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Tweak says, "m shadows is a beast"

Arthur Sherlock Watson (agein) wrote,
@ 2010-07-22 13:07:00

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Character Info;
Source work and parents: Mary Morstan & John Watson; Sherlock Holmes
Name: Arthur Sherlock Watson
Age: 23
Played By: Trent Ford
Apartment complex: The Bathos
Source of income: Burglary

Personality: From his father, Arthur inherited a fierce sense of loyalty and bravery, though his mother would say the latter most assuredly came from her. Protective, Arthur is naturally pensive and quiet, an observer, though his candor is without restraint. Unlike his father, who was happy to follow in Holmes’ footsteps and live within the other man’s limelight, Arthur takes after his mother’s assertive, independent nature. He is no one’s shadow. His intelligence, his mother would say, came from her as well. Book smart, like his father, Arthur’s common sense and unfailing self-assurance is definitely a gift from his mother. The combination resulted in a young man who was as loyal as he was intelligent, as brave as he was assertive, as independent as he was observant.

He would have been better off without the observant trait.

He realized early that his father loved someone other than his mother. By turns, he hated him for it, pitied him for it and found him cowardly. He hated him for wanting someone other than the perfect woman who had cured all his ills and held him when he cried. He pitied him for living with something he wanted so nearby, but yet out of reach. And he found the fact that his father never, ever pursued his desire unbelievably cowardly. (He, himself, had no loyalty to Holmes, and so he did not consider that as an impediment.)

Accordingly, Arthur developed a bitter hatred for his father’s friends, ultimately choosing to blame them for his mother’s disgrace (because, Arthur knew, his mother was no blind fool). This bitter hatred also caused him to choose a life and profession as far away from his father’s blind goodness as he could manage. It was not a conscious lashing out, but it was a lashing out, even if it was only known to him; he would never break his mother’s heart by telling her what he was doing.

This all warred with his natural inclination toward inherent goodness, and he developed coping skills to deal with his internal conflict, the main one being a tendency to volunteer his time without telling anyone, especially with the sick and indigent in poorhouses and hospitals. A large percentage of his ill-gotten gains end up in the hands of street corner beggars and women in domestic violence shelters, and he’s just as likely to give someone the clothing off his back as he is to keep it for himself.

Parents' story: John Watson had always loved his wife.

He’d loved her when she’d first walked into Holmes’ office, too brave and too old for her years in her almost-tatty governess attire, and he’d loved her when he’d married her (despite his best friend’s disapproval), and he’d loved her when they’d left Literari with nothing but the clothes upon their back and Mary’s prized pearls about her neck.

They’d settled in a simple brownstone in New York, with false papers easily obtainable in Literari during the exodus, and Mary had taken a post as a teacher in a local school, while Watson had found employment as a practising physician in a military hospital. It was a simple life, and soon their first child was born, a son who they named after Mary’s father and Watson's best friend.

Through all of this, John Watson loved and honored his wife.

In Literari, Holmes and Watson had gone on much as you would have expected, with Watson being brave and loyal and Holmes being brilliant and emotionally detached. In Literari, however, Watson finally had the opportunity to meet the inestimable Irene Adler, Holmes’ perfect woman.

Though he never betrayed himself (he believed) in word or action, Irene became for Watson something unattainable, a desire closeted away from the light. The dream on the horizon, close enough to touch, but never close enough to have and hold. His love for his wife, his love for his best friend would not allow anything to be said or done, and so Watson said and did nothing.

And through all of this, John Watson loved and honored.

History: Arthur Sherlock Watson was born in Brooklyn, New York, on a hot, summer’s day. It was a joyous day for the Watsons, and Mary cried the moment the baby boy was put in her arms.

Always a happy child, Arthur was doted on by both his parents, and he grew up in a home that was lovingly quiet and without turmoil.

When he was ten, however, he realized that he (and his mother) had been living a lie. He’d walked in on his father gazing upon a picture of a woman who was not his mother. For Arthur, whose loyalty to his parents was tantamount, it resulted in a crushing blow that would define his teenage years. He would not break his mother’s heart, and so he said nothing of what he’d seen, but he watched, and he noticed, and he cataloged crimes and misdeeds in the form of glances and casual smiles.

Always intelligent, Arthur received early admission to Cambridge (his father wanted him to study abroad), and when he was seventeen he left his parent’s home to go overseas. In England, he learned to be as charming as he was intelligent, and as stealthy as he was brave. He studied astronomy, and he was consistently on Dean’s List

In romance, however, he wasn’t nearly as successful. Despite his good looks and charm, he had issues trusting his lovers. He suspected them of gazing at other men, and laughing with them too long and too loud, of being emotionally unfaithful. Early on, therefore, he stopped dating exclusively. If there was no commitment, then there could be no betrayal. He became one of the most charming heart-breakers at Cambridge, and every woman that tried to tame him failed miserably. In all of them, he saw Irene Adler, through no fault of theirs. He was drawn to enigmatic women, women who kept him mentally engaged, women who were a challenge; women he did not trust. Soft, quiet women (like his mother) he didn’t respect (though he didn’t allow himself to be introspective enough to figure out why). And by the end of his college career, he’d convinced himself of his happiness as a player of the game.

Upon graduation, he didn’t immediately return home. He whittled away what little money he had at cards and billiards, and he wrote countless works on constellations that were never going to be published, while lying in the arms of this woman or the next. It was during this time that he met a group of men near his own age, a band of thieves (literary, it turned out, though they never said as much). With them, he learned the fine art of picking locks, of cat burgling, of detecting lasers and of disabling alarms. He was better at getting in and out than he was at anything else the group did, so that became his specialty. While his parents thought him working on his first scientific masterpiece, he was in art galleries and museums, in stores and banks, his ear pressed against safes and his body sliding between carefully placed lasers.

After three years, he returned home to New York and to his parents’ home.

Nothing had changed, and he couldn’t stand it. He was not cut out to be ‘The Good Doctor’s son,’ despite the fact that he was precisely that. It was a constant battle with his nature, which was to be his father’s son above all things, and his will to do just the opposite.

He was on his way to a nearby coffee shop when he first saw one of Nemo’s pamphlets about the children of Literari. His parents had never hidden their names from him, though they had omitted their pasts, and the pamphlet had him wondering about coincidences. He read A Scandal in Bohemia first, while standing at a bookstore in the East Village. He’d scowled most of the way through, and then he’d bought the collection and read through the rest.

In the end, it wasn’t his father he’d asked, and it wasn’t his mother; he’d asked Holmes.

He’d decided to move to Port Manteau by day’s end.

Alliance: Himself. If necessary, he’ll pretend alliance to the Cacophony, simply to annoy his father, even if his mind rebels at the notion.

Future Plans: Arthur will be exceptionally active in the community in order to scope out prospective hits. If the children of Irene, Holmes or Moriarty come into play he would have strong interaction/conflict with them. His work in the movement will probably be two-fold - outwardly Cacophony, inwardly Euphony.

Literary conflict: Arthur has serious sidekick issues. He hates being a follower, and he cannot stand not being considered for his own merit. His issue with this is so pervasive, in fact, that he doesn’t immediately tell anyone who his literary parents are. In his estimation, Watson (he’s read the books), is a fool to live in Holmes’ shadow. It is, he believes, an embarrassment.

Unfortunately for Arthur, this means that he often ignores utterly sound advice, simply because he cannot see past his bias.

Ability/Powers: "[H]e has the healing touch - that magnetic thing which defies explanation or analysis, but which is a very evident fact nonetheless. His mere presence leaves the patient with more hopefulness and vitality. He would shoo death out of the room as though he were an intrusive hen. But when the intruder refuses to be dislodged, when the blood moves more slowly and the eyes grow dimmer, then it is that [the] Doctor is of more avail than all the drugs in his surgery. Dying folk cling to his hand as if the presence of his bulk and vigour gives them more courage to face the change; and that kindly, wind-beaten face has been the last earthly impression which many a sufferer has carried into the unknown."

Healing: As the doctor that Conan Doyle based Watson on, Arthur can heal inexplicably with his touch. As with the good doctor, he cannot bring people back from the dead once they are too far gone, however. When he heals, he takes on a lesser version (non-mortal) of the injury himself.

Examples;
First Person Community Example: I would remind you all that no one does anything out of sheer goodness. There is always a reason, something behind it, a driving force. Even if that force is an inane goodness of being, it is a selfish act - done solely to fulfill the nature of the beneficent. Quiet sins are sins just the same, and betrayals of the heart are still betrayals.

With all that said, I’m looking for a dinner companion for Friday. Any takers?

Third Person Log Example: It was dark out, and the moon was a sliver in the sky.

It was, of course, no coincidence that he’d chosen this night for his work. He never worked on the full moon, and he preferred the moon at a bare sliver, though he forced himself to mix it up for safety’s sake.

Inside the house, a family sat at dinner. A mother, a father and a small child. He didn’t know them, didn’t care to. They lived outside Port Manteau, so they weren’t tales or children of tales. They were simply mundane creatures at dinner.

They’d never even notice him.

He took out the alarm system from across the street with a long distance rifle and silencer. After that, the office window was easy work, his tools slipping perfectly between frame and sill on the first try (experience, not ability, thank you very much). He was dressed all in black as he climbed into the window, and he was as quiet as the still night as he took the painting off its nail on the wall.

It was easily worth $300,000 dollars, the painting, though the family didn’t have the slightest idea of its value. He’d only found it himself by chance, after a tumble with the wife of the household.

Moments later, and he was in his car (a harmless, white and tan Ford Flex), the painting safely tucked under the false backseat.

In and out, in more ways than one.