for olivia

Aug. 28th, 2013 08:30 pm
sharpshooting: (think; really think)
John didn't make a habit of going up to the second floor of Sick Bay too often. Deserted more often than not, its quiet was sometimes eerie. There, more than almost anywhere else (except for some of the rooms in the Labyrinth, which he made an especial point of avoiding) he found himself imagining the station's former inhabitants, the uses to which they'd put the space, what some of the machines had been needed for.

Some, like the self-surgery pod, he no longer needed to imagine. Thanks to the facehuggers, he'd now had a chance to see it in lurid action-- and to thank their captors for its existence, as there was no way they'd have been able to save Santana without it.

But finding Olivia standing beside the pod, wearing a quizzical expression as she inspected it (carefully, without touching; he was impressed) set the memory at a good enough remove that he was able to approach her with a genuine smile on his face.

"Bit creepy, isn't it?" he observed wryly as her eyes lifted to his.
sharpshooting: (exhausted)
As much as John hated to admit when Sherlock was right about something, in this case, there was really no other option. Beyond keeping the knocked-out powered people stable, there was little else to do besides take regular blood samples.

The fact that what they considered stable had deteriorated from "unconscious but otherwise fine" to "not actively suffering from cardiac arrest or lung failure" was not something John was even remotely comfortable with. The fact that nineteen lives were at stake and he couldn't do anything to help any of them was something that scared and angered him.

Spending hours comparing markers in blood samples across a four-day period wasn't helping him stay positive about it much, either.

Sighing, he pulled up the latest analysis of Captain Rogers' blood, punched in a command to the program and watched in resignation as the chart came up across the screen. "Computer, begin recording," he murmured. "Subject 4, Captain Steve Rogers. Day 5, 2205 hours. Samples drawn over the past twelve hours show little change in oxygenation or white blood cell count. Subject has not experienced a crash in over twenty-four hours..."

He finished his notes a little while later and indulged himself in laying his head down on his arms. Just for a minute, he thought, yawning into his elbow. I'll get to the next one in just a minute.

Find the good doctor passed out on his desk at any point during the late night, early morning hours.
sharpshooting: (Default)
It was hours later before John finally found Sherlock, stretched out underneath John's desk inside the sick bay office.

"Where have you been?" he had the gall to ask, to which John's only response was to turn away and breath slowly in and out through his nose until he lost the urge to upend a cold cup of tea over Sherlock's head.

"We have to talk," he said when he turned around. "Now."
sharpshooting: (Default)
The holodeck was empty, black walls and yellow grid, and John's footsteps echoed as he walked across it. He moved slow, reluctant, his heart thudding dull in his chest. He still thought this was a bad idea-- but as usual, no one had bothered to ask what he thought.

Finally he stopped, almost in one corner of the big room, and turned to face Sherlock like a boxer in the opposite corner. His hands balled into fists at his side, his jaw set.

"Computer," Sherlock said, his eyes not leaving John's, "load program. London 2012, St. Bartholomew's Hospital."

The city street rose to life around him, and John kept his eyes firmly forward, not looking up at the roof now looming overhead. "I don't suppose it matters to you that I really don't want to do this."
sharpshooting: (a bit not good)
"You're never going to convince me," John said, shrugging. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but not even you are good enough to understand the random pranks that replicator likes to play on us." He ignored the way Sherlock rolled his eyes (he was a pro, by now, at that) and followed him around the corner from the Aurelia concourse to the main hallway.

They reached the lift and John hit the button to call it down, turning to face Sherlock with his arms crossed over his chest. "There's no way you're getting me to believe that ordering tea from the science lab replicator is putting the ratborgs off their food."

He didn't bother pointing out that if Sherlock were correct about his ability to affect the replicator's output, it was a surefire way to get him to go out of his way to order tea from it as often as possible. Anything that brought those things closer to the demise they deserved was a deed well done in John's book.
sharpshooting: (huh)
It would've been an exaggeration to say that John hadn't stopped thinking about Sherlock and the cocaine since he'd found out about it. He was still worried about it, though, and not likely to stop anytime soon-- at least not until he'd found where Sherlock had hidden it and gotten rid of it.

It wasn't made easy by the fact that Sherlock had gone from following him around everywhere like a singleminded and sarcastic guard dog, to disappearing for long stretches of time. Each time Sherlock re-emerged from wherever he'd been (usually the lab, counting on the ratborgs to protect him from John's interference no doubt) John inspected him closely for signs of coming down off a high, but found none. After a few days he determined that Sherlock had squirrelled the drugs away for safekeeping, and it would be up to him to find out where.

He knew better than to try looking when Sherlock was in the room with him, so he waited until he was reasonably sure his flatmate was in the lab, and let himself in. The place was even more of a mess than the day John had arrived; he was almost surprised Sherlock hadn't begun colonizing his space as well, with the amount of crap he had shoved into his own.

He had no idea what Sherlock would consider a good hiding place, so he chose at random, and started with the dresser.
sharpshooting: (a bit not good)
After sending the last text to Sherlock, John threw the phone behind him, not caring where it landed or if it was in one piece when it got there.

How like Sherlock not to understand. In a sense it should have been comforting, having daily proof of the fact that this was actually Sherlock and not some alien clone robot or any of the other wild suppositions that occurred to him when he was feeling especially paranoid. But just then, all he felt was annoyance. He turned back to his console where his email was open, and scrolled once more through the folder of messages.

They had all shown up at once... )
sharpshooting: (Default)
Two days in, and John was still having a difficult time processing that he wasn't going round the twist. He really was in space, and Sherlock was really alive-- not the way John had spent half a year wishing, mad dreams of discovering his friend had faked his death and had been in hiding the whole time, but whisked away out of his life long before Moriarty's performance with the crown jewels.

Nothing made sense anymore. John would learn to live with it, but it was going to be hard for a while. And it certainly wouldn't be made easier by this: looking up to find Mycroft Holmes walking calmly through the transport hub where John sat playing a level of this Minotaur game on his phone.

He hoped Mycroft wouldn't stop, but of course he did, sending an unpleasant jolt through him at the sight of the familiar smug smile. He let his hand holding the phone drop to his lap and just stared, expressionless, willing Mycroft to back down.


sharpshooting: (Default)
Dr. John Watson

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