Dr. John Watson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sharpshooting) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
edge_of_forever2012-12-21 10:36 pm
sharpshooting) wrote in edge_of_forever2012-12-21 10:36 pm
Entry tags:
Holiday Plot 1 : The egg nog is in the details
"Three needle-insertion vials of clear blue liquid, a hundred millilitres each, labeled Trichromataphyl. In the same rack, four eyedropper vials of opaque white gel, a hundred millilitres each, labeled-- hm." John squinted, then spoke into his communicator again. "Can't pronounce this one. Spelled H-R-R-A-Zed-apostrophe-D-N-I-K."
Cataloguing alien medicines was often entertaining, sometimes infuriating, but always interesting. It gave him something to do during his office hours, since it seemed most of the Proserpina's residents put seeing a doctor after an injury on the same level of necessity as taking a bath-- nice luxury if you've got the time, but only if you don't have anything better to do.
"One needle-insertion vial of opaque liquid, dark red, two hundred fifty millilitres. Labeled in an alphabet I don't rec--"
"Attention." The announcement interrupted, startling him into jumping a little, his knee bumping the table and rattling the vials. "The station has successfully completed docking procedures and the transporters are now active. Please proceed to the Porta Ianualis for transport to the planet's surface."
"Thanks, but no thanks," John muttered. "They did just fine without me last time." He'd felt selfish not going down, but when everyone came back with tans spouting stories of pirates and zombies, that feeling had evaporated quite quickly.
"Attention Doctor Watson. Please proceed to the Porta Ianualis immediately."
The voice hadn't changed in tone, it still sounded serene and cool, rather like the computer he and Mystique had dealt with in the testing facility. It didn't make John happy to hear it addressing him personally. He glared up at the ceiling in warning.
"What if I don't want to?" he challenged.
"Attention Doctor Watson. Please proceed to the Porta Ianualis immediately."
"I really don't feel like it!" he countered, planting his fists on his hips. "Really. Don't feel like going anywhere. I'm just fine right here."
"Attention Doctor Watson. Please stop being argumentative and proceed to the Porta Ianualis immediately."
He had to laugh. "You think taunting me is going to get me to go? Have you met my flatmate?"
There was a pause, and John thought he might have won, and then: "Your services will soon be required." And that was ominous, and it suddenly dawned on John that he was having a row with the computer, which as far as he knew hadn't spoken directly to anyone (except when it kept telling Lwaxana to stop shouting at the dictation program).
He debated the further wisdom of arguing, but ultimately he didn't want to know how much more personality the computer was willing to display-- or how much more direct it was willing to get in addressing him. "Fine," he muttered, knowing when he'd been beaten, hopping off his stool and shoving his hands in his lab coat pockets. "But I don't have to be happy about it." There was no reply as he left the infirmary.
He was the last one in the hub. Incredibly, even Sherlock was already there, and Sharon, and Lady Grantham. They were all he had time to process before the doors whooshed shut behind him-- and since when had the concourses had doors on them?-- and he heard the ominous sound of giant locking mechanisms sliding home.
"Uh," he said, turning back toward the assembled group, only a few of whom were looking at him. "Guys... what's going on?"
That was when he glanced up and realized it was snowing.
Cataloguing alien medicines was often entertaining, sometimes infuriating, but always interesting. It gave him something to do during his office hours, since it seemed most of the Proserpina's residents put seeing a doctor after an injury on the same level of necessity as taking a bath-- nice luxury if you've got the time, but only if you don't have anything better to do.
"One needle-insertion vial of opaque liquid, dark red, two hundred fifty millilitres. Labeled in an alphabet I don't rec--"
"Attention." The announcement interrupted, startling him into jumping a little, his knee bumping the table and rattling the vials. "The station has successfully completed docking procedures and the transporters are now active. Please proceed to the Porta Ianualis for transport to the planet's surface."
"Thanks, but no thanks," John muttered. "They did just fine without me last time." He'd felt selfish not going down, but when everyone came back with tans spouting stories of pirates and zombies, that feeling had evaporated quite quickly.
"Attention Doctor Watson. Please proceed to the Porta Ianualis immediately."
The voice hadn't changed in tone, it still sounded serene and cool, rather like the computer he and Mystique had dealt with in the testing facility. It didn't make John happy to hear it addressing him personally. He glared up at the ceiling in warning.
"What if I don't want to?" he challenged.
"Attention Doctor Watson. Please proceed to the Porta Ianualis immediately."
"I really don't feel like it!" he countered, planting his fists on his hips. "Really. Don't feel like going anywhere. I'm just fine right here."
"Attention Doctor Watson. Please stop being argumentative and proceed to the Porta Ianualis immediately."
He had to laugh. "You think taunting me is going to get me to go? Have you met my flatmate?"
There was a pause, and John thought he might have won, and then: "Your services will soon be required." And that was ominous, and it suddenly dawned on John that he was having a row with the computer, which as far as he knew hadn't spoken directly to anyone (except when it kept telling Lwaxana to stop shouting at the dictation program).
He debated the further wisdom of arguing, but ultimately he didn't want to know how much more personality the computer was willing to display-- or how much more direct it was willing to get in addressing him. "Fine," he muttered, knowing when he'd been beaten, hopping off his stool and shoving his hands in his lab coat pockets. "But I don't have to be happy about it." There was no reply as he left the infirmary.
He was the last one in the hub. Incredibly, even Sherlock was already there, and Sharon, and Lady Grantham. They were all he had time to process before the doors whooshed shut behind him-- and since when had the concourses had doors on them?-- and he heard the ominous sound of giant locking mechanisms sliding home.
"Uh," he said, turning back toward the assembled group, only a few of whom were looking at him. "Guys... what's going on?"
That was when he glanced up and realized it was snowing.