snowblindrpg | [network] @jwatson; text; Bite the Bullet [Night 250]

[This is an incredibly embarrassing post to have to make, especially after the one he'd put out a few days earlier. Reading through those replies makes him want to curl up and hide from the world for people seeing what he'd been like straight out of the Army. The messages to his friends are a particular humiliation. But it is what it is and he has to deal with this now. Man up, Watson.]

I'd like to apologize to everyone for my attitude and behavior the last several days. My death price has ended and my memories have returned. I can't take back the things I said to any of you, but I'm really very sorry. I was in a bit of a bad place where I was set at.

For anyone who was asking me, I'm in the Entrance area with America, England, and Ginger.

I'm also sorry to report that the cause for Clint Barton's death was the Joker. He mortally wounded Clint, but I'm pretty sure Clint was able to escape the situation along with Harley Quinn. Clint was able to mortally wound the Joker, as well. I'm not sure where the Joker is right now, but please be on your absolute guard. He is well-armed and he'll have been healed up after his revival, even if he might still have severe MN Poisoning.

Action for Team Blonde
[Prior to sending out the message, John is rummaging around the new building they'd made it to for the night. He thinks he's getting the hang of this and he's relaxed a little more around his companions since they've not attacked him suddenly or stolen from him for several consecutive days.

He opens a cabinet in the kitchen and discovers a bottle of white wine, which is surprising, but not unwelcome when everything returns to him in a flash. It's like someone turning on the lights, full power when he's been completely in dark. It hurts.

John squeezes his eyes shut as the swirl of memories pours in, mixing, jumbling, resorting into the proper order and finally stopping when everything is settled. He's clutching his head, breathing hard. One memory in particular sticks out, though, the last one he'd had before dying...]

Fuck!

[Hope the rest of the house doesn't mind swearing.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Some of these feelings are utterly alien to England. England is used to following orders and having commanders in all kinds of situations, but he's not the kind of man to long for that. He lives for the times when he gets to call the shots.

But some of what John is saying is familiar, too. He repeats it back for clarity and understanding, make sure he heard right through all the wine.] Missed the battlefield?

Mm... [John nods and glance over at the other man. Normally, he'd be backing off and going quiet at this point, maybe changing the subject.] Not, like... I don't want people dying. S'not that. More like... the adrenaline rush, knowing you're a step off from death, protecting other people from that, making a difference every day.

I went into trauma surgery for the same reason, right? It was good for a while, but I wanted something more. I wanted to be in the action, stopping the injuries before people got them. Protect them, then save them when you can't... this place was hell for the first couple of months. Didn't seem like I could protect anyone. They just kept dying and I was alive.

[For a long moment, England is silent, his gaze fuzzy but contemplative. He runs the words through his head, forward and back to make sure he hasn't missed anything.

Eventually he speaks again.] Yeah. Yeah, I know about— all of that. [A beat.] Most of it. I usually didn't have to worry about dying. [Usually. Now, though...

England sighs and flicks at the wine bottle, resulting in a glassy clink as his fingernail meets it.] Feels better than sitting behind a bloody desk all day.

Sitting behind a desks the worst. [John casts a sympathetic look his way.] I mean, now and again. It's good to have the break, but we moved out aways after Mary and I got married. House of our own, room for the baby, peace and quiet... Nearly went up the wall after a month. This place. I hate it, but... when I first got here, it was after I thought Sherlock had- after he died. I felt alive here again.

[He pauses and frowns.]

Sorry, that's weird. Sorry. What's it like being immortal?

[There he goes again, just barreling past those weird things before England gets a chance to ask him what the hell. How is England supposed to keep up?

His brow furrows as he regards John with some scrutiny. This time he comments on it rather than going along with the question.] You're changing the subject again.

Have we got a subject? [He can fake dumb while drunk, right?]

Fair enough. I guess not. [They've gone from pornography to love to war in a rather short span of time. Still, England leans enough to bump his shoulder against John's.] You don't have to be sorry you said it.

[John's not a physically demonstrative man in the main; although, he gets to be more-so when he's drunk. That comes out in leaning into the bump and pressing against England a little longer than he might otherwise.]

'S not normal. My therapists never thought it was healthy. [And now he's apparently telling England he's had therapists. Well, all right.] Tried talking to Haurchefant once. He just said it was normal for him, his people... the elves. [There's a vague wave of John's hand.]

[England is similar, as repressed as he is. But it's nice not to think about all that Victorian bollocks for a moment.

He gives a small hum of acknowledgement.] Normal. Used to be normal for women to squeeze their waists in until it deformed their organs. [Whoops, he's got Victorians on the brain now.] Humans spend a lot of time worrying about being normal. It's a bit of a waste. You're a good man; that's the important thing.

[Incidentally, this is an example of what it's like to be immortal.]

I don't feel like it sometimes. [He sighs.] I'm not sometimes. Maybe it'd be easier if I were. Sherlock and Mary... they're too forgiving.

What about them? [England's hands shift to grip the edge of the counter so he can lean to look at John with more stability.] Would you consider them to be good people?

No one's perfect, but they try. They don't want to hurt anyone. Muck it up sometimes. Sherlock pretended to be dead for two years... and Mary's a- [He puts his finger up to his lips in a self-shushing gesture.] Mm... shouldn't talk about Mary when I'm like this. Not too much.

[As curious as England is about Mary, that is not the point of this exercise, inasmuch as England can keep the point in mind while he's tipsy.] Well, I could say the same thing about you.

That first part. Not the pretending to be dead part. I don't know if you've done that. [Thanks, England.]

[John scoffs.]

Never pretended to be dead. And I've got to be better, y'know? M'not clever like they are. All I can really do is be reliable.

I think you're clever. [England lifts a hand to set it on John's shoulder emphatically.] Not in the same way they are, but you're more than just reliable. Not that being reliable's not good, as well, but, you know— you've got more going for you than just that.

You're a mate, England. [John raises his hand opposite and places it atop England's to pat a few times.] Good mate. Would be, wouldn't you? Good man, good mate. Except Sherlock sometimes. Bloody awful friend sometimes, but he's a good man. Great man, too. Lestrade said.

[He might be losing the thread of the conversation here a bit.]

[network] @jwatson; text; Bite the Bullet [Night 250]

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cw: mentions of character death/suicide

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