Sample Entry: I have a finished meme thread but I can always write more if need be. Sample Entry Two: Since previous threads are allowed, I hope you don't mind me making up my own setting for a sample? (Set in a hypothetical scenario where bodies are taking longer to vanish after death in North Haven.)
“There now, chin up, we've gone through much worse, haven't we? Yao corp must be losing their touch.” The army doctor murmured reassuringly to the silent form beside him, before taking their pulse and gently easing the eyelids of the now deceased resident shut. This, John thought grimly, was something he did not miss.
Mycroft only had it half right. It wasn't the war John had longed for, it was his sense of duty. The dead bodies, the bullets flying overhead, the misery of his aching limbs, he could do without all of that. What he really wanted was to be where he was needed and the adrenaline rush to accomplish what was asked of him. Afghanistan had been that for him once and John had barely survived being ripped from it prematurely, how Haven expected him to cope through it a second time, he hadn't the faintest.
Unlike then, however, this time John knew where he belonged, he belonged at the side of one Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, who was as brilliant as he was an idiot. Sherlock, who only weeks ago called John his friend as if it was the most sincere thing he had ever confessed; as if that simple of a label really meant something. John couldn't abandon the arrogant sod now, not when the genius was just as likely to be attacked by terrorists as he was to blow up their flat out of boredom.
John made his way to the next fallen form. Fortune had allowed him to bring one pocket notebook; the one which stupidly had the letters UMQRA wasting the entire first page. He should be using it to draft out his blog to continue his therapy, in a place like this, he's bound to need it; never mind that it would all be erased the moment it left North Haven. Yes, that is obviously what he should use it for... Instead John found himself writing useless facts, cataloging every insignificant detail that caught his eye for barely a moment. Data for Sherlock when he arrived. If he should arrive. Which he won't... John shouldn't want him to. He wouldn't be able to investigate murders for one thing.
The odd occurrence of leftover corpses today aside, things were different here, John knew, he had seen. Haven never left behind the bodies of their dead for long. Apparently if a death is swift enough, if enough of the body is destroyed, a person could be revived with all of our limbs still intact, but there seemed to be no exact science to it, no specifics. If someone lost their arm and then died, what if they still woke up without it? It was a chance John refused to take. Grateful to be stitching the arm of a cadaver, if only because of how woefully short his supply of anesthetics were, John paused mid-suture to marvel morbidly at how much precision he had been able to coax out of the hand that should be racked with intermittent tremors.
'Well done Haven, can't argue there', he thought with bitterly, one thing was for certain, he was never bored.
no subject
Sample Entry Two: Since previous threads are allowed, I hope you don't mind me making up my own setting for a sample?
(Set in a hypothetical scenario where bodies are taking longer to vanish after death in North Haven.)
“There now, chin up, we've gone through much worse, haven't we? Yao corp must be losing their touch.” The army doctor murmured reassuringly to the silent form beside him, before taking their pulse and gently easing the eyelids of the now deceased resident shut. This, John thought grimly, was something he did not miss.
Mycroft only had it half right. It wasn't the war John had longed for, it was his sense of duty. The dead bodies, the bullets flying overhead, the misery of his aching limbs, he could do without all of that. What he really wanted was to be where he was needed and the adrenaline rush to accomplish what was asked of him. Afghanistan had been that for him once and John had barely survived being ripped from it prematurely, how Haven expected him to cope through it a second time, he hadn't the faintest.
Unlike then, however, this time John knew where he belonged, he belonged at the side of one Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, who was as brilliant as he was an idiot. Sherlock, who only weeks ago called John his friend as if it was the most sincere thing he had ever confessed; as if that simple of a label really meant something. John couldn't abandon the arrogant sod now, not when the genius was just as likely to be attacked by terrorists as he was to blow up their flat out of boredom.
John made his way to the next fallen form. Fortune had allowed him to bring one pocket notebook; the one which stupidly had the letters UMQRA wasting the entire first page. He should be using it to draft out his blog to continue his therapy, in a place like this, he's bound to need it; never mind that it would all be erased the moment it left North Haven. Yes, that is obviously what he should use it for... Instead John found himself writing useless facts, cataloging every insignificant detail that caught his eye for barely a moment. Data for Sherlock when he arrived. If he should arrive. Which he won't... John shouldn't want him to. He wouldn't be able to investigate murders for one thing.
The odd occurrence of leftover corpses today aside, things were different here, John knew, he had seen. Haven never left behind the bodies of their dead for long. Apparently if a death is swift enough, if enough of the body is destroyed, a person could be revived with all of our limbs still intact, but there seemed to be no exact science to it, no specifics. If someone lost their arm and then died, what if they still woke up without it? It was a chance John refused to take. Grateful to be stitching the arm of a cadaver, if only because of how woefully short his supply of anesthetics were, John paused mid-suture to marvel morbidly at how much precision he had been able to coax out of the hand that should be racked with intermittent tremors.
'Well done Haven, can't argue there', he thought with bitterly, one thing was for certain, he was never bored.