The Crimson Blaze

[theblogger]

CHARACTERS: John Watson (theblogger) and patients!
LOCATION: Medbay
WARNINGS: None for now, but may add them later.
SUMMARY: It's better now that the staff has managed to decide on hours instead of 'all hours', but an eight-hour shift is nothing to scoff at.
NOTES: This post was made for Todd/The Guide's plot (please see the OOC board), but anyone and everyone who needs medical attention, is wandering through, or just needed an excuse to troll John Watson is most welcome.

Those who post for the plot may be subject to scrutiny from Ratchet, Helen, Rory, and any other med staff wishing to participate. John will be sending out a network post to the staff once more than one person comes in afflicted with the strange condition, so if you want a lead-in, that will be it.


John didn't know what to expect when he arrived for his shift in the morning. The hum of the machines was a cold comfort for the doctor, but he had begun to learn to endure the silence as he took residence at his post. Early on he could be seen nursing a cup of coffee between his hands, and closer to the afternoon (or so said his watch), there was tea. There had been blessedly little to actually do after those few days proceeding a jump, at least professionally. Of course, the network seemed always abuzz with some sort of chatter, be it from those few still desperately seeking answers or those who were trying to content themselves with the new environment. John often heard or read his name upon a few of them; a surreal experience to be sure after spending so long just being another face in the crowd in London.

He didn't feel very remarkable. True, he knew that he was a good doctor and that he tried to have a temperament that was amenable, but he also knew he was far from the best. The fact that he was the most qualified as a general practitioner among humans in all the ship was startling, given the size. He felt, in some ways, like Captain John Watson again, a leader among men. But John didn't feel like he'd deserved as much of this attention as he had in the war. He'd fought there. He'd almost died there. There was no real war here, only tension and unrest brought on by the strange predicament that tied them all together.

All John had done was been there, and been concerned about the future. Anyone would. It was the right thing to do. And for now, he seemed to be one of the most involved. He was aching for the time in which the stress on his shoulders would not be so great, even if it was partially exhilarating. More than just the weight of his personal responsibility, he felt like a certain expectation was being placed on him. He felt it in every question that people like Kirk, Spock, Capa, and Re-L sent him, like he was on duty constantly to monitor what sort of fare the Tranquility was receiving. This was not the job he wanted, but he hardly felt like he could displace it, being one of the only people capable of collecting the data. He liked the connection it afforded him, too, at least to the point that he'd rather have it than be without it. Nevertheless, there was a distinct difference in doing what one wanted to do and doing what one had to do. He was discontent.

But there was something to look forward to now. Helen Magnus seemed to be the godsend that John had been silently asking for every time he found himself spending the day on the network, taking records, prodding at the unknown, to realize he needed to go home at some point and sleep on something that was actually built for the task. Lately he'd been seeing more of his younger friend, and that had helped him more than he could possibly say. But Sherlock wasn't exactly a rock to cling to; the man had his own problems and not the sort that could be faced alone. His mirror, Holmes, was actually worse off. Neither of them were far from John's thoughts, especially given a quiet moment without them.

While John waited in the medbay, he contented himself by filtering through the network on his communication device, replying to messages and keeping an ear and eye out for anything which might require his attention.

Comments

[longaevus]

Helen gave a little knocking tap on the wall to catch his attention, following it with a 'Doctor Watson?'. They'd spoken on the network after she'd sent a message, finding him pleasant. Other than being willing to help already (and possibly needing to - sitting around wasn't one of her strengths) his pleasantness made Helen believe that working with him would be nice also. As nice as an odd situation could be.

John had mentioned a lot to her. She'd come here to familiarise herself with the infirmary but also to know more, to see what he knew (either medically or what he'd learned here). In person was easier, and nicer.

So so sorry for the lateness.

[theblogger]

The little knock got him perking a bit over his mug, and his name brought on a focus that wasn't quite hit yet by the coffee. he face was vaguely familiar, and just who he wanted to see. Perhaps it showed in the way he straightened further, the way his eyes briefly seemed to light.

"Doctor Magnus," He returned, sliding out of his seat to gradually cross the space to her. The one had still held the mug, though his right hand was extended. His voice was warm, as was his smile, "I'm glad you decided to stop in. How are you feeling?"

[longaevus]

Helen gave him a warm smile when he stood, greeting her. Stepping a little more into the room Helen extended her own hand she gave his a brief but firm shake.

"It'd be hard to familiarise myself if I weren't here." That was true although she'd come out of curiosity as well - to see the place but also those who staffed it, and to see if there was anything that she could do - Helen wasn't good at simply sitting around.

"And I'm well, just about used to where we are by now." Perhaps not used to it but a little more familiar. Helen wouldn't quite say comfortable but the idea wasn't something that completely baffled her.

"I hope that you're well also." And not too overworked from previous months? The staffing situation certainly wasn't good.

[theblogger]

John was excellent as sitting down, but he was also good on his toes. For someone who he was hoping would replace him, it was a good trait to have and show. The interest was reassuring, as was the vibe he was getting from the woman. She seemed nice.

"Can't complain, really," He absolutely could. Nevertheless, he wasn't the sort, and right now he was pleased to have her and less than inclined to scare her. "Would you like some tea, or perhaps some coffee? It's an... odd thing to use the synthesizer for, but it works."

One had to have a little fun on the slower days. He thought this was going to be a slower day.

[hummerdoc]

Ratchet was there even though he was on an off shift, trying to keep up on paperwork and his studies. Those datapads were his only link to his former body, and even more than that, they were incredibly useful.

He, much like John, kept an ear out on the network for anything out of the ordinary, knowing it was his duty to help as much as he was able.

He was the only one of his kind left, and as such he should set an example of how an Autobot behaves, even in trying circumstances.

[theblogger]

John would come to greet him as he came in for the shift, although he held back a moment when it seemed like Ratchet was deep in his work. Just as well, since he was trying to wake up a bit more himself.

"You're running the analysis on the case from earlier?" John inquired, watching from a polite distance as the other man manipulated the technology he had supposedly brought from his own world. John was also aware that those other men Ratchet had related to - Heatwave, Red Alert - were gone now, at least in the sense that they seemed to have up and disappeared. John couldn't begin to imagine what it must be like for him. He knew that Ratchet had been the ranking officer over them, but he had never actually inquired too far into the Autobot's former life. It seemed like it might be a mercy.

[hummerdoc]

Ratchet looked up from his work, laying the datapad aside. "I am, among other things."

The datapads were actually backups of his memory banks, like a tablet PC, but definitely alien, with the UI in Cybertronian.

"What do you think about it?" Focus on the patients, Ratchet. Something odd is happening. Well odder.

[theblogger]

"About the case?" John clarified, before taking a small sip of his coffee. Thoughtful. "It's difficult to say. You saw them and I didn't."

And he was quite asleep when he was called. "They came in fatigued, you said?"

here have your first patient.

[goldshirt]

Although his first foray into space had ended in multiple altercations to practice hand to hand combat against an enemy much stronger than himself, and despite his reputation for chilling with offworlders, Jim's current situation still wasn't one he'd seen coming. Maybe he'd let his guard down, just a little, but it had been enough. It was all that was necessary, and was one of the rules of Starfleet. Keeping on your toes. But Jim was an emotional creature, and he didn't always follow the guidelines.

When he wakes up, his head rolls and he coughs, and he reaches for his communicator immediately. There's only one person he messages, and it's Spock, and the message is simple: SOS. RA1. Then he forces himself to move.

He feels drunk, or high, or both- somewhere between recklessly strong and like he's fighting off at tranquilizer. His head is light and he's half dragging his feet, breath huffing by the time he manages to get his sorry ass to medbay and sweat on the back of his neck. Kirk isn't wholly sure what happened, hell he hadn't even seen his attacker, but he has the imprint left behind: a tear in his shirt and a wound on his chest.

One fumbling hand slaps at the entrance of medical, and the door hisses open. He rolls himself into the threshold, holding himself up against the doorjam. "Hey doctor," He croaks, vision swimming, and he can hear the ominous rushing in his ears. "I think we have a situation."

yaaay jim i mean nooo

[theblogger]

John is seeing to some tests when the door hisses open. He thinks it's Ratchet, so he doesn't look up right away. The voice, though, that aching rattle of a sound, does draw his attention. He wasn't able to really make out the words in the distance, but a body sagging against the doorway is more than enough to get him away from the counter upon which he was studying samples under the computer microscope. He does run over, though it's not far to go.

"Kirk," John remembers halfway along that he's forgotten his revolver in his drawer at the flat. Nevermind, though, because he's going to need both hands to brace this body up. He's strong, but he's shorter than Jim. Once he's close enough, he gives a quick glance over Kirk's shoulder, down the hall, to make sure nothing or no one is following. It's hard not to spot the tear (but no blood), so John will attempt to get an arm around the other's waist and have the man lean against his side instead of letting him fall right into the doctor's arms. He'll pick the other man up if he has to, but if Kirk can somewhat walk, that's better. The distance between the entrance and the equipment may seem miles away, but it's only a dozen meters or so in reality.

"What's happened?"

[goldshirt]

Whether it's due to a drug induced delerium or not, Jim slings his arm around Watson's shoulders and recalls that the last time he'd felt this shitty Bones had hypo'd him and he'd ended up allergic to Malvaran Mud Fleas.

"I dunno," He slurs, slightly delirious, and he too thinks the equipment is really far away. But he's made it this far, and though he leans heavily on Watson, he manages to stumble his heavy body in the right direction. He can't really feel the wound on his chest, the area likely numbed if partially by the way he was injured. It doesn't bleed, no, but it's like a raw puncture, a bug bite. "Attacked. Something on the ship."

[theblogger]

Something on the ship. Perhaps Kirk is too out of it to notice, but John's shoulders stiffen hard under his arm, the grip around the younger man's waist tightening. He is all but dragging Kirk those last few feet, and bodily hauls him onto the metallic stretcher, if he's allowed. John doesn't waste time in rucking up Kirk's shirt, showing off that sanguine stripe across his chest.

"Are you sure?" This was a serious claim to be sure. "Did you get a look at it? Jim, I need you to stay conscious." Thank god for this technology, or at least the part of it he had found right away. The contraption had many sensors, and was capable of irradiating certain chemicals upon command. Jim was about to get a shot of adrenaline as soon as John could reach the panel.

why is it always you >|

[firstofficer]

He makes his way to medical bay in a matter of moments, once the pieces connect. Because Spock had does as he always had. Followed protocol. Ensured some semblance of stability, informed the necessary parties, requested further information, made effort to establish communication. Three unanswered replies left only one viable course of action- to seek the man out himself. When the doors hiss open and the vulcan steps inside however, the sight does soften the iron line of his shoulders.

It isn't something he would categorize as relief, regardless.

The young captain isn't yet conscious, but a glance to his vitals spell out the diagnosis for him. Nothing critical and nothing recognizable. Spock's gaze flicks from the report, to the man himself, before casting behind him- to the remainder of the room. Empty, at present, but for how much longer?

[goldshirt]

He's long since passed out when Spock makes his way into medical. Jim might have been the first victim, but he certainly wasn't the last, and the sparse scattering of doctors were on their toes. Jim had every intention of getting up and assisting in search and rescues, but his own fatigue had made the better of him.

As it stood, his face was turned to the left, cheek pressed against regulation pillows and breathing soft through an open mouth. He was covered to his waist, but a broad bandage covered his chest. Even with all of their expertise, the nature of the wound was unusual, and since they didn't have full knowledge of the equipment, some older methods had been used.

[firstofficer]

He moves to the foot of the bed in the absence of conversation, because at his core, of all things Spock is, curiosity is intrinsic. The desire of understanding, essential. The dark of his gaze lifts to Kirk's form, prone and recovering, but his attention locks on the bandage. A wound he cannot examine himself.

Fingers curl around the tablet at the base of the bed and lift it from it's cradle. Whatever information he might glean from the medical report would be welcome in the vast nothingness that he has been provided thus far. There was little time to waste. Presuming that what his captain had provided was correct, that an alien life form was responsible for this attack, then it could be inferred that this would be only the first occurrence. Theoretically, the potential for loss of life had already been established.

[sweetmotherofgod]

Heather does not like doctors. So it's a sign of just how concerned she is over her situation that she's dragging herself to the medbay, propelling herself off the walls for momentum like a drunk who by all rights ought to be passed out. Head spinning, she manages to make it all the way to the entry of the medbay and doesn't even puke. She'll be proud of that, once she feels a little less like someone's thrown her into a cement mixer full of cold water. Pausing in the doorway, she tries to draw herself upright. Just because she's gone to medical doesn't mean she's got to be a drama queen about it.

"Hi," she says, and pitches over face-first.

[last_centurion]

Rory was growing increasingly concerned over the amount of "drunks" coming in. Reading up on another report he jumped when the doors swished open and was already close when the woman pitched over.

"Oi! Hey, hey, you're alright." He reached for a scanner and frowned. More of the same. "I'm going to pick you up, alright?"

[sweetmotherofgod]

"No!" Heather regretted yelling almost immediately, or at least the surge of nausea that came with it. "Just, uh. Just help me up, I can walk." She reached up, hoping he'd let her steady herself on him, and felt a little guilty.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have shouted at you."

[last_centurion]

"It's alright." He goes to put a hand on her elbow to help her up, fully willing to be all the support he needs to be. "Can you tell me what happened to you?"

we interrupt this program

[testgasm]

Wheatley could not believe how many good ideas he had on any given day. Positively stunning, really, his good idea output. What was it like, he wondered, to be an ordinary person, without a constant stream of good ideas? Probably terrible.

His latest great idea, of course, had everything to do with Operation: Avoid GLaDOS and, by extension, not getting killed. As much as he hated Med Bay and absolutely everything it stood for, there were useful things there, especially for someone who completely expected to be murdered at any given instant.

He was going to steal some band-aids. Then he would be prepared for whenever GLaDOS decided to kill him--anything to save him multiple trips to the accursed medical department.

To avoid Doctor Watson, the solution was to visit in the morning (whatever passed for a morning in space, anyway), and be as quick and quiet as possible. With this goal in mind, he found himself rifling through random drawers, not knowing exactly where such bandages were kept, but sure they had to be around somewhere.

This was a good plan, and could not fail at all.

Ratchet's ahem /mercy/ shall be yours, Wheatley.

[hummerdoc]

And yet, he forgot about Ratchet, one who had a slight reputation in the Autobot ranks for being stealthy when it involved anything medical.

So Ratchet moves over to loom over Wheatley's shoulder, arms crossed over his chest.

"May I be of assistance?"

[testgasm]

Oh.

Oops.

Wheatley's first reaction was to make it seem like there was nothing suspicious at all about his presence here. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about anyone sneaking through the Med Bay, rummaging around in drawers. He slammed the cabinet shut and wheeled around.

"Uh...no. No. Everything's fine, here. Not bleeding, or in need of assistance, or injured." Which was only half-true--an observant physician such as Ratchet would clearly be able to spot the fading shiner from that shower run-in with Megamind, but it was, of course, not something Wheatley had considered. "Just having a little poke about, don't mind me."

reposted for edit

[statsraaden]

Stats woke up rather sick, and rather late. He ached everywhere and he felt what he though was a bit of a fever, if he was to trust what he heard about being feverish.

That meant he had to go to medbay. He got up, with much effort, and put on his clothes.

That's when he saw the wound. Where did he get that? He didn't remember having it last night, and his door was locked, meaning nobody, and nothing, could have got though to injure him. It hurt a little, and his puzzlement was stronger than the pain.

He went to medbay, hoping not to come across too many people; he didn't want to get them sick. Oh, John Watson was there.

"Hello. I seem to have caught something. Would you have a look?" He went on about his sickness and showed his wound.

[saidhe]

The first step was always the most difficult when approaching a new immersion into society after a long stint inside. Lights were too bright and sounds were too loud and nothing was quite right in the world because the details were just so very there now like they weren't when he was in a reclusive stage. He wouldn't have left at all if it had been up to him, really. He was rather happy in his mandated vacation. And by happy, it meant it was better than the alternative.

It had taken him nearly three times what it should have to get to the med bay. In reality, he should have sent a message but, well. John had his phone, didn't he? Probably for the better. Left him to his own devices rather than broadcasting what he could or attracting the attention of who he WOULD if he'd had access to a phone. But he kept slumping, falling into the wall and sliding down it.

Really, it was just embarrassing. If it hadn't been for the wound, he wouldn't have come at all. But he didn't know what it was. He was Sherlock Holmes and he didn't know what it was.

So here he hangs off the doorway of the medbay, knuckles white as they clutch the door for better standing. He's already weak from the detox, from how it keeps him up at night, bones rattling in all the wrong ways and never stilling thoughts never able to deviate from that one shining thing that he needs and wants so, so completely. It doesn't help how little he's been eating, how poorly he's been taking care of himself. He was a wreck before and now he was exponentially worse.

"Oh." But it was the first time he'd been out of his room in days. And it still felt strange and off. "There you are. I was wondering if there was a doctor in."

He's just going to stay in this doorway. He likes this doorway and it likes him back. They have a friendship based on mutual care for Holmes' uprightness.

[hummerdoc]

Ratchet sighed, rubbing his forehead. This was not the best of days. But duty called.

"You look like you've been run over by a Decepticon, Sherlock." Ratchet said, moving over to help Sherlock to a nearby exam table. "I had a feeling you would be having issues, considering our last conversation."