Sherlock Fanfiction: Bibliography
May. 13th, 2012 09:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saki101Title: Bibliography
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: PG (this section), NC-17 overall
Length: ~2500 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of The Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. "Bibliography" follows Primary Sources.
Excerpt: John was as good as his word. It was his wont.
Bibliography
John was as good as his word. It was his wont.
He’d brought food, hadn’t lingered at home to eat it, just showered and changed, collected his laptop. Hadn’t wanted to waste time with idle conversation in the canteen downstairs either. He came closest to having the conversation he wanted to have here, alone. The take-away was doubled-wrapped in an attempt to avoid detection as he passed through the main library, entering the door code correctly the first time and slipping inside. It would never have got by you, Sherlock, but then you’re not…stop.
John closed the door behind him, acknowledged the click of the lock with a small nod of satisfaction. Panels of blue sky greeted him. From the dome, his eyes roamed fondly downwards over row upon row of books. He slipped the fob into his pocket. “No more procrastinating,” he vowed, not quite admitting to whom. He pulled his shoulders back, took a deep breath. The air wasn’t as sweet as it had been the previous night, but there was still something in it that made John want to have more inside of him. He drew in another deep breath. “From blogger to scholar, then.”
************
After collecting the classic treatises, the textbooks, the overviews, from the main library, John had sat, almost unmoving, compiling a list of authors and titles from the bibliographies until the names started to repeat. One more foray to the main library yielded the cited books still in print before the search for the older, more esoteric works on the ground level of the Rare Books Room was undertaken. The secondary sources fanned about him, reaching across the long table and halfway down on either side. Some piles sprouted bits of paper marking passages or illustrations, other books were open, half on top of one another, their pages reflecting the lamplight.
John stretched his arms above his head, bent his fingers back and noticed the darkness that had fallen around the pool of light from his reading lamp. He dropped one hand, worked it between the stacks of books until he grasped a water bottle. Dry work, research. John raised the bottle in salute to the shadows, tipping his head back to get the last drops.
A halo of grey crowned the top of the room. John’s memory projected images onto the pale glow of the city sky: opening a blocked windpipe with a pocket knife, elevating an injured man’s legs on a pile of rocks, tourniquets of torn cloth twisted tight with a pen, a stick. Delayed supply shipments, equipment destroyed by enemy fire, or friendly fire, the heat or the sand left deficiencies he and his colleagues had improvised to fill. Their creations bore a strong resemblance to tools of the past, invented again in desperate moments.
They hadn't all worked. John sighed. There had been wrong turns in the history of medicine, but there had been successes, too. Enough to spark a sense of kinship with early efforts to defeat death for another day. John snorted softly as he headed towards the card catalogue with his list of references. The topic wasn’t as much of an academic exercise as he had supposed it would be.
“But, of course, you knew what connections this would have for me, didn’t you, Sherlock?”
*********
Midnight was approaching. John stood and arched, one hand on his lower back, the other on the open drawer he had just finished searching, Ge-Hi, almost a third of the way through his list. After each drawer, he had collected authors’ works which were available on the ground floor. They formed several neat columns of mostly slender volumes near the less orderly array of secondary sources on the reading table. He would seek the titles shelved on the balconies another evening.
“Right,” John murmured, scanning his notes, “only a couple down here.” He found them next to one another on a high shelf and added them to his stacks.
The corners of John’s lips lifted as he considered his night’s work. “Tame compared to what the sitting room looked like during The Blind Banker case, but a good beginning,” John said aloud, scooping the remnants of his dinner into the grease-stained bag from Yu’s. John straightened, bag clutched in one hand. “You asked me out that night.” John slung his satchel over his shoulder and grabbed his jacket. “And I joked about how I hoped you weren't. God, I was slow on the uptake," he muttered, shaking his head. "Should have called it 'The Blind Doctor' case.”
*********
“’Afternoon, Stine,” John said as he walked into their office.
“John, glad you’re early. I was writing a note about the patient due at two. The lab called with her test results,” Stine replied, ripping a sheet off the notepad and looking up. “Are you all right, John?”
John smiled and rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Didn’t sleep well,” he said. “But I’m fine.”
Stine studied him for a few more seconds. “Sure? You’re not catching that flu everyone has, are you?”
“I hope not,” John answered, hanging up his jacket. “I was up late researching the article I told you about. Not sure I went about it in the most efficient way.”
“It’s been years since you’ve done that kind of work. Give yourself time to get back into the swing of it,” Stine smiled.
“Time, yeah,” John said, dropping into the chair in front of the desk. “I hate to think how much I wasted.”
“I think about that when there’re delays on the Tube. I wonder what I might be missing Leah doing in those minutes,” Stine sighed.
“Well, get going then before she starts walking,” John grinned. Stine’s eyes widened. “No, no, come on. I was joking. She’s way too young for that.”
Stine took a deep breath and picked her bag and coat up from the desk. “Of course, no, I…it’s just you’re right, we shouldn’t waste even the minutes.” She stepped towards the door. “Take care of yourself, John. Get some sleep tonight.”
“Yeah,” John agreed as the door closed.
***********
John marched through the library that evening. He’d been the soul of efficiency, even beat the rain by a couple minutes. It was pattering against the dome when he entered the Rare Books Room. John continued marching straight to the office, entered the code, pulled the items he needed for an overnight stay from his bag and left them on the sofa. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said with a dismissive wave to the portrait as he went back out to the reading room, unwrapped his sandwiches and ate while he reviewed his list.
“Hohenheim, Hohmann, Holland, Hollerith,” John read out as he flipped through the cards, a strange assortment of computer-generated labels, handwritten ink entries and typed ones. His fingers slowed, a nail snagging the edge of the next card, “Holmes.” John’s stomach muscles tightened, his eyes refused to move from the first word. The wooden drawer creaked as he leaned forward, inhaling slowly. “Holmes, Arthur A.,” he finally read. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowed his fingernail to find the next card blindly. “Holmes, Arthur C.,” he murmured and glanced further down the card. “Alchemy.” His index finger revealed the next card. “Holmes, Arthur C. Anatomy.” Another card fell forward. “Holmes, Arthur C. Archeology.” John didn’t move his eyes, just his hand. “Holmes, Arthur C. Architecture,” he whispered and began to flip the cards four or five at a time. “Minerology. Neurology. Radioactivity. Symbiosis,” he muttered after several seconds. Each hand movement angled larger chunks of cards towards him. “Urology, Ventriloquism, Zygotes.” John took a deep breath and curled his finger. “Holmes, Mycroft. Autocracy.” John exhaled. He pressed his lips together and pulled twenty or thirty cards towards him. “Holmes, Sherlock.”
John lay his head down on the cards; their edges dug into his cheek, their pressure on the fingers holding the cards apart was a solace.
***********
Far below, the clock chimed. After the first hour, John had settled on the floor to leaf through the collections of essays, research papers and lab reports ranged along the front of the lower shelves lining the alcove behind the fresco of Clio. Now he had one of the box files stored behind the printed and typed material open on his knees. Half of its contents were leaning against his chest, his palm was flattened against the topmost page of the rest. It was a page of hand-written notes surrounding detailed drawings of nineteenth-century surgical instruments with a small stain in one corner. The liquid, John wondered if it were a drop of tea, had spread out like a tiny sun, its pale centre blurring part of the date, the splash separating the black ink into rays of sea green tipped with dark blue. October in the ‘90s. He’d been at Bart’s for several Octobers in years that began with nine, learning, revising, laughing with friends, chasing women. “Did I ever see you in the hallways? Did that intense gaze of yours ever pass over me? Was it only chance that kept us from one another then?” John rubbed his fingertips over the splash mark, let his head fall back against the shelf and stared out the door to the balcony. A brass starburst welded into the pattern of the iron railing reflected the light from the alcove. “Chance wasn’t the villain this time though, was it?” Beyond the railing the high shadows of the dome appeared to offer an answer.
His fingers left a smudge when he lifted them from the paper to loosen his collar. John replaced the other pages in the box, set it gently aside, stood and walked to the door.
**********
The iron was cold beneath his fingers, the night air damp against his face. A hint of bus fumes scented the breeze, the nearness of the river chilled it. John breathed in, but it only stoked the heat within him. He pulled his collar further apart and looked past St Paul’s. It was too dark to see the ledge, but he knew his gaze traversed the place where Sherlock had stood and Moriarty had bled. “I should have seen through your trick, Sherlock. I shouldn't have left.” John’s chest expanded, but the air lacked oxygen. He leaned over the railing, shaking his head, but it refused to clear. His palms slipped along the rail. “He took so much from us. Even before he took everything." The enormity of it spread out over the angles and spires of the city, thickened the clouds, hid the moon. "Even after." John's hands tightened around the slick metal. His lungs tried to find enough air. "If I could have felt Moriarty die...”
From across the roof, the smell of bubbling tar added its taint to the breeze.
**********
Mike felt his phone vibrate in his pocket as the bus pulled away. He flipped it open while he walked through the doors to Bart’s.
“Mike, where are you? Have you seen your e-mails yet this morning?” Molly’s words were a rush in his ear.
“Just walking in and no. Why?” Mike asked, turning towards the stairs to the morgue instead of the elevator to his office.
“Meet me in the director’s office. I’ve brought a biohazard suit for you, too,” Molly said and hung up. The director’s voice had been audible in the background speaking of rescheduling and reassignments.
Mike swung back to the elevators, caught the one disgorging a gaggle of residents, pushed the third floor button and started scrolling through his e-mails.
*******
They stopped in Recovery Room Three and observed the discoloured ceiling, the dark drips sizzling into the metal basin positioned below the leak. After a couple minutes, Molly tapped the sleeve of Mike’s suit and lifted her chin.
Mike nodded to the staff member blocking access to the stairway to the roof. He tilted his head towards the equipment beside him. The curve of the visor distorted his face. Mike wasn’t sure who it was.
“Anyone gone up there?” he asked.
“Not since maintenance investigated this morning when the leak was reported in the recovery room,” the voice behind the visor replied.
“Ian?” Mike asked. The helmet nodded. “Who checked and where are they now?”
“Martin. He’s been through standard decontamination and is waiting in quarantine to be checked.”
“No one else has been up since,” Ian added.
“No samples?” Mike verified, bending awkwardly to lift the equipment box.
“That’s for us,” Molly said.
*********
They stood silently between the yellow signs cautioning of slippery floors which Martin must have set up and watched the surface of the roof blister. When Molly spoke, Mike had to ask her to repeat herself. Her voice was strained when she raised it, her arm unsteady as she pointed. “It’s the same area, the same shape, everything,” she said and waved her hand.
“Same?” Mike echoed.
“It’s where Moriarty’s body fell,” Molly said, drawing her hand closer to them. “Where the blood from the head wound flowed.” Her arm stretched out again to the southwest. “It’s exactly the same.”
Mike could see the vaguely body-shaped outline now that Molly explained it. A few drops of rain hit his visor. He glanced up at the clouds and back down at the roof. Tiny puffs of steam appeared where the raindrops were hitting the bubbling surface.
Mike squeezed Molly’s arm. “Have you heard from him?” he asked. Molly shook her head. “Do we know where John is?”
Molly turned, still shaking her head. Her eyes looked wider through the glass visor.
“I think I know where I'll find him,” Mike said. “I hope I’m right. We should search the roof though." Molly's helmet bobbed. "I’ll send Ian up to help with the samples,” Mike added before hurrying towards the stairwell.
**********
His sigh of relief clouded the inside of his visor when Mike found John on the sofa in the archivist’s office, still in his clothes. John lay on his stomach, his face towards the back of the sofa. Mike had had to lean close to check whether John was breathing.
“John,” Mike said. The name emerged as little more than a whisper from his dry throat. Mike swallowed, took a deep breath and repeated it loudly. There was a slight grumble from the sofa. Mike exhaled slowly, breathed in again. “John, don’t be alarmed. I’m wearing a biohazard suit.” Well, not too alarmed.
John turned over and opened his eyes, closed them and reopened them. “Mike?” he asked, his voice thick. He passed a hand over his eyes and started to lift his head. He winced, his eyes scrunching shut and dropped his head back onto the cushions.
“Dizzy?” Mike asked. John kept his eyes closed and nodded slightly. Mike inserted a thermometer into John’s ear, squinted at the read-out when it beeped. “Thirty-nine,” he announced and walked over to the sideboard, grabbed a water bottle and a straw. It took John a couple attempts to uncap the bottle and insert the straw. Mike waited until John had had a few sips before he asked the next question. “Were you, by any chance, out on the roof last night?”
The firm set of John's jaw when he raised his eyes gave Mike a clear enough answer, but he didn't know what he was going to reply to the question he saw forming in John's rapidly sharpening gaze.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part, Uncalibrated Measurements, may be read here.
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: PG (this section), NC-17 overall
Length: ~2500 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of The Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. "Bibliography" follows Primary Sources.
Excerpt: John was as good as his word. It was his wont.
John was as good as his word. It was his wont.
He’d brought food, hadn’t lingered at home to eat it, just showered and changed, collected his laptop. Hadn’t wanted to waste time with idle conversation in the canteen downstairs either. He came closest to having the conversation he wanted to have here, alone. The take-away was doubled-wrapped in an attempt to avoid detection as he passed through the main library, entering the door code correctly the first time and slipping inside. It would never have got by you, Sherlock, but then you’re not…stop.
John closed the door behind him, acknowledged the click of the lock with a small nod of satisfaction. Panels of blue sky greeted him. From the dome, his eyes roamed fondly downwards over row upon row of books. He slipped the fob into his pocket. “No more procrastinating,” he vowed, not quite admitting to whom. He pulled his shoulders back, took a deep breath. The air wasn’t as sweet as it had been the previous night, but there was still something in it that made John want to have more inside of him. He drew in another deep breath. “From blogger to scholar, then.”
************
After collecting the classic treatises, the textbooks, the overviews, from the main library, John had sat, almost unmoving, compiling a list of authors and titles from the bibliographies until the names started to repeat. One more foray to the main library yielded the cited books still in print before the search for the older, more esoteric works on the ground level of the Rare Books Room was undertaken. The secondary sources fanned about him, reaching across the long table and halfway down on either side. Some piles sprouted bits of paper marking passages or illustrations, other books were open, half on top of one another, their pages reflecting the lamplight.
John stretched his arms above his head, bent his fingers back and noticed the darkness that had fallen around the pool of light from his reading lamp. He dropped one hand, worked it between the stacks of books until he grasped a water bottle. Dry work, research. John raised the bottle in salute to the shadows, tipping his head back to get the last drops.
A halo of grey crowned the top of the room. John’s memory projected images onto the pale glow of the city sky: opening a blocked windpipe with a pocket knife, elevating an injured man’s legs on a pile of rocks, tourniquets of torn cloth twisted tight with a pen, a stick. Delayed supply shipments, equipment destroyed by enemy fire, or friendly fire, the heat or the sand left deficiencies he and his colleagues had improvised to fill. Their creations bore a strong resemblance to tools of the past, invented again in desperate moments.
They hadn't all worked. John sighed. There had been wrong turns in the history of medicine, but there had been successes, too. Enough to spark a sense of kinship with early efforts to defeat death for another day. John snorted softly as he headed towards the card catalogue with his list of references. The topic wasn’t as much of an academic exercise as he had supposed it would be.
“But, of course, you knew what connections this would have for me, didn’t you, Sherlock?”
*********
Midnight was approaching. John stood and arched, one hand on his lower back, the other on the open drawer he had just finished searching, Ge-Hi, almost a third of the way through his list. After each drawer, he had collected authors’ works which were available on the ground floor. They formed several neat columns of mostly slender volumes near the less orderly array of secondary sources on the reading table. He would seek the titles shelved on the balconies another evening.
“Right,” John murmured, scanning his notes, “only a couple down here.” He found them next to one another on a high shelf and added them to his stacks.
The corners of John’s lips lifted as he considered his night’s work. “Tame compared to what the sitting room looked like during The Blind Banker case, but a good beginning,” John said aloud, scooping the remnants of his dinner into the grease-stained bag from Yu’s. John straightened, bag clutched in one hand. “You asked me out that night.” John slung his satchel over his shoulder and grabbed his jacket. “And I joked about how I hoped you weren't. God, I was slow on the uptake," he muttered, shaking his head. "Should have called it 'The Blind Doctor' case.”
*********
“’Afternoon, Stine,” John said as he walked into their office.
“John, glad you’re early. I was writing a note about the patient due at two. The lab called with her test results,” Stine replied, ripping a sheet off the notepad and looking up. “Are you all right, John?”
John smiled and rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Didn’t sleep well,” he said. “But I’m fine.”
Stine studied him for a few more seconds. “Sure? You’re not catching that flu everyone has, are you?”
“I hope not,” John answered, hanging up his jacket. “I was up late researching the article I told you about. Not sure I went about it in the most efficient way.”
“It’s been years since you’ve done that kind of work. Give yourself time to get back into the swing of it,” Stine smiled.
“Time, yeah,” John said, dropping into the chair in front of the desk. “I hate to think how much I wasted.”
“I think about that when there’re delays on the Tube. I wonder what I might be missing Leah doing in those minutes,” Stine sighed.
“Well, get going then before she starts walking,” John grinned. Stine’s eyes widened. “No, no, come on. I was joking. She’s way too young for that.”
Stine took a deep breath and picked her bag and coat up from the desk. “Of course, no, I…it’s just you’re right, we shouldn’t waste even the minutes.” She stepped towards the door. “Take care of yourself, John. Get some sleep tonight.”
“Yeah,” John agreed as the door closed.
***********
John marched through the library that evening. He’d been the soul of efficiency, even beat the rain by a couple minutes. It was pattering against the dome when he entered the Rare Books Room. John continued marching straight to the office, entered the code, pulled the items he needed for an overnight stay from his bag and left them on the sofa. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said with a dismissive wave to the portrait as he went back out to the reading room, unwrapped his sandwiches and ate while he reviewed his list.
“Hohenheim, Hohmann, Holland, Hollerith,” John read out as he flipped through the cards, a strange assortment of computer-generated labels, handwritten ink entries and typed ones. His fingers slowed, a nail snagging the edge of the next card, “Holmes.” John’s stomach muscles tightened, his eyes refused to move from the first word. The wooden drawer creaked as he leaned forward, inhaling slowly. “Holmes, Arthur A.,” he finally read. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowed his fingernail to find the next card blindly. “Holmes, Arthur C.,” he murmured and glanced further down the card. “Alchemy.” His index finger revealed the next card. “Holmes, Arthur C. Anatomy.” Another card fell forward. “Holmes, Arthur C. Archeology.” John didn’t move his eyes, just his hand. “Holmes, Arthur C. Architecture,” he whispered and began to flip the cards four or five at a time. “Minerology. Neurology. Radioactivity. Symbiosis,” he muttered after several seconds. Each hand movement angled larger chunks of cards towards him. “Urology, Ventriloquism, Zygotes.” John took a deep breath and curled his finger. “Holmes, Mycroft. Autocracy.” John exhaled. He pressed his lips together and pulled twenty or thirty cards towards him. “Holmes, Sherlock.”
John lay his head down on the cards; their edges dug into his cheek, their pressure on the fingers holding the cards apart was a solace.
***********
Far below, the clock chimed. After the first hour, John had settled on the floor to leaf through the collections of essays, research papers and lab reports ranged along the front of the lower shelves lining the alcove behind the fresco of Clio. Now he had one of the box files stored behind the printed and typed material open on his knees. Half of its contents were leaning against his chest, his palm was flattened against the topmost page of the rest. It was a page of hand-written notes surrounding detailed drawings of nineteenth-century surgical instruments with a small stain in one corner. The liquid, John wondered if it were a drop of tea, had spread out like a tiny sun, its pale centre blurring part of the date, the splash separating the black ink into rays of sea green tipped with dark blue. October in the ‘90s. He’d been at Bart’s for several Octobers in years that began with nine, learning, revising, laughing with friends, chasing women. “Did I ever see you in the hallways? Did that intense gaze of yours ever pass over me? Was it only chance that kept us from one another then?” John rubbed his fingertips over the splash mark, let his head fall back against the shelf and stared out the door to the balcony. A brass starburst welded into the pattern of the iron railing reflected the light from the alcove. “Chance wasn’t the villain this time though, was it?” Beyond the railing the high shadows of the dome appeared to offer an answer.
His fingers left a smudge when he lifted them from the paper to loosen his collar. John replaced the other pages in the box, set it gently aside, stood and walked to the door.
**********
The iron was cold beneath his fingers, the night air damp against his face. A hint of bus fumes scented the breeze, the nearness of the river chilled it. John breathed in, but it only stoked the heat within him. He pulled his collar further apart and looked past St Paul’s. It was too dark to see the ledge, but he knew his gaze traversed the place where Sherlock had stood and Moriarty had bled. “I should have seen through your trick, Sherlock. I shouldn't have left.” John’s chest expanded, but the air lacked oxygen. He leaned over the railing, shaking his head, but it refused to clear. His palms slipped along the rail. “He took so much from us. Even before he took everything." The enormity of it spread out over the angles and spires of the city, thickened the clouds, hid the moon. "Even after." John's hands tightened around the slick metal. His lungs tried to find enough air. "If I could have felt Moriarty die...”
From across the roof, the smell of bubbling tar added its taint to the breeze.
**********
Mike felt his phone vibrate in his pocket as the bus pulled away. He flipped it open while he walked through the doors to Bart’s.
“Mike, where are you? Have you seen your e-mails yet this morning?” Molly’s words were a rush in his ear.
“Just walking in and no. Why?” Mike asked, turning towards the stairs to the morgue instead of the elevator to his office.
“Meet me in the director’s office. I’ve brought a biohazard suit for you, too,” Molly said and hung up. The director’s voice had been audible in the background speaking of rescheduling and reassignments.
Mike swung back to the elevators, caught the one disgorging a gaggle of residents, pushed the third floor button and started scrolling through his e-mails.
*******
They stopped in Recovery Room Three and observed the discoloured ceiling, the dark drips sizzling into the metal basin positioned below the leak. After a couple minutes, Molly tapped the sleeve of Mike’s suit and lifted her chin.
Mike nodded to the staff member blocking access to the stairway to the roof. He tilted his head towards the equipment beside him. The curve of the visor distorted his face. Mike wasn’t sure who it was.
“Anyone gone up there?” he asked.
“Not since maintenance investigated this morning when the leak was reported in the recovery room,” the voice behind the visor replied.
“Ian?” Mike asked. The helmet nodded. “Who checked and where are they now?”
“Martin. He’s been through standard decontamination and is waiting in quarantine to be checked.”
“No one else has been up since,” Ian added.
“No samples?” Mike verified, bending awkwardly to lift the equipment box.
“That’s for us,” Molly said.
*********
They stood silently between the yellow signs cautioning of slippery floors which Martin must have set up and watched the surface of the roof blister. When Molly spoke, Mike had to ask her to repeat herself. Her voice was strained when she raised it, her arm unsteady as she pointed. “It’s the same area, the same shape, everything,” she said and waved her hand.
“Same?” Mike echoed.
“It’s where Moriarty’s body fell,” Molly said, drawing her hand closer to them. “Where the blood from the head wound flowed.” Her arm stretched out again to the southwest. “It’s exactly the same.”
Mike could see the vaguely body-shaped outline now that Molly explained it. A few drops of rain hit his visor. He glanced up at the clouds and back down at the roof. Tiny puffs of steam appeared where the raindrops were hitting the bubbling surface.
Mike squeezed Molly’s arm. “Have you heard from him?” he asked. Molly shook her head. “Do we know where John is?”
Molly turned, still shaking her head. Her eyes looked wider through the glass visor.
“I think I know where I'll find him,” Mike said. “I hope I’m right. We should search the roof though." Molly's helmet bobbed. "I’ll send Ian up to help with the samples,” Mike added before hurrying towards the stairwell.
**********
His sigh of relief clouded the inside of his visor when Mike found John on the sofa in the archivist’s office, still in his clothes. John lay on his stomach, his face towards the back of the sofa. Mike had had to lean close to check whether John was breathing.
“John,” Mike said. The name emerged as little more than a whisper from his dry throat. Mike swallowed, took a deep breath and repeated it loudly. There was a slight grumble from the sofa. Mike exhaled slowly, breathed in again. “John, don’t be alarmed. I’m wearing a biohazard suit.” Well, not too alarmed.
John turned over and opened his eyes, closed them and reopened them. “Mike?” he asked, his voice thick. He passed a hand over his eyes and started to lift his head. He winced, his eyes scrunching shut and dropped his head back onto the cushions.
“Dizzy?” Mike asked. John kept his eyes closed and nodded slightly. Mike inserted a thermometer into John’s ear, squinted at the read-out when it beeped. “Thirty-nine,” he announced and walked over to the sideboard, grabbed a water bottle and a straw. It took John a couple attempts to uncap the bottle and insert the straw. Mike waited until John had had a few sips before he asked the next question. “Were you, by any chance, out on the roof last night?”
The firm set of John's jaw when he raised his eyes gave Mike a clear enough answer, but he didn't know what he was going to reply to the question he saw forming in John's rapidly sharpening gaze.
The next part, Uncalibrated Measurements, may be read here.
