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.

[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.

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."

[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.

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.

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.