sharpshooting: (huh)
Dr. John Watson ([personal profile] sharpshooting) wrote2012-09-03 07:17 pm
Entry tags:

August 6, 2012

Normally John wouldn’t encourage his patients to drink so soon after being shot, let alone bring them the alcohol himself. But after stitching up bullet holes and treating laser burns on almost a dozen of his fellow castaways, on top of having spent a few days running-- and teleporting-- around that rat maze of a testing facility, he needed to unwind. And since Sharon was his first, best choice for a friend to unwind with (Sherlock not being an option for many reasons, not the least of which was that he’d probably found the whole process fascinating and would therefore not understand John’s desire to complain about it), he’d have to silence the part of his brain that thought first of what was medically a good idea, and focus instead on the part of it that desperately needed a drink.

He rang her door with a six-pack in hand, hoping the replicator in her room would be more amenable to a request for chips than his own had been. "Hi," he said when the door whooshed open. "Thought I might not be the only one wishing keenly for a drink right about now. Interested?" He held up the box of bottles with a grin.


Sharon reaches for her crutches when the doorbuzzer dings, as pissed as she’s been every time she’s needed to use them. Doctor Watson would be a less welcome face, having been the one who gave them to her [hairline fracture her ass] if he hadn’t been bearing gifts.

She gives him a crooked grin in response to his. "Think that’ll be enough? I don’t know if you remember, but I got shot."

She inclines her head toward her little table, hopping after the good doctor.


John grinned. "This is just round one," he promised. "I’m not above trying every replicator on the floor if yours doesn’t cooperate." Depositing the beer on the table, he popped the tops off two and passed her one. "Cheers to a speedy recovery," he said, clinking the neck against hers before taking a sip.

It was weird; he’d expected alien beer to taste different, but apparently the brewing process was similar no matter where in the universe you were. He could swear he’d had the same brew at a pub by Bart’s, yet the label bore a proud inscription in an alphabet that didn’t resemble any on Earth.

"Well, I can safely say that’s the last time I volunteer for anything more mysterious than cleanup at Lady Grantham’s next dinner party," he said, setting the bottle back down on the table.


"You signed up for that nightmare?" Sharon almost chokes on her beer. Doctor Watson doesn’t strike her as the reckless, thrill-seeking type. Or a masochist or total lunatic, which is pretty much what you had to be to volunteer for a tango with Glados. The only person she knows to have gone in willingly is Magneto, which kind of proves her point.

"You might want to get your head examined, Doctor."


John snorted. "My last shrink thought so too." He shrugged, a little embarrassed to admit the reason he’d replied to the email, especially in light of what they’d found out at the end of their trip through the testing facility. "But Sherlock signed up, and I didn’t feel right leaving him to go through whatever it was on his own. I didn’t know we’d be separated, or what it would be like when we got there." Or I wouldn’t have gone went unspoken.


"Aha." Sharon’s starting to put the picture together now. She should have expected it, from a soldier. John’s loyalty is pretty endearing, and from what she’s seen, pretty generous. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t seem the type to inspire that kind of loyalty. But a decade or so of diving into danger for her own comrades-in-arms, many of which she doesn’t like all that much, has taught Sharon a thing or two about loyalty. With supplemental lessons in blind, stupid loyalty from Steve, of course.

"I’m not going to be able to show my face around here." She rubbed her leg, which was itchy as hell. "I’m supposed to be pretty fast, you know?"


John laughed, not unkindly. "You are pretty fast," he said. "Those gun towers could’ve gotten anyone. Especially anyone who threw themselves in front of one in order to save someone else." He grinned. "Which begs the question, why isn’t there already a medal for Valor in Combat against Robots and Alien Artificial Intelligence?"

He took another sip of his beer and wrapped both hands around it, the condensation cool against his fingers. "I hope your partner was appreciative, at any rate."


Sharon snorts. "Funny story."

She normally would tell him the litany of horrors Magneto had brought about in her world, but something makes her stop. It’s a little bit the memory of the look on Lensherr’s face when she gets between him and the turret, a little bit the fact that he basically carried her the last leg of that awful maze. Somehow she can’t bring herself to color John’s opinion of him with his future bad acts. She swigs from her beer instead, and starts again.

"Not as much as you’d think. He’s got kind of a prejudice against me from back home."


John frowned. The wheels turning in her brain were practically visible; there was a story there, clearly, whether she wanted to share it or not. But there was no harm in asking, he supposed; the worst she could do was tell him to mind his own business.

"Prejudice? Against what?" He sounded incredulous, despite his efforts to come off neutral. In Watson’s book, at least, the idea of anyone being prejudiced against Sharon was more than a little ridiculous.


Sharon frowns, trying to find the right words.

"He's part of the first generation of mutants, people with a rare gene that gives them special abilities." She sips her beer, thinking.

"He thinks non-mutated humans are going the way of the dodo, and he's not exactly disappointed about it."

In fact, he's usually more than willing to give us a hand.


By now, John knew better than to say something like That sounds like something out of a comic book, but it was hard not to. He kept his expression even, though; he’d had people give him funny looks when he mentioned his or Sherlock’s names often enough to know what it felt like, and he wasn’t about to do that to Sharon.

Besides which, it wasn’t like he was unfamiliar with mutants; he’d somehow managed to befriend Mystique, after all.

"That sounds... crazy," he said simply, shrugging. "But I guess it takes all sorts, right? He must be pretty pissed off about the nanites. Mystique was my partner-- I’m guessing you know of her as well? She doesn’t seem too happy about not having her powers operating at full capacity."


"I’m sure he is." Sharon raises her eyebrows as she finishes her beer first and cracks another. Doctor Watson seems like a bit of a lightweight, and she hasn’t been tipsy in a while. Might get interesting, and she feels confident he’s not the kind to try something stupid. Sharon likes John fine, but that’s not even on the table for her, and she’s confident that the feeling is mutual.

"He had enough control to take the bullet out of my leg, though. I’d say that’s still plenty of juice." She’s kind of interested in John’s impression of Mystique, as well.

"How’d you and Big Blue get along?" Not an official codename, of course, but Fury’d heard someone say it and repeated it offhand to Sharon, who trots it out when she’s feeling flip.


John shrugged. "Fine." A pause. "I’m still not certain she hasn’t adopted me as some sort of pet because all her usual sidekicks are back at home, but... she got me through all the rooms in there, so I can’t really complain."

He was confronted with the option, then, of asking Sharon more about Mystique as she knew her, or of letting Mystique keep her history to herself. He couldn’t deny he was curious-- from her offhand comments he gathered she was older than he was, but beyond that he had no idea what she’d done with herself before coming here.

Sharon knowing of her probably wasn’t a great sign, he had to admit. But she was his friend, of sorts, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hear information about her from someone else without feeling guilty about it later. So he changed the subject, sort of.

"There are an awful lot of people from your world here," he said. "Not sure whether I should be jealous or relieved the same isn’t true of me."


Sharon’s quiet for a minute, thinking that one over. She’s been dealing with the disparity between her world and the Avengers’ in her own way, which is to say, badly. John Watson strikes her as a decent guy, and she’s feeling the beer to the point where this little bit of personal discussion seems OK.

"They’re not from my world, really. We’re...different versions of the same people. It’s complicated and incredibly not fun."

John makes a confused/concerned face.

"Imagine if Sherlock didn’t know you, because in his ‘world’ you’d never met."


That wasn’t a fun prospect. He literally couldn’t imagine a world where Sherlock didn’t know him-- and the realization that that’s what Sharon had been dealing with essentially every day since she’d arrived was sobering, figuratively if not literally.

"That’s... well, awful. I’m sorry," he said, his brow furrowing in concern. "I knew Steve wasn’t from a time when you knew each other, but I didn’t realize none of them were." He offered a wry little smile. "In Thor’s case, that might be a good thing. If he knew you, you might have to talk to him." He’d been the subject of a crushing backslap from the man upon their release from the testing facility, and a little speech about how smart Sherlock was and how mighty they’d been in defeating the tests together.

He was surprised both of them were still alive, actually, now that he thought about it.


"Yeah, it’s a bitch." She shakes her head. "Sorry I said anything, it’s not something I really want to talk about. And since I’m the one with the bullet wound, I don’t think you’re going to argue with me. Right?"

She’s usually a fun drunk, and not keen to break the streak.


John grinned. "I wouldn’t argue with you anyway," he said. "I’m pretty sure you’re used to winning, and I get enough arguments from Sherlock that I’m not keen to start any more."

He looked dispassionately at his empty beer and reached for a full one. "This really isn’t half bad. Now if only I could get some proper chips from the replicator, I’d be almost a happy man." He popped open the cap and took a long drink. "If you could force that thing to give you anything, what’d it be?" he asked, curious and too buzzed to remember it wasn’t polite to pry.


"A fucking cheeseburger." She says without hesitation. She doesn’t meant to curse, but she’s feeling pretty good now. Not to mention a little prying herself.

"What’s the deal with Sherlock? Were you in the army together?" The loyalty is there, but Sherlock doesn’t seem particularly military to her. She also gets more nice guy than gay guy from John, but the British thing throws her whole radar off.


John laughed. "Sherlock, in the army? God, sorry, I’m not laughing at you, it’s just-- you couldn’t get Sherlock to join a queue at Tesco’s, let alone the army. No, a mutual friend knew we were both looking for a place to live and introduced us. I wouldn’t say we hit it off right away--" remembering That’s quite enough to be going on with, don’t you think?-- "but he had a case going, invited me along, and the rest was sort of history."

It was the light version, the version he told people who didn’t know him well, and even as he was saying it he realized he wanted to tell Sharon more. It had been a long time since he’d had a friend other than Sherlock or Lestrade, and he wanted to be honest with her, even if the truth was unsightly.

"Honestly, I didn’t deal well, coming back from Afghanistan. PTSD, psychosomatic limp, nightmares, the whole bit. I wasn’t in a good place when Mike introduced me to Sherlock. I honestly don’t know what would have happened to me if not for him."


Sharon’s no stranger to complicated relationships, or trauma associated with a soldier’s life.

"Well, it’s good to have friends up here." She takes in the information with a nod, and holds up her bottle in a toast. They need something to talk about that isn’t the ridiculous situation they’re in. She suddenly gets a terrible, wonderful idea.

"John, I officially challenge you to a round of ‘Never-Have-I-Ever,’ because just like in highschool, we have too much time on our hands and an irresponsible amount of booze."


John laughed. "There’s no such thing as an irresponsible amount of booze," he countered. "With this much lying around, it’d be irresponsible not to drink it."

He gave Sharon a narrow look, grinning, and added, "Challenge accepted. I’ll start, shall I?" He thought for a second, then said, "Never have I ever been to Russia."


Sharon laughs, then drinks.

"Lucky guess -that’s Cold War paranoia for you." She thinks for a moment, and clears her throat.

"I’ve never put money on a soccer -sorry, football game." If they’re stereotyping.


John winced-- "Ouch. Guilty as charged." --and drank.

"Never have I ever owned a dog," he declared; then, at Sharon’s disbelieving expression, went on, "No, really. My mother was a cat person, and the only place I’ve ever lived that would allow me a dog is with Sherlock, and well. I wouldn’t subject a dog to that," he finished, laughing a bit.


Drinking again, Sharon shook her head.

"A kid growing up without a dog is just kind of wrong. Though I guess you turned out ok."

Sharon’s momentarily stuck for ideas, so she starts cheating.

"I’ve never driven on the left side of the road."


"Playing dirty," John tsked, shaking his head before taking a drink. "Can’t have that."

He thought for a moment. "I never played a sport in school." There had been a disastrous week where he’d thought he’d go out for crew, but in the end the prospect of getting up at 4am to sit on a river and freeze his arse off hadn’t been worth the eternal glory promised to those who won the intramural regatta at the end of the year. All in all John thought he’d gotten the better end of that deal.


Sharon tips her beer until it’s empty.

"I played them all." This is proving to be harder than she thought.

"Well...I’ve never committed B&E for work." She grins and holds up her empty, asking for a refill. It’s ok to fall on the grenade when the grenade is made of beer.


John opened another beer for each of them and took a swig from his before going to the replicator and asking for another six pack. It only took him two tries to get it, and he came back to the table triumphant.

"If I’ve got to drink for every time I’ve broken into someplace for Sherlock, I’ll be on the floor before the next question," he admitted. "But alright." He thought a moment, then said, "This sounds terrible, but... I’ve never felt very close to any of my family." His parents had always given him their unquestioning support, but never seemed able to stop seeing him as their son long enough to get to know him as a person. And Harry, well. Harry. That was a can of worms best left shut.


Sharon’s just drunk enough to feel really awful when John says that about his family. Every time she tries to have an easy time here, something ruins it. She vows halfheartedly to stop hanging around earnest men.

"I think you Brits play this game a little different." She smiles and drinks, but doesn’t offer another challenge. "Either that or you finally remembered you’re my attending physician and that’s your way of cutting me off. Pretty good tactic."


John laughed a little, shaking his head, just tipsy enough to realize he’d made things awkward without getting worried and making it worse. "Sorry," he said, meaning it. "It’s not that, I just-- none of my interesting stories are things you can categorize like that. Now, if you said, never have I ever helped stop a member of the British government from crashing a plane full of dead bodies into the sea, I’d have to drink. But you’d never say that, because it’s mental. I can barely believe I’ve done it, and I was there."

He shrugged, drinking again and setting the bottle back down with a smile. "We could switch to a card game if you’d rather. I’m pretty decent at poker."


Sharon laughs, loud and genuine.

"Careful, Doc, the wardrobe’s still off limits; it’s a bad time to lose your shirt."

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