trans_9 | The Inevitable [closed to Kerrigan]

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The Inevitable [closed to Kerrigan]

Good God, he needed a cigarette. Between the world being destroyed and all his friends besides John possibly dying along with it (or the entire thing being a total lie), John punching him and storming off, the talking ponies, the random superhero bringing up his cocaine addiction, and arguing with a space elf over (ugh!) politics and clandestine rebellions...actually, forget one cigarette. He needed a whole carton. Strike that, maybe a truck full.

Reaching into his many coat pockets on an instinctual search for cigarettes he knew weren't there, he found that a pack actually was there. And so was his lighter.

Maybe there was a God. Maybe there was a merciful God, or at the very least, maybe the ship really was as benevolent and merciful as she tried to make herself out to be and decided to smile upon him by snatching up a box of cigarettes with his belongings.

...Probably not, but this at least still was a fine bit of serendipity. Sherlock would take it.

Leaning into the doorway of a building in what he didn't realize was another blind spot in the city, he lit up his first post-end-of-the-universe cigarette and took a long drag from it. To be honest, it wasn't really enough, and like it always did when he least wanted it to, old cravings crawled up in the back of his skull and demanded something stronger.

"Not now."

No, not now, though the way he closed his eyes as he leaned against the door of the building and let out a lungful of smoke, would have made it clear to anyone looking that he was a fair bit more overwhelmed than he could even admit to himself.

It seemed that for now, however, he could be content with causing himself harm with only one cigarette at a time.

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"Really, it wasn't a bother. He's not even as cantankerous as some of my other patients have been. He hasn't demanded to be entertained yet." Unlike Luis. But, then, she had a feeling that entertainment may have come from the use of her powers. Sherlock Holmes was probably going to have to work through that for a bit. That and the plant suits, which was fine.

"As for leashes, I think I'll have to bow out of that conversation. It's really not anything I know about." Though she was thinking that some of those metatextual conversations she'd seen on the internet back home may have had a point.

She tilted her head slightly and sighed. "My advice would be to not insult people until you're absolutely certain of their mental stability. And possibly that you know where all the knives are." A pause, then, "Preferably not in you."

"I think the result indicates your judgment was more than 'somewhat' compromised," John retorted. "What, exactly, happened?" So that he could make sure that it never happened again.

He himself was somewhat distracted by Dr. Hussain's demurral, jaw slackening slightly. Sherlock hadn't been a bother? Hadn't demanded entertainment?

"Whatever you did to heal him must have been truly marvelous," he said admiringly, zipping his coat up a little further. "I'd love to hear about it sometime; once Sherlock has explained his end. Over tea, maybe?" He paused. "Please tell me this ship has tea."

Hope sprang eternal, didn't it? The world had ended but John Watson had stayed the same.

Sherlock could practically see the exact moment John started thinking with another part of his body instead of his brain and while he was somewhat impressed with Faiza himself, that didn't stop him from rolling his eyes when John did the coat-zip. For someone who criticized it when other people did certain things like perhaps turning up their coat collars to accentuate their cheekbones, he did an awful lot of zipping up the top of his coat when he was flirting with an attractive woman, usually to have something to do with his hands and as a very subtle way of trying to direct a woman's attention to his chest. It typically was accompanied by him squaring back his shoulders and trying to appear more virile.

Looking quite put out that he'd gone from being the center of attention to being relegated to scenery while John flirted, Sherlock gripped the side of the medbay bed where he sat.

He decided to answer John's question, even though it looked like he'd already forgotten he'd asked it.

"My judgment was compromised because I went to a public meeting that was at best, disorganized blather, and at worst, recruitment for a suicide mission, and vocally disagreed with someone. A woman followed me out and she used some sort of psychic ability to barrage my mind with memories of her personal experiences of physical and psychological torture and mental manipulation."

Paaaay attention to hiiiim.

"I was, understandably, somewhat...incensed. Enough to insult her. Then she stabbed me."

More like wrathful, and yes, it had been stupid to be insulting to the person who'd just hurt his mind, but he'd been furious.

Sherlock would have Sherblocked John from getting any anyway, but after going for so long without his friend and the day he'd had, he was actually not okay at the moment. Not okay at all.

(Paaaaay attention to hiiiiim, Jooohn.)

"...is there tea, though?"

This was just as relevant to his interests as it was to John's.

Well, the zipping of the coat had the desired effect of making Faiza check out John's chest. Though she immediately snapped her eyes back upward because, really. Checking out a patient's friend's chest was...there had to be regulations against that.

Somewhere.

Maybe she needed to write one.

Luckily, Sherlock began talking and there was something else for her to concentrate on. She blinked, then ohhed. "Ran into a telepath, then. We have a handful on the ship, but I believe most of them are somewhat...better behaved."

That was a help, right? Right. Maybe.

She sighed, then smiled a bit. "There is tea, but...well, we're on limited resources. Whatever we can get on the last planet we were on. There is always the possibility of using the Sensoriums to at least make you think it's tea. Just...try not to think about what it really is."

John would have been pleased that his coat-zip technique had worked its magic, had he not been thoroughly distracted by Sherlock's explanation. The friendly, flirtatious expression he'd directed at Faiza dropped off of his face as he turned around, his stance shifting from 'relaxed civilian' to 'military attention'. When Faiza chimed in on the subject of the ship-board psychics, he looked over his shoulder at her, eyes dark and dangerous.

"Better behaved than to assault someone mentally and physically for voicing disagreement?" he clarified quietly. It was highly probable that Sherlock hadn't been even slightly polite in his disagreement, but that didn't excuse crawling inside his head and then nearly killing him. "I should hope they are."

He took a deep breath and reigned himself in. Dr. Hussain was, well, a doctor. She hadn't done this to Sherlock, she had in fact returned him to full health. He gave her a smile, though it was a little forced and the darkness still lurked behind his eyes.

"Sorry," he said, glancing between the Faiza and Sherlock, "but do either of you know if the person who did this has just run off into the bowels of the ship, or are they being held somewhere?"

The news about the tea was distressing, and a little confusing, but he could ask about these 'Sensoriums' later.

John had his murder face on.

And that was because he was paying attention to him. Good.

"There was some sort of Security officer there." He paused. "I think. It was a bit of a blur. She might be in custody now."

"If security was there, then she's in custody," Faiza assured him. "Nightwing and Dean Winchester don't really put up with this. Though...this happened in the City? Had it happened in the crew areas, she wouldn't have gotten as far. Stacy would have stopped her."

Just...in case he ever wanted to go insulting powerful psychics with knives again, it was useful information.

"And, Dr. Watson, I merely meant that there are many people on this ship with powers that have better manners. Many of us live by the creed of, 'With great power comes great responsibility'."

Hey. Spider-Man was on the ship. It was going to come up eventually.

"I'd like to talk with security then, just to be sure," John said, relaxing by a few hairs. "Nightwing and Dean Winchester you said?"

He didn't ask what kind of name 'Nightwing' was supposed to be. It wouldn't do to be insulting of anyone else's culture, considering how he and Sherlock had gotten off on awkward footing with Councilor Kang.

At Faiza's words, he deflated somewhat and offered her a more genuine smile. "I'm glad to hear it," he said, standing up and moving over to lean against Sherlock's cot. "I suppose I should have expected people with unusual abilities, of the sane and otherwise varieties."

He'd get used to it, eventually. He'd gotten used to Sherlock after all.

"Speaking of Nightwing, I was due for an interview with him before I was nearly murdered. We may as well see him in person."

He needed to see if he could find someone that could salvage his coat, as well.

Sherlock swung his legs over the edge of the Medbay bed, completely ignoring all previous instructions of taking it easy for a while--because he generally ignored people when it came to his health--stood up, and took a few steps away from the bed.

He realized his mistake pretty much by the third step. All the color drained out of his face, he reeled, and then he turned on his heel to go back to the bed, looking as if he was trying to reach it before he fainted but not going to make it all the way there in time.

~~Depending on the canon, Nightwing is a Kryptonian name, anyway.~~

Faiza smiled at John and was about to say something when Sherlock...did pretty much what she expected of him. Which was to ignore perfectly sound medical advice and do whatever the hell he wanted anyway.

She huffed a sigh, moving expertly under one arm. Luckily, she wasn't exactly petite. "One day," she lamented, "my patients are going to realize that I know what I'm talking about and when I say to stay laying down, they will."

"Sadly, that patient will never be Sherlock Holmes." John ducked under Sherlock's other arm and helped Faiza get him back onto the table-cot, moving with practiced efficiency to make their patient comfortable and elevate his legs. "Which reminds me, Councilor Kang said I was to talk to you about joining the Medical staff here." He gave her a slightly crooked smile. "I don't exactly have my C.V. on me, so I'll understand if you want to test me or put me on probation for awhile, but I am quite a good doctor. And I don't know if Sherlock mentioned it, but I do have significant experience as an army doctor as well."

John had, incidentally, missed all discussions involving Sherlock being one of the most recognizable characters in western literature.

"She already knows, John," Sherlock said woozily. "We're apparently famous literary characters in other worlds. If alternate universes exist, it makes sense, because there must be an unlimited number of possible realities, including ones where authors coincidentally wrote the life stories of other people in other worlds as fiction. They were apparently written by Arthur Conan Doyle, though. Shame, that."

"The stories aren't actually that bad," Faiza told him, setting up the bedside monitor. "I mean, yes, there are the usual issues that come with writing in the Victorian period. Little to no respect for women, the othering and caricatures of foreign cultures. And the fact that Sir Arthur...didn't actually like you all that much."

She brought up the holographic file again, adding a few more notes. "And Councilor Kang is right. I'm the head of Medical and, frankly, we could use all the help we can get down here. It's usually fairly boring, but when it gets exciting, it tends to be an 'all hands on deck' exercise."

John paused, hand still resting on Sherlock's knee, and boggled at the two of them.

"...Was he writing science-fiction then?" he asked after a moment, latching onto a minor detail in his confusion. "Sherlock and I are from 2012, and Conan Doyle was writing in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries."

Somehow, he wasn't exactly surprised that "Sir Arthur" (what had he got the knighthood for?) didn't like Sherlock much.

He shook his head to clear it of the worst of his confusion and nodded to Faiza. "Well, you can certainly put my name down then. I'm more than happy to help."

"Apparently, he set the stories in his own time. Victorian versions of us."

Wait a moment.

"What do you mean Doyle didn't like me? He wrote about me."

His own author didn't like him?

"Not that it matters, his writing was insipid, anyway."

"I'd rather say you were modern versions, but I suppose either is true. Everything else certainly seems to have translated. But the stories always have had a timeless quality to them. Like when you see Shakespeare performed in a different time period." It seemed to make sense to Faiza, at least.

She nodded. "Said you took his mind away from other things. And he far preferred his historical novels. Which, of course, nobody now remembers him for." It really did say a lot about the strength of Sherlock Holmes that he was still so remembered. "He tried to...umm..." She paused, looking between the two of them. "Dare I ask what you last remember before you arrived here?"

It's not very often that one hears one's life compared to Shakespeare. John wasn't a man who blushed easily, but he could feel the warmth of something not unlike embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck.

He tensed at her question, glancing away for a moment, the hand on Sherlock's knee shifting into a grip.

"I'm not too up on politics and such," he said. "I've been a bit out of it for the past few months. Just found out today that Sherlock's death was faked." Which was why there'd been a bruise for Faiza to heal on Sherlock's chin when he'd come in.

She probably needed more specifics if she was comparing to the stories.

"Moriarty and I had our final confrontation," he explained, holding his hand to his head, eyes closed, trying to will the dizziness away. "Leaving the world thinking 'the Reichenbach hero' was a fraudulent fantasist who'd committed suicide after the revelation he was a fake."

Even though John's grip on his knee wasn't the most pleasant, he didn't tell him to let go. Right now, John seemed to need the contact.

Edited 2012-04-15 00:12 (UTC)

Faiza hummed at that, frowning. "That's a very definite deviation from the stories," she admitted. "Not that there was a final confrontation with Moriarty. Though, to be honest, it had also been the first confrontation, so far as the stories went. But the confrontation took place at Reichenbach Falls."

She glanced over at them both, then paused. "Dizziness? Is there any nausea as well?" It was probably blood loss, but that still didn't mean it was fun.

John realized he was gripping Sherlock's knee and released it. He'd given his friend enough bruises today already.

"I imagine the first confrontation with Moriarty would have gone a little differently without the BeeGees," he muttered under his breath. He made an abortive move to assist Faiza and Sherlock, then realized that he had no idea where anything was kept in here. Something he'd have to remedy quickly.

"I haven't been to Switzerland recently. I did, however, recover a lost painting of the Reichenbach Falls. One of the ones by J.M.W Turner. The case, unfortunately, brought me more into the public eye, which Moriarty was able to use against me."

Interesting, the similarities and differences.

Oh, right. The dizziness. For a moment, he'd almost forgotten he wasn't just lounging there. He'd almost passed out.

"A bit of nausea, yes. And I'm thirsty. Dehydration, most likely."

His electrolytes were probably out of whack.

Edited 2012-04-16 04:38 (UTC)

"No doubt, considering the amount of blood you lost." Faiza keyed something into the holographic interface and a bit of tubing came out of the wall with a needle attached. She pulled it to expose more, taking hold of Sherlock's arm and checked for a vein in his arm. "This should help. Bit of a blood transfusion--the ship can clone blood supplies, so it should be exactly what you need. It should help your electrolytes. And I'll get you both a cuppa once that's done."

It was a fairly slow day in the medbay, thankfully.

"Dr. Watson. Am I right in assuming you're generally his GP of record?" Or, at least, as close as possible. Somehow, she doubted that Sherlock Holmes went to the GP's office on a regular basis.

John watched what Faiza did with the holographic interface and the wall-tubing very closely -- not out of suspicion or anything, but so that he could see how it was done and remember it when he needed to do it himself.

He smiled and nodded at Faiza's question. "You'd be right," he said, "though he seems to be behaving himself much better for you." GP's office nothing, sometimes John would be lucky if he could haul Sherlock to the emergency room -- that would be the downside to one's best friend knowing full well that one could stitch up the more minor wounds back at the flat.

"That's only because she can do a thing you can't do, and I'm hoping she'll do it again."

Her power was interesting.

"You're fine, so you'll not be seeing it again right now. If you get up and fall over to crack your head, you won't be conscious to see it. And if you get injured on purpose and aren't dying, I'll leave you to get on with healing on your lonesome." Because she knew damned well that he might do it on purpose to see what she was doing.

She looked to John, flushed slightly in embarrassment. "It's what I do. I...have powers that basically allow me to pull someone apart without harming them and fix their injuries." She made a motion toward Sherlock. "That's why there's no stitches. I'm pretty sure you're also trying to figure out just HOW a human can do things like that," she noted to Sherlock, before offering a holographic file to John. "Everybody goes through a physical when they arrive here. The general information, though, is something you can likely fill out yourself." And would be faster for everybody.

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