Appointments

[theblogger]

This post is for IC threads that don't fit in logs or network posts (aka this is an excellent choice for a private thread).

Games: Ataraxion and Luceti

Please indicate the date and the game you're from in the subject line!

Comments

(Luceti) [action, clinic : March 19th, morning]

[notquiteheartless]

[Sherlock Holmes felt like he'd been through Hell. Everything hurt. His arm and back were throbbing, and the bits of dreaming he could remember baffled him.

Moriarty and wings and John...

It didn't surprise him when he opened his eyes and saw white walls. Something must have gone wrong with either an attempt to keep working or an attempt to sleep. He'd never been sedated throughout all of his allotted detox before being sent to a clinic, but he supposed it was possible. Especially if he'd gotten into a fight-- felt like he had-- and needed pain killers.

He shifted, pressing his arms against the matress. His back hurt badly, which explained lying face down. Yet, even as he tried to sit up, he made a sound of pain, and his head throbbed. For a moment... he sank back to the bed.

Getting up wasn't worth it right now.]

[theblogger]

[ It had been easy not to think beyond the treatment for a while. Sherlock had sustained considerably deep puncture wounds from Moriarty's attack, but none through any major arteries, none that would have Sherlock bleeding out within minutes if untreated. The cut on his wing, too, was a damage, but nothing so critical as to be concerned for detachment. It would heal, and with it, the feathers would grow back in. And yet, Sherlock had exhibited all the signs of shock as if one of his limbs had been pulled off. John had treated him accordingly, staunched the bleeding and stitched him up while the man dropped off into unconsciousness. The equipment in the village clinic was not very advanced, but the former army doctor had made do with less before. He'd gotten a few of the healers to come and help him with the wing. John was no veterinarian and this was clearly a real concern - he wasn't about to risk just stopping the bleeding and leaving the wing be.

Now it was only a matter of waiting. For a while, all John could really do was watch the other sleep, fluctuating between whether or not it should be considered an invasion of privacy. Of course it wasn't - John was a doctor and he was assuring that Sherlock's vitals were running somewhat close to normal after the trauma. Without monitoring materials, he'd had to do it by hand. Mostly, though, watching the other involved wondering how the hell Sherlock Holmes was alive, and how the hell he could choose to kill himself in the first place.There was Moriarty to think about, too. John was reluctant to leave, but John was going to need supplies from the other clinic. Luckily, one of the healers was around to agree to watch over Sherlock, and John had to bet on Moriarty's new facade that he wouldn't attempt anything drastic.

As it turned out, leaving to go to the clinic might have been a poor idea. After hauling another patient into the clinic, John found himself with another worry and no equipment. There was still medicine here, though, at least.

John was in the doorway, speaking low gratitude to the staff member that had found a cup of coffee somewhere along the line, when he heard the groan cut through the room. The doctor glanced over his shoulder appraisingly, excused himself politely, and made his way over. ]

Awake?

[ John approached the bed, cup in hand. He had his coat on, and was wearing signs of being outside within the past few hours. Sherlock would find himself rigged to an IV of a sort - saline in a bottle, rather than a bag, rigged to a hook. On the table nearby, there were pill bottles and small, glass bottles with liquid drugs. Syringes, too, for a quick treatment. ]

[notquiteheartless]

[Words he had not uttered for a very long time lingered at the tip of his tongue as he heard movement.

"Where's Mycroft?"

The IV in his arm told him it was a hospital, not rehab. Not yet, at least. They were giving him something...

The voice, though. His eyes opened again, long enough to actually let the room come into focus. It looked so much like the one he'd dreamed about. Perhaps that was where he'd gotten it. Half memory, half invention... But that voice sounded like...]

John.

[There's genuine surprise in his voice as he looks at the man.

He had been so careful, traveled so discreetly throughout the maze of London. Yet here he was, lying in a hospital with John here.

Had... whatever had happened... been so severe that Mycroft had called John? He wouldn't dare. Would he?

Sherlock tried to remember, pushing himself into a sitting position. He felt the pang in his back and turned his head, half not daring to do so...

And he saw what he was afraid to see-- a grey wing, quivering when he notices it. He is perfectly silent-- for once in his life-- as he looks between the wing and John and the wing and John.

It is impossible. And yet, every sense is telling him it's true. This paradox has only been encountered once before, and he is not keen to accept the possibility.

And yet...

Sherlock draws in a quiet breath as the most chilling part of the realisation hits him. His voice is calm, though, lying about the prevailing uneasiness he feels.]

He was right.

(Luceti) [action, 2-21 : April 22nd, afternoon]

[notquiteheartless]

[It doesn't take long for Sherlock to return.

He goes straight over to John's chair without a word to the man in it. And then... sets the pack of cigarettes he just acquired down on the table between the chairs.

There is no smell of smoke on him, so he hasn't already had one, and only one cigarette is between the fore and middle fingers of his left hand.

It's a silent offer of compromise: Let me have one, and you're in charge of the rest.]

[1/2]

[theblogger]

[ John hasn't looked up from his journal since the other came in, but it's hard to look like one is reading when one's eyes track along a page without turning it. Just a temporary setback - Sherlock is distracting.

Trying to think of something to say without sounding ridiculous or completely open is difficult. Luckily, Sherlock seems to have an idea.

The doctor's eyes flicker to the box on the table, and temporarily on the hand that nestles the cigarette. He doesn't have to make a big show of sniffing - a simple inhale through the nose, as he's been breathing, is enough to let him know that there's been no chain-smoking before this olive branch has been extended.

Sherlock might see this as a peace offering, but John sees the simple box as an invitation to a fight. Not now, and maybe not tomorrow, but somewhere down the road, past the point where Sherlock finally does away with being cautious around him, the flat will be in disarray and John will be the stupidest man to have ever lived. The detective wants John to fight him, for him; not giving up, just giving in. Should John congratulate him?

Or maybe he's just reading into this way too far. Maybe this is all just an empty promise because having a vice doesn't take from the pockets any more, and John's got no way of keeping Sherlock from getting these easily by paying off the merchants. This will all come down to Sherlock's will, which is, indeed, a mighty force to be reckoned with... but only when it comes to getting what he wants, not when it concerns withholding things from himself. Of the two of them, discipline and moderation is easily John's forte.

John leans forward and picks up the pack, settling back to thumb open the top as if to check the contents. Perhaps he should feel sorry for going through Sherlock's room while he was away. The other man will know because he always did, no matter how carefully John tried to replace things. John doesn't feel bad about it, though. It just means he has only one choice in the matter at hand now, which is to accept. To pretend like he doesn't care would be a lie. ]

[2/2]

[theblogger]

[ The journal is shut and set aside. The older man rises out of his armchair to cross the flat in silence to the window, which he opens. The fingers of his left hand tap the pack he still holds... before he shifts it and draws one of the pale slivers from the box. After placing it between his lips, he opens an empty hand, palm up, expectant. Lighter, please.

Here's his counter-offer, of a sort. Three months ago and John doesn't think Sherlock would have got it, nor would John have been inclined to do it. Now, though, he thinks the younger man might understand. ]

[notquiteheartless]

[Once he goes into his room and realises it has been gone through, there will be a momentary worry. After all, he has something secreted away there. Not for use but to avoid a row likely to be far more vicious than any over cigarettes. Especially so early. But he was extremely careful in choosing to hide the lone syringe that had found its way here. He hadn't even been looking for it-- it had been in its place in his evidence kit. A reminder of where he'd been before here.

Nothing had come with it, and he hadn't had any interest in finding either of the powders that should have accompanied it, been tucked away in a pouch of the kit. He was bored enough to smoke, but the situation wasn't yet dire enough to require anything stronger than nicotine. Working alone, hunting Moriarty and his assassins alone... that required more. But, even with Moriarty here, this place was... safe enough that he didn't need those.

But he wasn't sure John would believe him if he found the syringe. (Maybe, he considered, he wasn't being totally honest with himself. If he didn't think he'd ever have use for it, why keep it? ...But that's a question for another day.) Logic will dicate, though, after the initial concern that if John had found the syringe, he would have taken it from its hiding place and confronted him with it now.

As it stands, he looks at John holding the cigarette. Perhaps he has some idea what the game is. Perhaps he really is lost. Either way, his reply is simple, neither angry or dismissive. He's almost confused.]

You don't smoke.

[And always protest smoking quite a lot, in fact.]

[ATARAXION -- ACTION -- SOMETIME CLOSE TO JUNE'S JUMP]

[testgasm]

((after this post))

[Medbay is BORING. Medbay is the worst. Sure, it was maybe Wheatley's fault a little bit for nearly getting himself killed, but that doesn't to stop him from spending every waking bedridden moment voicing his complaints about the situation.

If he had his cube, he thinks, it would be better. Less mind-numbingly dull, for one--without it, there's nothing to do but sit around and WALLOW IN HIS OWN MISERY.

But enough of that. What he does, instead, is turn all his attentions (and frustrations) to his communicator, leaving a certain test subject a series of increasingly unstable voicemails.

There is clearly nothing wrong with that.]

[theblogger]

[ Well, here goes nothing. Already, John sees Wheatley is engaged with his communicator. Possibly still harassing whoever it was on the network. John approaches from where he'd been seated before at his desk, slipping his communicator into his pocket as he goes. ]

Wheatley? Have you got a moment?

[ LOL. Trick question. ]

[testgasm]

[Upon hearing his name and the subsequent question, he shoots John a look that very clearly says did you really just ask me that.

But he sort of sits up anyway, because he knows Doctor Watson can be pretty scary if he wants to be, and Wheatley isn't particularly interested in an altercation.

Yet.]

Uh...let me check.

[It's not so much a check as it is more fiddling with his communicator, but after a moment he seems to make his decision.]

Yes. I have a moment. I have...lots of moments, if you want to get technical.

(Luceti) June 6 | Evening | Seventh Heaven

[beltbucklerebel]

[Crazy. This whole place was completely crazy.

Bones wasn't mad at him anymore, at least, which had helped somewhat...only then it was like the whole village was turned on its head. People turning into other people...forgetting who they were...running around with masks on...being ages they shouldn't be.

It had to be a hallucination, except he wasn't sure if that was better or worse than it being real.

The drink in his hand felt real enough, though, and it burned his throat believably when he swallowed. Not the smoothest he'd ever had, but he figured it would do the job well enough.

Absolutely crazy]

[theblogger]

[ John's just about had enough of the insanity going on outside as well. Sherlock and Brennan seem to have made a sort of research field day of it, but John has never been the sort of person who's been able to set themselves above the crowd. All he can be thankful is that nothing has befallen either him or Sherlock this month... and try to dodge or otherwise not step on the other villagers.

This is a little too much disarray for his tastes. So, when he's done with his shift at the clinic, he deviates from his path to home and goes right into the pub. He knows more about the strange happenings is just waiting back at the flat. Might as well have a drink and get buzzed enough to put him in a better mood to swallow it all. It's been months since his last real drink, which he took when his best friend showed up after being dead for months. John's pretty sure he deserves this one.

He's hoping, not expecting, to maybe see Archie Kennedy behind the bar. It's been a while since the sailor's seizure incident, and John's felt properly ashamed about not checking up on him sooner.

But he spots another familiar face first.

John hesitates, if only because he's not entirely sure where he stands with Booth. The man thinks he's a fictional character, so that's a bit of an odd situation waiting to happen...

Sod it. Things are already crazy. Drinking alone is a terribly sorry thing to do. Might as well try to make peace. He's Temperance's friend(?), after all. ]

Booth?

ATARAXION | TEXT | WED.

[consulting]

I'm certain you're well aware there's an epidemic.
Are you affected?

SH

[theblogger]

No. Are you?

[ Because your other self sure as hell is. They thought it was withdrawals until his bloody eyes turned blue at the edges. ]

TEXT

[consulting]

John.

[theblogger]

Now I'm John?

What do you want?

TEXT

[consulting]

Heading out of the flat for a bit.

SH

TEXT

[theblogger]

OK?


[ Since when has Sherlock bothered to leave him a message about what he's doing? ]


Something happening?

[call, August 15th] (Ataraxion)

[jurisimpudent]

[Ring, ring.]

[ No response, August 15th] (Ataraxion)

[theblogger]

[ John sees the communicator go off, but he doesn't budge from where he's sat in 001 197. It could be an emergency. It could be one of the two remaining Sherlocks calling for his assistance. He doesn't move. If it's that important, they'll keep ringing or leave a message, right? John doesn't have anyone he wants to talk to right now, not even himself. ]

ax (100% locked).

[logicals]

The soldier only withdraws when he believes the battle to be lost. Is it?
SH

ax (100% locked).

[theblogger]

This really isn't your area.

ax (permaction)

[logicals]

<sub>[ They haven't spoken since their most recent differences, and Sherlock had been told point blank to make sure he keeps an eye on Alpha John - which he has been, in his own little way. Subtly following him when he doesn't have much else to do, keeping his distance and using the skills that allow him to stay hidden within plain sight. He doesn't want a repeat of their conversation, and he wasn't entirely certain how long he should leave it before he tried again. It's been a few days by now, and Sherlock has been reminded quite forcefully just how bad he is at acting like a normal human being.

He's been trying to think of an appropriate way to get back into his good books, and for the most part, he'd come up with nothing (or at least nothing appropriate).

But then he discovered that there's a cow in the oxygen garden. Surprisingly enough, it's actually quite difficult to milk a cow when your hands are predominately cold, but somehow he managed. And after making a cup of tea with John's metaphorical name on it (not to mention with real, genuine milk), he makes his way through the ship and towards medbay to catch the doctor in a better mood than the last time they spoke. ]</sub>

[theblogger]

[ John is working. A week and he's back, for better or worse, and no one says anything about it. He outranks the other personnel by seniority and he (the other John) seems to know well enough to leave himself to it. Truth be told, if this was home, John doesn't know if he could have done it, but he's been here for over half a year now, and here isn't London. When things happen here, this medbay is the last defense; there's no A&M, no little clinics dotting the city. There's only seven of them - what they do matters. And, well, he doesn't have much else to do anymore, does he? This is sort of what he imagined life would have been like after the war, had he never been up to the prospect of having a flatmate. Work, day in and day out. And John's been given a project. He throws himself on it.

There's a pile of thumb drives next to John, who sits at one of the counters flicking through his communicator to read each. The print on each are frankly tiny, but there are a few consistent words: 'gene', 'recombinant', 'embryonic', 'medicine'.

John glances up when he hears Reaper, his assigned bodyguard (not John's choice), shifts. A second later, Sherlock walks through the door. For a moment, John's face slackens to see him, surprised, but then his eyelids dip, head tilting just so slightly. Maybe Sherlock recognizes the look, maybe he doesn't: it wasn't who John was expecting.

But the doctor tilts his head in a subtle sign of invitation, reaching one-handed to rub at his eyes as he sets the communicator down. ]

ataraxion; audio; october 29th

[cargojet]

[ This is an automated message relayed on an encrypted comms filter. It's about as vamped up as a filter can get. Nathan's voice is crisp and monotonous, like he's reading from a flight manual. ]

Comms has picked up a transmission underneath the earlier reported static. Be advised, shortly we will be making an announcement of a portion of our findings to the ship. The following audio will not be attached, however motivated individuals will no doubt discover it shortly after. Circulation is inevitable, but efforts should be made to delay such a release. All sections are advised to respond to the concerns of non-personel in a soothing and efficient manner until the message's source and purpose has been identified.

Please stand by for further details.

[ Attached: intercepted-transmission.wav; static that quite suddenly breaks into terrible screaming. ]

Communications out.