Dr. John H. Watson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theblogger) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ataraxionlogs2012-02-11 06:20 am
theblogger) wrote in ataraxionlogs2012-02-11 06:20 am
Entry tags:
The Crimson Blaze
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.
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.
we interrupt this program
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.
So Ratchet moves over to loom over Wheatley's shoulder, arms crossed over his chest.
"May I be of assistance?"
no subject
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."
no subject
"Really. Why then do you have injuries around your eye? Healing, but still quite visible still?"
no subject
"I mean, it's clearly fine." Didn't hurt anymore, at least, so obviously that meant it was nothing for Ratchet to worry about.
no subject
"Why is it everyone thinks I am to be avoided at all costs?" Ratchet continued on, unknowingly echoing Wheatley, meaning not only the ones on the ship but his own Autobots. "I do not deliberately cause pain."
He snorted at Wheatley's weak defense. "Still, I need to look at it to make sure there will be no lasting effects. Did you know that injuries like that can cause you to lose sight? And unlike robotic organisms, human eyes are not replaceable or easily repaired."
no subject
He let out another sharp laugh, apparently finding the Autobot's comment about vision to be incredibly amusing, in a bitter sort of way. "Listen, I don't think this body's eyesight can get much worse. If you--if you must know, I was, in fact, assaulted."
no subject
He growled a bit at the news that Wheatley was injured by another. "May I ask who and the specifics?"
no subject
He narrowed his eyes, peering past the Autobot, trying to plot the easiest way out before there were needles and tests and stethoscopes. "Giant blue head. I'm sure you've seen him. Attacked me in the shower."
no subject
"I'm aware of him, yes. And why would he attack you, upstanding innocent citizen you are?"
Also have Ratchet making sure there are no exits. Sorry, Wheatley.
no subject
Even if there were no exits, the smaller robot wasn't going to quit looking for one. Maybe if he tried to duck under Ratchet's arm...
"Uh, because he's mental. Just got it out for me. Your guess is as good as mine."
no subject
He'll just move his body to intercept the runaway robot turned flesh, if you do not mind?
"Really."