Howard Bassem (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2013-06-02 10:46 pm
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in thecapitol2013-06-02 10:46 pm
Entry tags:
You're the Swingset [Closed]
WHO| Howard Bassem and John Watson
WHAT| Howard explains he doesn't actually want John dead.
WHEN| After Howard's fight with Sherlock.
WHERE| A park in Panem.
WARNINGS/NOTES| Lots of emo.
Howard doesn't return to his room that night either. He finds a park instead, something for the little kids of Panem. It's fancier than any playground he's ever seen, with a big carousel and slides and monkey bars in rainbow colors. A metal and plastic lighthouse sits in the center, with a rope ladder up, and Howard scales it easily and crouches in the little nook at the top. He pulls his jacket close around himself, hoping it doesn't rain tonight because he can't think of any place indoors he'd feel safe in. Ironically, out here in the open, he feels at least the protection of the public eye.
He remembers his mother used to tell him not to use the slides because creeps might hide razors in them. He always thought that was stupid, that she was being paranoid back then, but now he wonders if he should have protested as much as he did. He wonders if she felt unwanted and invalidated as he does when her fears were written off as crazy. Then he dismisses that thought, because he doesn't want to be feeling any sympathy for the parents who disappeared on him one day.
He curls up and scratches something with his knife into the plastic of the lighthouse wall, next to the engravings of little kids trying to write out their name or draw hearts or carve out their first swear words, next to the wads of chewed gun and the promise that someday someone will see this. It's getting dark, and soon he has to use his communicator light for the second word. He shivers a bit and stretches his fingers so they don't get numb.
HELP ME. He doesn't know anyone he can tell it to out loud. He looks around the lighthouse and wonders if there are cameras even in here, wonders how fast it's going to hit the tabloids that Sherlock Holmes reduced him to tears, that Howard's managed to burn yet another bridge, that losing relationships seems to happen more often than sneezing with him, as effortless as breathing.
He knows shivering burns calories, so he pulls his sleeves down over his hands - there's plenty of extra fabric - and hides his head in his jacket hood, and, about four feet off the ground and staring out at the Panem park at twilight, with the sprinklers going off, clutches his knife.
WHAT| Howard explains he doesn't actually want John dead.
WHEN| After Howard's fight with Sherlock.
WHERE| A park in Panem.
WARNINGS/NOTES| Lots of emo.
Howard doesn't return to his room that night either. He finds a park instead, something for the little kids of Panem. It's fancier than any playground he's ever seen, with a big carousel and slides and monkey bars in rainbow colors. A metal and plastic lighthouse sits in the center, with a rope ladder up, and Howard scales it easily and crouches in the little nook at the top. He pulls his jacket close around himself, hoping it doesn't rain tonight because he can't think of any place indoors he'd feel safe in. Ironically, out here in the open, he feels at least the protection of the public eye.
He remembers his mother used to tell him not to use the slides because creeps might hide razors in them. He always thought that was stupid, that she was being paranoid back then, but now he wonders if he should have protested as much as he did. He wonders if she felt unwanted and invalidated as he does when her fears were written off as crazy. Then he dismisses that thought, because he doesn't want to be feeling any sympathy for the parents who disappeared on him one day.
He curls up and scratches something with his knife into the plastic of the lighthouse wall, next to the engravings of little kids trying to write out their name or draw hearts or carve out their first swear words, next to the wads of chewed gun and the promise that someday someone will see this. It's getting dark, and soon he has to use his communicator light for the second word. He shivers a bit and stretches his fingers so they don't get numb.
HELP ME. He doesn't know anyone he can tell it to out loud. He looks around the lighthouse and wonders if there are cameras even in here, wonders how fast it's going to hit the tabloids that Sherlock Holmes reduced him to tears, that Howard's managed to burn yet another bridge, that losing relationships seems to happen more often than sneezing with him, as effortless as breathing.
He knows shivering burns calories, so he pulls his sleeves down over his hands - there's plenty of extra fabric - and hides his head in his jacket hood, and, about four feet off the ground and staring out at the Panem park at twilight, with the sprinklers going off, clutches his knife.
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He can feel himself getting a little hot in the face, now, and forces himself to stop, looking mildly embarrassed.
"I'm sorry to hear about your breakup," he said, instead of going on about Effie.
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"No one else gets ditched half as often as I do, though. I'm starting to think I give off some kind of 'leave my sorry ass' pheromone or something." He chews on his tongue. "I mean, it's one thing for girlfriends, but parents aren't supposed to just up and leave."
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