originallutece | ic contact;

I wasn't.

Have you had treatment

[ nobody got out of this unscathed. how are you isn't worth the exertion. ]

I'm glad.

And yes. I'm at home now. But yes.

I imagine you're swamped at the moment. But when you've a moment, and you don't mind company, I'd like to come visit.

I'll let you know.

[ yes, he's swamped. and maybe if the past few days hadn't been what they have, that wouldn't matter. it shouldn't matter. but he can't. not yet.

... and he can't just leave it at that either. a good thirty seconds passes between replies, but: ]

It's good to have you back.

[ and God knows he's sorry that she was ever gone to begin with. ]

I missed you.

[Vulnerable, but she's cried twice in front of others. Needy, but she isn't saying it to get assurances. She says it because it's true; because sitting in that boarded-up little classroom, exhausted and bloody and burned, she'd missed the little things, like sitting next to a sarcastic, blunt man and learning about how bones knit themselves together.

She doesn't expect a reply. But about an hour later:]

There is enough DNA in an average person’s body to stretch from the sun to Pluto and back around seventeen times.

[And then, an hour after that:]

All the matter that makes up the human race could fit in a sugar cube, if you took out all the gaps.

[And so on: an interesting science fact once an hour, because she's bored and he could use the distraction.]

[ finally, eventually, after about five more, a text back. ]

The sugar one sounds like horseshit.

Vulgar thing. It's perfectly true.

Shall I regale you with facts about parallel universes instead?

[ more radio silence. sorry, Ros. ]

[You goddamn fool that's what she wants. But she switches to voice this time, because she's lying on her stomach and it's hard to keep texting like that.

Besides: now he can listen while he works. How nice for him. Actually, her voice is fairly melodic, even and rhythmic.]

The theory of parallel universes, as highly experimented upon and researched by R. Lutece. Now, the basics of the theory are thus: that for every potential decision, every potential variable, there exists a universe in which the opposite occurs. We see it on a more drastic level as we all compare worlds: in some worlds supposed magic exists, or history develops in other ways, so on and so forth.

But it can be smaller as well. It can be . . . say, a man's decision on whether to accept his guilt or not. A girl's choice to become a monster or a savior. [There's a slight smile in her voice as she says:] A set of parents and whether they have a boy or a girl. All initially small decisions, and some with vast consequences.

Now. Let's explore that in a bit more detail, shall we?

[On and on and on, and it's oddly informative, but she is an expert on it.]

[ John stops long enough to drag a hand down his face as she starts, her voice drifting up to him as a tinny whisper from the phone where he's read what she's doing, read the opening of the audio feed. he stands there for a second, drawing in breath, and it could go one of two ways...

he puts her on speakerphone, turns the volume down enough that he can hear her but others won't feel the need to ask, and goes about his work. the sounds of the Sanctuary drift and change. she's put in his pocket as he moves between rooms, placed on sideboards as he checks on sleeping patients. finally, when he thinks he can stand it, John tucks himself into a supply cupboard, locks the door behind him for some semblance of a private conversation, and interrupts: ]

You alright?

[ he hasn't been asking. not anyone, really. half because he knows the answer, and half because it means they might ask back. but sometimes, in some situations - perhaps, for example, with a woman freshly saved from a hostage situation talking in intricate detail about the science of parallel universes as you go about your rounds - you really do just want to know. ]

Edited 2018-03-24 13:38 (UTC)

[There's a pause, significant and loud after all she's spoken. Rosalind stares at nothing for a long few seconds, wondering how on earth she's meant to answer that. Yes would be a lie so flagrant as to incur the wrath of the heavens (or at least, Rosalind thinks wryly, the wrath of the Natha). But nor does she want to tearfully confess all that's happened.

She doesn't think he could take it, frankly.]

No.

But I will be, I think. Eventually.

[There. Honest, but not pouring her heart out. She shifts, squirms, lies on her side and hoists the blanket a little higher.]

If I don't die of boredom first.

[ he's grateful for the honesty - if she'd given him I'm fine, he's not sure he'd have had the energy to chase her for it, no matter how much he wanted to know. but she didn't. and she didn't dwell on it either. John's bad at knowing what to say at the best of times, so he's grateful for that, too.

a huff of a laugh, tired but genuine. ]

Big if.

You're on bedrest?

[ he can only assume, if she's stuck enough that boredom might kill her. the question's more conversational than probing, but it is a small way to understand parts without probing for the whole. ]

I think my dear nurse would tie me to the bed if she could get away with it. I've orders not to lie on my back and to keep an exertions to a minimum. Even reading is frowned upon, because of the way I hold myself.

[Back injuries are a bitch. Rosalind scowls and, defiantly, hoists herself up. She isn't stupid enough to roll onto her back, but she can at least rest on her forearms for a bit.]

Come by when you're done with your rounds. Thomas brought me some tea, and I know for a fact it's a great deal better than the stuff you get in the cafeteria.

There's no being done with my rounds, you've seen the state of this place.

[ John's not technically on staff with the Sanctuary, never has been, close enough to hates the bloody place (hasn't quite decided whether more or less so now that it's been home to hostages, now that's he's—). so there are no rounds that aren't set for him by himself. and he doesn't want to risk pulling himself away - whatever the state of the Sanctuary, the state of himself isn't so easily quantified.

and he really doesn't want to start quantifying. ]

Might be a couple more days, might be a week. But I'll come and see you when things quieten down.

[Come by when you're a moment away from collapsing, she almost says, because she's come to realize John Watson is one of those sorts who will work until he collapses. Foolish. As if anyone ever got anything done when they were on the verge of exhaustion.

(She's different. She's done that many, many times, so many times Robert once hoisted her up and and forcibly removed her from the lab, but that's different, because-- and this is the key point-- they're not talking about her right now).]

I'll content myself with conversation in the meantime. Or would you prefer I read to you from-- Ah. Dorian's brought me romance novels.

[She sounds very dry and dour about this. She is not, in fact, so displeased as she pretends she is and Dorian knows it, but one has to maintain a certain front.]

Not that, then. I shan't subject your patients to that, though I might you later on. Hmm. Well, there's always another lecture, I could teach you a bit more on quantum physics. Or you could tell me something of home.

[ John smiles despite himself, rubbing at his forehead with his hand. she's relentless, she really is, but in ways that don't rub him the wrong way. ]

—Yeah, in a second. Dorian's doing alright then?

[ he hadn't known they knew each other. but, really, how many Dorians are there on any planet, let alone this one? so he might as well use this as an opportunity to check up on him from afar. ]

He is, yes. A bit more at ease now that Darwin's stopped screaming his head off, I can't imagine that was easy to live with for the past week.

[They don't just know each other, they live together. And that little glib line about Darwin says a fair bit about the week Rosalind's had, but they're moving past it ever so swiftly.]

I'm going to get spoilt over how sweet he's being to me. Usually he's insufferable in his teasing; this is a lovely chance of pace, bringing me things and asking if I want anything. Though he still hasn't managed to find me cigarettes.

[ they're moving past it, but John hears it. it only takes a second or two for him to line it up. .

staring at shelves of alien roots, unfamiliar tonics, John swallows hard. he wants to see her. offer more support than idle shit spoken from miles away. ]

Well, make the most of it. You won't be an invalid forever.

[ but here he is, and here they are. ]

It's cheering hearing that from a doctor, you know. Adds a bit of professional assurance.

[Rosalind sighs softly, lying back down on her stomach.]

. . . will you do me a favor?

Depends.

[ but that's a joke, more or less. a stand-in for name it. ]

You're busy. I hardly begrudge you that.

[Though a petty part of her wants him close anyway, despite the fact others need him.]

But . . . if you've the inclination, if you're somewhere where you can . . . I'd appreciate you talking. A story from home, or-- god, I don't know. Anything.

But I'd like to think of something that isn't my situation right now.

[ ah. it's earnest, almost painfully so. John's not used to asking for help, and he's not used to being acquainted with anyone who'll ask, either. and it's not that Rosalind doesn't fit that mold - she does. which is why the request feels so much like something he shouldn't have heard, a window to a vulnerability that has and incredibly limited audience.

he nods, realises she can't see him, and clears his throat instead. ]

I was a detective at home, before I came here, did I tell you that?

[ he assumes he's told far more people than he actually has, so it begs asking. ]

You haven't, no. Good grief. Doctor, army boy, detective. I'm starting to feel some competition; there's only room for one polymath in this universe.

[The words are right; the tone isn't. Rosalind says all that with a false sort of cheer, but settles in.]

I didn't take you for the mystery type.

[ the tone John takes on is warm, temporarily banishing any trace of the world outside from the world inside this cupboard. talking about home will help him just as much as it'll help her. maybe she knows. maybe that's part of the plan. ]

Freelance mystery type, no less.

Accidental career path. I fell into it after the army - shot to the shoulder invalided me home, and I ended up living with a barmy idiot who turns out to be the world's only consulting detective. He knows because he invented the job.

[She laughs softly, and unlike the bright tone of before, that's far more genuine.]

There's nothing wrong with someone who invents their own job, John, so long as they're good at it. I would know.

Tell me, then: what does a consulting detective do? Or-- no, let me guess. Let's see . . . a regular consultant is there to give professional advice, so . . . does he go around finding mysteries and solving them regardless of whether or not anyone asked him to? Or do the police hire him when they can't figure things out?

It's a bit of both.

[ John's grinning despite himself. it's nice to share Sherlock with someone who seems both comfortable with the idea of him and simultaneously happy to engage in light ribbing the likes of which John himself would be proud. ]

Now that he's made a name for himself, people also hire him independently of the police. [ ... on that note, ] We're quite popular now, actually. The Queen hired us once.

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