Dr. John H. Watson, M.D. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lightconductor) wrote2010-04-13 05:01 pm
lightconductor) wrote2010-04-13 05:01 pm
Entry tags:
Application.
Player Information
Your name/pseudonym: Jessie
Are you 18 or older at the time of this application? Yes.
What gender pronouns do you prefer?: Female, although I do get called “sir” a fair bit.
Your email: sunnjessie@gmail.com
Your chat handles: Sunny Breaks on AIM
Do you currently have any other characters in this game? If so, please list them here: No!
Character Information
Name: Dr. John H. Watson, M.D.
Nickname/aliases: Most people call him Watson.
Canon (e.g. Harry Potter/Firefly/Star Trek): Sherlock Holmes stories
Canon Type (e.g. book, movie, television show, play)?: Book.
Character's LJ: armydoctor
Brief history of your character (100-200 word minimum): After getting his medical degree in 1878, Dr. Watson joined the army. He was shipped to his regiment in India, but by the time he got there the second Afghan war had broken out and he was shipped out again to join them in Afghanistan. He was wounded at the battle of Maiwand, and saved from capture by his orderly Murray, who threw him over a pack-horse and brought him back to the British lines. While recovering in Peshawar, Watson came down with enteric fever, and nearly died. At last, weak and emaciated, he was sent back to England with a wound pension to recover. Watson had no family in England and soon ended up in London, spending his pension faster than he ought to, until he ran into an old acquaintance from medical school, who eventually introduced him to Sherlock Holmes, who was also looking for someone to share rooms with. Watson was soon caught up in Holmes's cases, and they became the closest of friends. He devoted himself to assisting Holmes and doing some small bit of biographical writing, which Holmes never approved of. Watson married Mary Morstan in 1888. In 1891, Sherlock Holmes met his apparent death at the hands of Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland; within the year, Mary Watson also passed away.
Stats
Age: Late thirties or early forties, approximately.
Appearance (please be sure to include any distinguishing traits that you want other characters to notice, .e.g. scars, eye color, particular jewelry): A gentleman of about average height and build, fairly good-looking. He has brown hair, a moustache, and a generally neat and faintly military air. He often carries a walking stick, and limps slightly. His shoulder is significantly scarred from a bullet taken in Afghanistan, as is his leg to a lesser degree.
Icon (100x100 pixels, preferably textless, good quality icon for cast list): Here.
Brief synopsis of your character's personality (100 word minimum): Watson is a kind-hearted and sympathetic person, for the most part. He is loyal by nature, with a tendency to hero-worship (particularly in the case of Sherlock Holmes). He is a moral, honest person, polite, extremely forgiving, and a terrible liar. He has a definite temper, which is often roused by what he perceives as injustices in the world. He’s fairly fearless and steady-nerved, although is troubled by occasional nightmares about his time in Afghanistan. Until a few years ago he would have claimed, and believed, that what he desires more than anything is a quiet life with a wife and a thriving medical practice. To be perfectly honest he's always been a bit of swashbuckler at heart, and he finds the quiet life unspeakably dull when endured for long periods. He's more interested in dashing off into certain danger with Holmes.
Game Information
What is the point of your character's canon in which you are introducing your character? (Year, after or during book #/comic issue/television episode, etc.) : About 1892, a year after Sherlock Holmes' apparent death at the Reichenbach Falls.
Is your character alive or dead at the point of entry to the game?: Alive.
What skills does your character have?: He is a practicing medical doctor with all the skills and scientific knowledge thereof, circa 1892. He’s a good shot with a revolver, a good rugby player (he played for the Blackheath Football Club as a medical student), and is attempting to become better at deduction. A good, if sensationalist, writer. Also a good listener.
When your character is shown to his/her room, he/she will find 10 personal items, which the Island has supplied. These things can only be what they would typically have in canon. Please, list those 10 items here. (Clothing need not be included as it is automatically provided. Any special articles of clothing, however, e.g. a team uniform, must be listed):
- His medical bag
- His service revolver
- His walking stick
- His army uniform
- A framed photograph of himself and Mary on their wedding day
- A slightly battered pocket watch, inherited from his older brother, who inherited it from their father
- His wedding ring
- The letter Holmes left for him at Reichenbach Falls, written prior to his confrontation with Moriarty
- Holmes’s silver cigarette case, which he left with his note at Reichenbach Falls
- A supply of his favourite cigarettes from Bradley’s, in Oxford Street
Intro Post:
It had been an exceedingly long year.
The clock in the hallway outside his office ticked off the seconds, and he listened to it, dully, while he wrote. There were no patients today, and after a life of action, of excitement, of mystery and murder and burglary, a quiet and regular practice was remarkably unfulfilling at any rate, so he wrote.
John Watson fancied, sometimes, that he had come back from Switzerland as a half a man, wounded in a way that far surpassed his agonies in Afghanistan; while a bullet wound or two might heal, or nearly so, a soul was much slower to mend. Mary had surely been able to tell, too -- she had always been an observant woman -- but she had never said anything. He had never pressed the point, either, and was usually grateful she hadn’t. The conversation very likely would not have gone well.
Oh, God, Mary. If he had returned from the Continent as half a man, what was left now?
She could not have failed to notice that her husband mourned his friend far exceeding what convention and fashion allowed. Watson would have thrown himself into full mourning gladly, but that would never have gone unremarked. He had not been family. He had been a colleague, and a fellow-lodger, and a friend. Nevertheless, the black armband did not leave his sleeve for many months, and he chose his suits in something approximating half mourning, black and simple. He took the sympathetic condolences with as much grace as he could manage, and refrained from informing those who uttered them that Sherlock Holmes would now be alive if he had not allowed himself to be lured away.
Every word he scratched out on the paper was agony to transcribe. Every sentence was a record of better times, of secret confessions, of everything that he had lost. Watson could not have stopped himself for anything. It was not healthy to live in the past like this. He knew it. He couldn’t stop it.
He’d noticed very quickly, of course, when Mary was with child. Initially, it had seemed the only good thing that had happened to him since the spring, some spark of life and creation in the midst of a world so full of death. Even if he dreamed sometimes of waterfalls, and of unspeakable, illegal acts which he had never actually performed with the person in question, in the day he strove to be an ideal husband, an ideal father-to-be. It seemed a lifeline to him, something with which he would be able to maintain his sanity.
Unfortunately, being a physician, he’d also noticed very quickly when everything in regards to Mary’s pregnancy was not going as it should have.
The house was very empty now, without her. With a very bitter sense of irony, Watson was aware that he was now obliged to wear the full mourning he regretted being unable to wear for Holmes. Sometimes he meditated upon the folly in loving two people, and whether or not he was being punished for this sin or another, and sometimes it was just easier to find oblivion in a bottle. He was keenly aware of a bottle of scotch he had been saving, and was resisting the urge to leave his writing and go do something about that instead. It was only midmorning.
Watson put down his pen and leaned back in his chair, suddenly exhausted under so much grief. He put his hand over his eyes, sighing. He would have given a small fortune, if he’d had it, to see either of them, if only to apologise. For what, he wasn’t entirely sure. He let his eyes fall shut, listening to the clock, to the housekeeper in a distant corner of the house working on preparations for lunch, to memories that were dark and uncomfortable.
He must have dozed off, although he couldn’t recall falling asleep, because he found himself waking. The tick of the clock in the hall had ceased, and his chair underneath him felt surprisingly unfamiliar. Opening his eyes with a peculiar sense of trepidation, Watson found himself in a completely unfamiliar room. It was lit with electric lights that were somehow unlike the ones he had occasionally seen, furnished in a style that was slightly modern to his eyes, decorated with an eye that was even more modern.
He stared, his mouth suddenly very dry.
He rose to his feet, wondering if he should call out, wondering what the deuce had just happened, and was already a step away from the chair when something white on a nearby table caught his eye. Watson frowned slightly as he picked up the envelope, and read his name written elegantly upon it: Dr. John H. Watson. There was something inside that felt like a key. He lost no time in opening it.
It was a key. A key, and a map.
Watson shoved the envelope into his pocket, and stood for some moments, silent and trying to work any of this out.
And then the solution was simple. He would investigate. There had to be someone else here, or some information beside the map, and he would work from there. Surely he was capable of doing that much.
After all, even if it was often painful to think of, he had learned from the best.
Your name/pseudonym: Jessie
Are you 18 or older at the time of this application? Yes.
What gender pronouns do you prefer?: Female, although I do get called “sir” a fair bit.
Your email: sunnjessie@gmail.com
Your chat handles: Sunny Breaks on AIM
Do you currently have any other characters in this game? If so, please list them here: No!
Character Information
Name: Dr. John H. Watson, M.D.
Nickname/aliases: Most people call him Watson.
Canon (e.g. Harry Potter/Firefly/Star Trek): Sherlock Holmes stories
Canon Type (e.g. book, movie, television show, play)?: Book.
Character's LJ: armydoctor
Brief history of your character (100-200 word minimum): After getting his medical degree in 1878, Dr. Watson joined the army. He was shipped to his regiment in India, but by the time he got there the second Afghan war had broken out and he was shipped out again to join them in Afghanistan. He was wounded at the battle of Maiwand, and saved from capture by his orderly Murray, who threw him over a pack-horse and brought him back to the British lines. While recovering in Peshawar, Watson came down with enteric fever, and nearly died. At last, weak and emaciated, he was sent back to England with a wound pension to recover. Watson had no family in England and soon ended up in London, spending his pension faster than he ought to, until he ran into an old acquaintance from medical school, who eventually introduced him to Sherlock Holmes, who was also looking for someone to share rooms with. Watson was soon caught up in Holmes's cases, and they became the closest of friends. He devoted himself to assisting Holmes and doing some small bit of biographical writing, which Holmes never approved of. Watson married Mary Morstan in 1888. In 1891, Sherlock Holmes met his apparent death at the hands of Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland; within the year, Mary Watson also passed away.
Stats
Age: Late thirties or early forties, approximately.
Appearance (please be sure to include any distinguishing traits that you want other characters to notice, .e.g. scars, eye color, particular jewelry): A gentleman of about average height and build, fairly good-looking. He has brown hair, a moustache, and a generally neat and faintly military air. He often carries a walking stick, and limps slightly. His shoulder is significantly scarred from a bullet taken in Afghanistan, as is his leg to a lesser degree.
Icon (100x100 pixels, preferably textless, good quality icon for cast list): Here.
Brief synopsis of your character's personality (100 word minimum): Watson is a kind-hearted and sympathetic person, for the most part. He is loyal by nature, with a tendency to hero-worship (particularly in the case of Sherlock Holmes). He is a moral, honest person, polite, extremely forgiving, and a terrible liar. He has a definite temper, which is often roused by what he perceives as injustices in the world. He’s fairly fearless and steady-nerved, although is troubled by occasional nightmares about his time in Afghanistan. Until a few years ago he would have claimed, and believed, that what he desires more than anything is a quiet life with a wife and a thriving medical practice. To be perfectly honest he's always been a bit of swashbuckler at heart, and he finds the quiet life unspeakably dull when endured for long periods. He's more interested in dashing off into certain danger with Holmes.
Game Information
What is the point of your character's canon in which you are introducing your character? (Year, after or during book #/comic issue/television episode, etc.) : About 1892, a year after Sherlock Holmes' apparent death at the Reichenbach Falls.
Is your character alive or dead at the point of entry to the game?: Alive.
What skills does your character have?: He is a practicing medical doctor with all the skills and scientific knowledge thereof, circa 1892. He’s a good shot with a revolver, a good rugby player (he played for the Blackheath Football Club as a medical student), and is attempting to become better at deduction. A good, if sensationalist, writer. Also a good listener.
When your character is shown to his/her room, he/she will find 10 personal items, which the Island has supplied. These things can only be what they would typically have in canon. Please, list those 10 items here. (Clothing need not be included as it is automatically provided. Any special articles of clothing, however, e.g. a team uniform, must be listed):
- His medical bag
- His service revolver
- His walking stick
- His army uniform
- A framed photograph of himself and Mary on their wedding day
- A slightly battered pocket watch, inherited from his older brother, who inherited it from their father
- His wedding ring
- The letter Holmes left for him at Reichenbach Falls, written prior to his confrontation with Moriarty
- Holmes’s silver cigarette case, which he left with his note at Reichenbach Falls
- A supply of his favourite cigarettes from Bradley’s, in Oxford Street
Intro Post:
It had been an exceedingly long year.
The clock in the hallway outside his office ticked off the seconds, and he listened to it, dully, while he wrote. There were no patients today, and after a life of action, of excitement, of mystery and murder and burglary, a quiet and regular practice was remarkably unfulfilling at any rate, so he wrote.
John Watson fancied, sometimes, that he had come back from Switzerland as a half a man, wounded in a way that far surpassed his agonies in Afghanistan; while a bullet wound or two might heal, or nearly so, a soul was much slower to mend. Mary had surely been able to tell, too -- she had always been an observant woman -- but she had never said anything. He had never pressed the point, either, and was usually grateful she hadn’t. The conversation very likely would not have gone well.
Oh, God, Mary. If he had returned from the Continent as half a man, what was left now?
She could not have failed to notice that her husband mourned his friend far exceeding what convention and fashion allowed. Watson would have thrown himself into full mourning gladly, but that would never have gone unremarked. He had not been family. He had been a colleague, and a fellow-lodger, and a friend. Nevertheless, the black armband did not leave his sleeve for many months, and he chose his suits in something approximating half mourning, black and simple. He took the sympathetic condolences with as much grace as he could manage, and refrained from informing those who uttered them that Sherlock Holmes would now be alive if he had not allowed himself to be lured away.
Every word he scratched out on the paper was agony to transcribe. Every sentence was a record of better times, of secret confessions, of everything that he had lost. Watson could not have stopped himself for anything. It was not healthy to live in the past like this. He knew it. He couldn’t stop it.
He’d noticed very quickly, of course, when Mary was with child. Initially, it had seemed the only good thing that had happened to him since the spring, some spark of life and creation in the midst of a world so full of death. Even if he dreamed sometimes of waterfalls, and of unspeakable, illegal acts which he had never actually performed with the person in question, in the day he strove to be an ideal husband, an ideal father-to-be. It seemed a lifeline to him, something with which he would be able to maintain his sanity.
Unfortunately, being a physician, he’d also noticed very quickly when everything in regards to Mary’s pregnancy was not going as it should have.
The house was very empty now, without her. With a very bitter sense of irony, Watson was aware that he was now obliged to wear the full mourning he regretted being unable to wear for Holmes. Sometimes he meditated upon the folly in loving two people, and whether or not he was being punished for this sin or another, and sometimes it was just easier to find oblivion in a bottle. He was keenly aware of a bottle of scotch he had been saving, and was resisting the urge to leave his writing and go do something about that instead. It was only midmorning.
Watson put down his pen and leaned back in his chair, suddenly exhausted under so much grief. He put his hand over his eyes, sighing. He would have given a small fortune, if he’d had it, to see either of them, if only to apologise. For what, he wasn’t entirely sure. He let his eyes fall shut, listening to the clock, to the housekeeper in a distant corner of the house working on preparations for lunch, to memories that were dark and uncomfortable.
He must have dozed off, although he couldn’t recall falling asleep, because he found himself waking. The tick of the clock in the hall had ceased, and his chair underneath him felt surprisingly unfamiliar. Opening his eyes with a peculiar sense of trepidation, Watson found himself in a completely unfamiliar room. It was lit with electric lights that were somehow unlike the ones he had occasionally seen, furnished in a style that was slightly modern to his eyes, decorated with an eye that was even more modern.
He stared, his mouth suddenly very dry.
He rose to his feet, wondering if he should call out, wondering what the deuce had just happened, and was already a step away from the chair when something white on a nearby table caught his eye. Watson frowned slightly as he picked up the envelope, and read his name written elegantly upon it: Dr. John H. Watson. There was something inside that felt like a key. He lost no time in opening it.
It was a key. A key, and a map.
Watson shoved the envelope into his pocket, and stood for some moments, silent and trying to work any of this out.
And then the solution was simple. He would investigate. There had to be someone else here, or some information beside the map, and he would work from there. Surely he was capable of doing that much.
After all, even if it was often painful to think of, he had learned from the best.