoulder hardly bothered him; he was too enraged to feel it. He marched up to the unmanned front desk and leaned over it.
"I don't care who you are," he growled, hoarsely, at nothing. "I don't care what you are. I want answers. But how dare you--- how dare you--"
He broke off, too furious to think or speak. His hand slipped into his pocket, drew out his revolver, and without thinking about the action too much, fired into a nearby potted plant. There was a satisfying shatter, dirt spilling out over the flawlessly polished floor. Watson gave a grim smile, and shot out a second plant, and a window.
Watson stood by the front desk, breathing hard with adrenaline, hardly knowing what it was he was doing or even what he was feeling now, looking at the snow drifting in through the shattered window, his pistol clutched in both his hands.
Where: The lobby.
When: Early-to-mid-morning.
What: After discovering an extremely unpleasant discovery regarding Sherlock Holmes, Watson finds it necessary to blow off a little steam.
It was, to begin with, a normal awakening, or at least as normal as any he'd had in this hotel. Watson stretched under the covers, unwilling to stir any more than was strictly necessary. Acting entirely on sleepy instinct and without much in the way of rational thought, he sought out with a hand for someone else who might be in the bed with him, and found nothing.
He was awake at once, sitting up to look around his room in some confusion. Watson was a light sleeper by nature, a skill he'd learned by necessity during his time in the army. If anyone could have slipped away without waking him, he felt certain that it would be Sherlock Holmes, of all people, but it was still very odd.
He rose, and after a cursory search of his room -- no sign of Holmes anywhere, nor his clothes, so he had apparently dressed and left without a word to Watson -- washed and shaved and dressed, not feeling in any particular hurry. Faintly, in the back of his mind, a worry was growing, but he was very careful to pay it as little mind as possible. There was no sense in obsessing over the faint possibility that it had happened again. That was too impossible, far too cruel.
Still, as he went down the hallway and passed by Holmes's room, Watson paused and gave a short rap on the door. "Holmes? Are you in there?" There was no answer. "Holmes?" He tried the door, found that it opened easily for him.
The room was empty. No personal belongings, no mess, no Holmes. As it had been before, the last time...
Watson passed his hand over his face, feeling a despair so sharp it was almost a physical pain. He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, needing the support, needing something.
The next few minutes were a bit of a blur; he wasn't thinking rationally, hardly thinking at all, when it came to that. He had a vague recollection of retreating into his own room again, but not what he did there, and when he strode downstairs into the lobby there was a comforting weight in his jacket pocket. The stiffness in his leg and shoulder hardly bothered him; he was too enraged to feel it. He marched up to the unmanned front desk and leaned over it.
"I don't care who you are," he growled, hoarsely, at nothing. "I don't care what you are. I want answers. But how dare you--- how dare you--"
He broke off, too furious to think or speak. His hand slipped into his pocket, drew out his revolver, and without thinking about the action too much, fired into a nearby potted plant. There was a satisfying shatter, dirt spilling out over the flawlessly polished floor. Watson gave a grim smile, and shot out a second plant, and a window.
Watson stood by the front desk, breathing hard with adrenaline, hardly knowing what it was he was doing or even what he was feeling now, looking at the snow drifting in through the shattered window, his pistol clutched in both his hands.