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

[goldshirt]

Jim wakes with a deep, sharp inhale, sucking oxygen to his tired mind. But even that much is like wading through a marsh, and his brow creases long before he can force his body to respond. The sensation of overpower had faded, and it left him with the dry sensation of the worst hangover he'd ever had in his life. He groans, the sound almost like a pathetic laugh, before dulled blue eyes flutter open.

He manages to roll his head to an upright position, one hand flopping useless at his side as he makes a halfhearted attempt to touch his chest.

[firstofficer]

The movement draws his attention as nothing else could. An interruption in his focus, in the stillness and not stillness of the room. The tablet is lowered immediately, not forgotten but certainly forgone as the vulcan rounds the bed, makes his way to the man's side. His voice is offered in the lack of physical contact.

"To attempt movement at this interval would be unwise."

[goldshirt]

He'd figured that much out at least, and his hand falls limp next to him as a result. It's a few more tries before he's anywhere close to cognitive though, but finally, he wets his lips and turns his face toward the sound of the voice.

"Spock," It comes out gravelly, more of a croak of disuse and the dry of his throat.

[firstofficer]

There is no reassuring commentary to follow, no assurance of his presence, simply because the idea never presents itself. Never registers as a necessity. Spock does, however, wait at his bedside in silence, allowing the man to collect his murky consciousness and attempt to order his thoughts. Answers would come, but it would benefit neither party to attempt to circumvent his recovery.

Spock's hands remain still at his sides, and his attention remains on the man's face. "No other individuals have presented themselves to medical bay at this time."

[goldshirt]

"Good," He breathes, and valiantly tries once more to sit up before giving up entirely. His chest throbbed and everything hurt; this was worse than being thrown around by Nero after getting totally wasted. What had happened to him?

"I didn't get a look at them," He says, blinking as he forces his head to clear, "Water?"

[firstofficer]

The glass appears in his periphery as if his request had conjured it. A straw offered to the corner of his mouth. Caretaking is entirely beyond him in multiple respects, but this is a matter of necessity. His words thus far however, have provided little promise of understanding, much less the beginning of a solution.

Spock does, however, have the patience to wait until after his captain has finished, after the glass is set aside, to inquire further. "What was your status at the time of the attack?"

[goldshirt]

"I was en route to Engineering," He speaks after the water has moved over his tongue, wetting the desert of his throat. The coolness helped rouse him, and he blinks as he tries to recall just what happened. His gaze searches the empty end of his bed, not seeing what's before him but instead filing through his jostled memory.

"It felt like I was hit by a stun blast, I wasn't jumped."

[firstofficer]

The description is certainly unique- nothing Spock can align with previous experience, and for entirely that reason it warrants his displeasure. A marginal crease at the edge of his mouth. A fleck in an otherwise stony expression. Spock doesn't sit, but his hands fold behind his back, fingers curled into one another a fraction tighter than what is usual.

"It was not a weapon."

[goldshirt]

"It wasn't?" He asks, looking up at his first officer with no small amount of confusion. It sure as hell felt like one. "I was sure I was hit in the back, though. And this..." He lifts one hand to gesture at his bandaged chest, and for a moment looks like he's about ready to peel back the wrapping to get a good look at what was done to him.

[firstofficer]

"Initial examination," He begins, and for all of Kirk's movement- (a single brow arches to remind him that the behavior is to be avoided at present) Spock remains perfectly composed. "Likened the wound to a bite." There is only the smallest curve nestled at the edge of his mouth.

"Further I am inclined to advise that the removal of your bandage would likely only serve to aggravate the wound itself and thus negatively impact your biological healing process."

[goldshirt]

Jim casts him a withering sideways look before dropping back against the bed. Was this guy taking lessons from Bones?

"Are there photos somewhere? I want to see it," He says it with a little bit of impatience. He wasn't sure if Spock had actually seen it, and Watson didn't have the extraterrestrial experience to connect the damage to anything beyond what he knew on Earth.

"It must have knocked me out before deciding to make a meal out of me," But then he pauses, and frowns. "Why didn't it finish me off?"