Summary: Set in the astrophage research era, Grace gets sick while he's got a lot to do. He doesn't know when to quit, and suffers the consequences. Carl is there to help :)
please comment!! :)
"Did you go home last night?" Carl asks as he hands over a large coffee from the shop down the street. He's been kind enough to pick Grace up a cup when he goes in the morning, since he's so absorbed in this that he barely sleeps. It's counterintuitive, as he's always imploring him to get some actual rest, but appreciated, anyway.
"I did, actually," Grace replies, his voice raspy and hoarse from disuse. He clears his throat and takes a sip of too-hot coffee.
"Did you sleep there, or is this some kind of 'I watered my cactus' technicality?"
"Egg on your face, I don't have a cactus. Can't keep them alive."
"You're so nice; how could you be less nurturing than the desert?"
"They just don't like me. I think they would, if they got to know me." Carl rolls his eyes.
"Don't change the subject."
"I didn't?"
"If you went home and slept, why do you sound so terrible?"
"Give me a break. It's still early. You're the first person I've talked to today."
"Stratt hasn't been in?"
"Not yet. Must be busy."
"She always is." Carl gestures to the microscope in front of him. "Seeing anything exciting?"
Grace shakes his head.
"Nah, nothing. I'm taking a break to rest my eyes. It's giving me a headache."
"You sure it's the scope? You look... I don't know. Bad."
Grace sighs in resignation. It's not like he was trying to hide anything, but he wasn't going to complain about not feeling 100% when everyone else is just as tired as he is. The slight headache he'd woken up with has added joint aches and slight nausea to the party. He's been freezing since he got out of bed, and he'd realized why as soon as he'd opened his door to come to the lab: the temperature outside dropped drastically in the night. Is he really getting so old that his joints hurt when the weather changes?
"I'm just feeling a little under the weather today. Nothing major. I'm sure it's just because of the cold snap. I thought I'd do some desk work today, but it's hard to focus. I might shift gears in a little bit."
"Alright. Well, let me know if you need anything. I'll be in my office."
Grace holds up the radio and gives it a little wiggle.
"I know where to find you."
------
Grace works for about an hour more on the microscope before the headache becomes too bothersome to fight through anymore. He takes off his glasses so he can scrub his hands over his face proper, coughing a little as he does so.
That's another annoying development--an annoying, dry cough. Now, it's starting to come together. It's not just a cold snap--he's coming down with a cold. How irritating.
He allows himself about 30 seconds of wallowing before he straightens up, sets the microscope back on the lowest setting, and replaces the cover.
His breath catches and he coughs into the crook of his elbow, but quickly finds that he's having a hard time catching his breath. What had started as a negligible little tickle in his throat has become chest pressure and a dry, sore throat. This cold is really moving fast.
"Grace," the radio chimes. Not now, he thinks, but he can't stop coughing to answer. By the time he gets his lungs under control, he realizes that Carl could see the whole thing through the window in his office.
"Yeah," he chokes out, still fighting the lingering tickle of the coughing fit. "Sup?"
"You good?"
"Yeah. Swallowed wrong."
"Sure," Carl says, not even pretending to believe the lie. Grace wouldn't expect him to. He's not even sure why he told it. "I think there are cold tablets in the first aid cabinet, if you want to take something for that."
It feels embarrassing, for some reason, to go raid the first aid kit for something as stupid as cold medicine and cough drops. Obviously, this sort of thing is the very reason they keep them in stock, but that doesn't make it not feel weird, maybe even pathetic. All he can do is hope that they clear his head up a little, because he's beginning to feel that lightheaded, weak feeling he sometimes gets when he's sick. It's usually the final straw that lets him know he needs to call out of work, but now, it's more likely just a sign to stop microwaving his dead cup of coffee back to life over and over and start drinking water.
After opening the two prepackaged pills and swallowing them with what has got to be the first sip of water he's had today, he stretches sore muscles. He realizes with dismay that he's done it again: stayed in the lab all day without leaving for more than coffee and the restroom. Perhaps that's affecting his headache. It's time for a change of scenery, he decides, so he heads to the computer and sits down at his desk, pulling up his backlog of bookmarked research papers.
For the next half hour, he has to change positions every ten minutes or so because his back is aching. Though he finds the papers interesting, most of them, anyway, they're dry, and he's tired. The cold tablets are lulling him to sleep. He keeps catching himself shutting his eyes, until finally, he doesn't catch himself. Instead, he startles badly when someone claps the back of his chair.
"Good morning, Doctor Grace," Eva greets. Eva just caught him dozing at his desk. It's not the first time, but it's a lot more explainable when she passes him on her way home than on her way in for the day.
"Uh," he stammers, "hey--good--um, hi--"
"Very eloquent," she teases, deadpan. "You sound terrible. Please be careful not to get anyone else sick."
And... that's just about as badly as that could have gone. Not only did she catch him asleep first thing in the morning, but she pointed out that his voice now sounds like he's been gargling marbles. He's humiliated, though that wasn't her intent. His one consolation is that no one else was around to see it, even if he'd have preferred it be anyone and everyone else if it meant that it wasn't Eva. She's so perfect, composed, unflappable. He hates to let her see his own... flaps.
Grace gives reading a college try for the rest of the morning, but it's not easy. The cold medicine is doing a lot more to his energy levels than it is for his symptoms. Every once in a while, he has to take a lap just to keep himself awake. Not to mention, the cold air from outside is seeping inside, leaving him shivering. All that combines to create an unfortunate reality in which being so embarrassed by being caught sleeping at his desk this morning does not keep him from falling asleep at his desk in the afternoon, this time with his fox cardigan pulled tightly around him. In his poor, ill, sleepy judgment, he falls victim to the alluring trap of believing that he can rest his forehead on his arms with his eyes closed for just a second, because it would feel so good and he will definitely be able to open them again when his five minutes of allotted eye resting is up.
Shockingly, that doesn't happen.
Instead, what happens is that Carl comes to find him half an hour later to bring him the cup of soup he had the intern pick up for him when they sent him to the deli for lunch, which wakes him from a sleep that's apparently so deep and so filled with some sort of cruel, dayquill-slash-stress fueled nightmare that he shoots to his feet immediately.
"Woah!" Carl exclaims, and if that's not embarrassing enough, going from sitting to standing so quickly makes everything feel like it's swirling around him, and he has to catch himself with one hand on his desk. "Jesus. You okay?"
"Yeah," Grace replies, easing back into his chair. He glances around--people are looking. His cheeks are burning.
"What was that all about?"
He forces his best, least shaky smile and still feels the corners of his mouth twitching, letting him know he's not doing a very good job.
"I think I fell asleep at my desk," he laughs, hoping he hasn't heard through the grapevine that it wouldn't be the first time today. "The cold medicine is making me tired. I shouldn't have taken it. It's not even really helping."
He wishes he hadn't said that bit, because he feels like he's being a baby about a little cold, but it's true. If anything, he feels worse than he had before he took it. Could it be expired?
"Pills can only do so much, and you look rough. Why don't you just head out for the day? I can tell Stratt--"
"No," he curtails, "no; I don't need to do that."
"What could it hurt? It's not like you're getting much done here."
Ouch.
"Ouch."
"Am I wrong?"
"Yes," he argues, somewhat petulantly. Carl raises an eyebrow, and he sighs. "Sorry. Shouldn't have taken that tone. I'm just... not feeling great. You're right. But I have stuff I need to get done."
Carl puts his hands up in a placating gesture.
"Alright. Suit yourself." He points to the small cup of soup he'd set on Grace's desk. "Eat that. Should help."
"Thanks." He feels guilty for snapping, and the fact that he sets aside the kind gesture because the thought of eating makes his stomach flip does nothing to assuage that. He'll have some later, he promises himself as he turns his attention once more to the computer in front of him.
-----
It's slow going. Even the adrenaline of having embarrassed himself badly twice before lunch isn't enough to keep the drowsiness from setting back in almost as soon as he sits back down. It's like every time he sits, he can't stay awake, but standing sounds even more exhausting. He just can't win. To be losing the battle this badly to a stupid cold makes him feel weak.
Taking notes on what he's reading helps him both to stay focused and to remember what he's just read, which is good, because it feels like everything is going in through eyes and out through his ears, never landing in his brain. His lips are moving as he reads, pen balanced and wiggling between his thumb and forefinger while he thinks. Eventually, the coffee somehow manages to hydrate his cells enough that they're willing to let the moisture go, and he leaves his desk for the bathroom.
As he's washing his hands, he looks up at the mirror only to almost startle at the reflection that peers back at him. Yeah, now it makes sense why Carl has been insisting he go home and why Eva treated him like a biohazard. His face is wildly pale in the low light of the bathroom, with only four spots of pink to break up the grey monotony: his cheeks and his eyes. The rings around his orbitals are puffy and dark. Even his posture is stooped and miserable.
"Ugh." He leans down to splash cold water in his face. It's not going to help, but it might feel nice to have something cold against his aching forehead, even just for a few seconds. He scrubs like he's going to be able to wash away the pallor. "Ugh," he groans again, which trails off into another coughing fit. It's concerning how bad that's managed to get in just the span of a few hours.
That's it, he thinks. If he goes back in there and sits at his desk, he'll be, as his students would say, cooked. For the sake of his continued consciousness, he has to find something to do that's not sitting at a desk.
It's for that reason that, as soon as he's dried his hands and face and managed to look at least a little more alive, he heads to his desk and grabs the walkie-talkie.
"Carl? Over."
"Grace, you don't have to say over."
"Don't have to say what? Over."
There's a pause that Grace wants to assume is Carl laughing at his joke but is more likely him rolling his eyes.
"Do you need something?"
"If you've got some time to kill, I was going to do some work on the box. I could use some company." Silence. "Over."
"Yeah, I've got time. I'll be right out."
-----
Perhaps it was a stupid assumption to make that physical labor would be less draining than mental. For want of a task that would keep him awake, he's sacrificed what little energy had been fueling him for the day. Now, hes tired and in pain. His back hurts more than he'd given it credit for, more than it had an hour ago. It's not like he's been to the gym recently, but he has been pulling a lot of late nights, many of them spent doing what he's attempting to do now. He wouldn't call it exercise, but it's certainly physical, which he's not used to. Leaving work every evening with just enough time to grade papers while he eats dinner before bed doesn't leave him a lot of time to work out. All this has really shown him just how out of shape he is.
"Hand me another roll of aluminum foil?" Carl requests, breaking him from his thoughts. He nods, reaching for the pile and grabbing the box, and that's when the worst happens.
As he stands, he realizes that he's done so too fast too late, because everything spins around him. His heart starts pounding hard and weird in his chest, and it's incredible how instantaneously his body goes from chilled to breaking out in little beads of sweat. He extends the roll in what he thinks is Carl's direction, but he's not sure. It's like trying to pin the tail on the donkey after being spun in circles.
"Grace?"
Apparently, he'd been a little off in his trajectory, so he turns in the direction of Carl's voice only to once again overshoot, which causes him to stumble forward two steps. Turns out, he's two steps away from Carl.
"Woah!" he exclaims as Grace knocks into him with some force, letting the foil fall to the ground when Grace's clumsy hand drops it in favor of steadying him by the shoulders. When he still finds himself trying to blink away grainy spots from his vision, Carl helps to ease him to sit on the floor and crouches beside him, guiding his head between his knees. "You okay?"
He wants to say yes, but what comes out is, "Mhm," which is a little ambiguous when you're white as a ghost and have just knocked into someone with your full weight while simply trying to hand them a roll of aluminum foil.
"Easy. Sit down."
"Sorry," he mutters, finally able to force his clumsy tongue to form differentiated syllables.
"Shut up."
"'Kay."
After he's had a few minutes to compose himself, Grace uncurls himself from his shrimp position and tests sitting up straight. When nothing terrible happens, he commits and leans back a little bit, supported by his arms, which are no longer trembling under his weight like his knees had been.
"Sorry about that," he says, aiming for 'brushing it off' and arriving at 'shameful half-laughter'. "I don't know what that was about."
"You're smart, want to take a guess?"
"Something something chemical reaction between caffeine and whatever's in Dayquill?"
"Probably a good start," he replies. "What possessed you to think it was a good idea to start working on the build right now?"
"I kept falling asleep at my desk. Figured that if I got a little blood flow to my brain, it would help me wake up a bit."
"Well you almost got blood to flow from your brain onto the floor." Grace grimaces at the mental image.
"Thanks for... uh, well I hate to say 'catching me,' because it makes me sound like a wilted damsel, but--"
"No, that's the word I'd use. And you're welcome." He stands. "I'm going to bring you some juice and your soup, which you should have eaten already."
As Carl heads off to do that, Grace shuffles out of the way of foot traffic with as much dignity as he can without risking standing prematurely. Once he's pressed with his back against the wall, he looks both ways to make sure he's alone and gives himself another brief wallow, letting his head roll backward and closing his eyes. He's used up his quota of miserable groans for the day, so instead he has to settle for taking a moment to himself, appreciating the quiet and focusing on mitigating the nausea enough that he'll be able to force down a little soup when Carl returns.
-----
At this point, he has accepted that Carl is right: he should probably go home. However, accepting that is one thing, and choosing to act on it is another, and he's only willing to do the former. He's got so much left to do. There are still gaps that let in trace amounts of light at around the perimeter of the ceiling, so little that he can't see it with the naked eye, but enough to be messing with his experiment. He needs to go around and tape both the inside and outside of it, and that's a daunting enough job for two people, let alone just Carl. And because they've already worn down the free time of the few people who had chosen to volunteer to help them, it will be Carl alone.
Why can't he just leave it be and take a few days off to rest and heal? The answer is that he could. No one would stop him from walking out the door and going right back to bed. But what right does he have to waste a day of their very limited time budget for a little cold? Putting them a day behind affects everyone, and the astronauts deserve better than that. Unless he physically can't, he's got to show up, which means sucking up feeling a little under the weather and doing his best.
"You awake?"
Darn it, he forgot to stop wallowing.
"Yeah, just thinking. Thank you," he says as he accepts a bottle of apple juice from the vending machine and the soup Carl had been so kind as to reheat for him. He opens the lid and smells it: good, but that doesn't mean he wants to eat it. However, he has no choice. Carl has closed in for the kill, and if he doesn't eat, his whole justification of that little swoon falls apart.
So he toughens up and takes a few bites until it feels like the surface tension of chicken and rice soup is all that's keeping his stomach from overflowing. It's about half the small cup.
"That's all?"
"For now. Cold meds on an empty stomach made me a little queasy. Gonna see how that sits for a little while."
To his surprise, Carl actually seems satisfied with that answer. He still clearly thinks Grace is being an idiot by virtue of simply being here, but in his defense, he's probably right.
"I think I feel good enough to get back to it," he says in what he's convincing himself is delusional optimism rather than an outright lie. "What do you say, you still have a little time?"
"For you?" he asks, extending a hand to help him to his feet where, thank god, he stands steady against the little head rush it gives him.
-----
To ensure a proper seal, Carl works on the ceiling seam from the outside while Grace works from inside. He has to stand on a small stepladder to reach it, pressing the tape into the crevice and hoping he's not missing any spots. Even with the door open, it's really dark.
Once again, he has regrets. The part of him that had thought this would be a good idea when he was shivering at his desk was so stupid. Now, instead of being wrapped in a cardigan doing nothing with his body but staring at a computer screen, he's fighting against the heaviness of his own limbs, fluctuating between the chill of the day and the oppressive heat of exertion.
That, or he's starting to run a bit of a fever. Either is possible, at this point.
He pulls out his phone to see the time: 3:23. It's been an hour and a half. Normally, he plans to be here until at least 6 or 7, but under the circumstances, he's considering letting himself take off at 4, so long as he brings the laptop so he can get a little work done from the comfort of his bed.
He's busy daydreaming about that when he feels it again, that flash of heat and wave of dizziness, the same as earlier. Suddenly, a wave of nausea washes over him, so strong that it induces a burst of panic in his chest that he's actually about to vomit in the astrophage box. Oh, god. He can't do that. If he thought it was embarrassing that Eva had caught him sleeping, if he throws up in here, he's going to have to volunteer to be launched into space with the Hail Mary.
His fingertips and toes start to tingle, which is odd. That shaky, heavy sensation intensifies, leaving him trembling and sweaty and dizzy and disoriented and nauseous and--
Then, his ears are ringing. It's too dark in here to notice that his vision has gone black, so he doesn't see what's coming until it's already happened and his knees go out beneath him. The last thing he's aware of is uncontrollable free fall.
----
After a blip in his awareness, the ringing in his ears gives way to the sound of someone saying his name.
"Grace," they call. He calls. It's a man's voice. Carl.
"Hmngh," he tries, and even he isn't sure what he was going for, there. Carl is tapping on his cheek kind of hard, bothersome enough that he instinctively tries to swat his hands away.
"Grace? You with me again?"
He pries his eyes open, but it barely matters, because he can't see anything but a sliver of light from the ajar door.
"There, you go. Wake up."
"Carl," he rasps. His voice has gotten exponentially worse from frequent coughing since the last time he spoke to anyone. "D'I pass out?"
"Yeah, you did. I heard a thump and came running in here, found you unconscious on the floor."
"Oh," he says simply. What else can he say? He tries, "Sorry," but Carl ignores it.
"You're an idiot."
"Sorry."
"How do you feel now? Think you could sit up?"
"Yeah," he says, finding out that he's really not as he tries. His head spins again and everything goes fuzzy and wavy, but Carl helps him lean against the wall. "Sorry."
"Stop saying that. I know you are."
"Okay. Uh, I'm," he catches himself about to say it again and curtails it, "okay. You were right. I think I need to go home." Carl huffs out a laugh.
"Yeah, you think?"
"Right. Obvious statement."
"I'll let it slide, given that you're barely upright. I'm gonna go get your coat, let you sit a minute, then drive you home."
"You don't have to do that."
"You think you're gonna bike back like this?"
"I can... I'll figure something else out. You've done enough."
"Grace. Just take the favor."
He takes a deep breath, releases it through his mouth, which triggers more coughing, and nods. This is just kindness, and, although it's hard to accept when he's been taking care of himself for so long, he needs kindness right now. Even if this is is own fault.
"Uh, sure. Yeah. That sounds nice. Thank you."
"There. Wasn't so hard, was it?"
"That's dismissive."
He snorts again.
"Stay there. I'll be back."
Grace takes a much needed moment to survey his body. His head is pounding. He's not sure if he hit it when he feel or if the headache has just gotten that bad. Everything in his body feels bruised, but it may well be. It was stupid to let things get to this point. And now Carl is going to have to take time and effort out of his day to drive him home, like he drank too much at a party. It's childish, really, and he regrets it. He could have just taken his laptop home, but no, he had to keep pushing.
"Think you could stand if I help you?"
Grace nods, and, though it's not easy, he gets to his feet and manages to stay there. Carl walks him out the door, unfortunately past prying eyes, toward the car. Just when he thinks he's home free, he hears her.
"Doctor Grace?" Eva calls. If he cursed, now would be a good moment to do it.
"Oh," he says, turning around to face her while Carl holds onto his arm in case he falls again. "Hi." She waits for him to explain, asking questions solely with her eyes. "This? It's nothing. Just--not feeling so hot today. I think I'm gonna get some sleep and start fresh tomorrow."
He's not sure how it's going to go over. He knows she's not going to tell him no, but he can barely stand to think about what her eyes are going to say.
To his surprise, her eyebrows crinkle slightly, softly. Like she's worried.
"And why is Carl holding your hand?"
"He fainted."
"Carl," he protests, but the damage is done. She raises one eyebrow and sighs taking a step forward.
"I know this is important work, but you're no good to me or the project if you're this ill. You're dismissed for tomorrow, too." Before he can argue, she cuts him off. "Dismissed doesn't mean 'you may stay home if you'd like.' It means 'don't let me see you here.'"
He nods, disappointed but not about to fight her.
"Understood." Then, he realizes this is a favor, not a punishment. "Thanks." Predictably, she doesn't acknowledge that, instead turning on her heel and heading back into the building, leaving him and Carl alone to finish their trek through the parking lot to the car. Not a moment too soon, either. He's starting to feel really lightheaded again.
His head against the cold window fogs the glass, and it feels amazing on his aching temple. Without meaning to, he dozes on the way home, only waking slightly every time they hit a bump hard enough that his head bounces off the window a little. Before he knows it, Carl is shaking his shoulder.
"We're here," he says. Grace exits the car, feeling a little steadier now that he's had some time to sit. He doesn't need Carl's help to get inside, but he stays close in case he does.
Inside, Carl helps him to his extremely small living room and eases him onto his very hard couch. Even as uncomfortable as it is, it's a relief to lie down.
"I'm gonna grab you some stuff. Sit tight."
Stuff? What kind of stuff could he need, past maybe another dose of cold medicine, which he doesn't have? Carl is rummaging around in the bathroom, learning just that.
"Why is your medicine cabinet stocked like you're only allowed war rations?"
Grace shrugs.
"I don't get sick very often."
He's beginning to welcome the idea of being left alone to rest when Carl wanders, rather than to the front door, to the small kitchen, and begins going through his fridge. Because he's not totally sure why that's happening, he stays silent and lets him investigate whatever he's looking for. When he's done in the fridge, he opens the pantry.
"Do you eat anything but Ramen and frozen waffles? "
"Feels like a judgy question."
"It is."
"Well, thanks for the ride," he says, hoping to lead him out the door before he starts reading his diary. "I owe you."
"I'm coming back. You have nothing in your medicine cabinet except Zoloft and dust, and I don't want to leave you alone until I know that fever you're running isn't boiling your brain. I'm going to the pharmacy. Any requests?"
"Can I request you not do that?"
"Request denied. Think you could eat anything?" He shakes his head vehemently. Anything he puts in his stomach right now, he will be reunited with immediately. "That's fine. The main thing is bringing down the fever."
"Seriously, I appreciate it, but you don't have to do all this. I'll be fine."
Carl is already fishing his keys out of his pocket.
"Don't lock me out." He has to admit, the thought did cross his mind.
Ultimately, he's too tired to fight him on this. He simply settles in under his quilt and turns on the TV while he waits for Carl to return. The quilt and cardigan aren't enough, and he's still shivering. Maybe Carl is on to something when he says he should own a thermometer.
It's easy to doze, and hard to force his eyes back open when Carl steps through the door an unknown amount of time later, carrying two plastic bags and a paper one with a smiley face on the front. He stretches, then chokes on a yawn, coughing until his chest hurts. Carl undoubtedly notices, but he busies himself with unpacking the bags he'd brought on the kitchen counter.
"Catch," he calls, and before Grace can even sit up to see what's being thrown at him, a thermometer lands in his lap. "Use it."
"Ugh." He feels a bit childish, but he does as he's told, taking it out when it beeps 30 seconds later. He glances at the number and thinks yeah, it's probably for the best that Carl drove him home.
"What's the damage?"
"Little over 102."
"No wonder you fainted. You're cooking. Coming in today at all was a stupid choice."
"It was just a headache this morning."
"Sure." The next thing Carl hands him is a blister pack of two blue gel capsules. "These are for the flu. Might be a little stronger than the cold meds you took earlier."
"Those made me feel drunk."
"And these will make you unconscious. It all works out." Grace takes the pills with a sip of the cup of orange juice he's handed.
"You're really good at this," he says. "I'm sorry about the trouble."
"You should be. Next time you do something stupid like this, I'm leaving you in the box." Grace laughs.
"Fair enough."
Now, with a cup of orange juice, a bottle of water, and a sleeve of crackers on the table in front of him and two quilts on top of him, Carl decides that Grace is safe enough to leave alone, and he shrugs back into his jacket.
"Thank you. For everything, really."
"If I see you tomorrow, I'm gonna be pissed."
"Right. You won't, I promise."
"Good." With his hand on the doorknob, he rethinks what he said. "But if you get worse, call someone. Doesn't have to be me, but I won't be mad if it is."
"Thanks." He gives an awkward little wave as he leaves, then leans heavily back against the arm of the sofa, exhausted. Now that he's alone an not so focused on putting on an act, he realizes just how bad he really feels, and sighs miserably. However, at least he's lying down, and that's better than before. Finally warm and horizontal, he nestles deeper into the blankets and waits for the pills Carl gave him to work, shutting his eyes and drifting off to sleep.
I need an author, I unfortunately do not have the patience to write, but the horrors persist (fic ideas with no way to realize them) and seeing your recent young Sherlock post gave me one I was hoping could inspire someone else to run with. In the hospital, when the surgeon is prepping Sherlock for surgery, and Cordelia and Mycroft are shuffled out. Somewhere between that and Sherlock waking, Silas finds him at the hospital, pays off the surgeon to tell his mother and brother that he died in surgery, and Silas takes off with Sherlock while he’s still knocked out. Can take it many a way from there but at its core James doesn’t believe for a second that Sherlock’s gone and follows the trail of the rushed cover up back to Sherlock to save him from Silas and whatever plans he has for him. On the way he has to rally the remaining Holmes’ out of their grief, bea and the henchmen adding strife to keep them from Silas’ trail, Sherlock injured and week at the mercy of Silas and his care for him, trying to figure out where he’s at, and the plot behind his fathers dealings, so much to work with emotional and physical whump, found family, complicated family, captivity, puzzles and clues and twists around every paragraph.
For those wondering about the fox. Grace has a subtle motif with this animal throughout the movie, but especially this shot where they pack this toy fox with his belongings on the Hail Mary. The pose of it looked a little haunting to me, thus prompting this illustration.
__________
(Small/large prints are also available on my etsy ❤️)
absolutely chewing on this concept courtesy of a series I’m into - the main character is subject to domestic violence by his girlfriend and he could stop the abuse. he’s bigger and stronger and is a trained police officer, he could easily defend himself. but for various reasons (he doesn’t want to be violent, his gf already accuses him of violence when he hasn’t done anything, he worries people will assume he’s the abuser) he never defends himself. and then she nearly kills him, they break up, he gets a new girlfriend and cannot face telling her about the abuse (esp the physical stuff) bc he’s continually so ashamed of it, “and ashamed of his shame,” and it of course culminates in tragedy that perhaps could’ve been avoided if he’d been more open about the abuse. but he just couldn’t. and all this is just sooo. ugh I’m obsessed.
“if you love this character then you must make him happy in your fics, right?” wrong. the horror. suffering. internal hemorrhage. hospital. immediately
Would you prefer to buy a house that was completely neutral/sterile or one that was painted like someone actually enjoyed living in that house while there?
Completely neutral (white/light gray)
Soft neutrals (beige, sage, light blue etc)
Voting ended onJun 14
I am having a "argument" with the advice my friend is getting from a realtor about painting their house prior to moving.
I will admit to having a deep loathing to white/sterile, especially when literally everything is white or cold tones - white trim, white appliances, white walls, white carpet, white cabinets, gray floors. But it's because the vibe I get is that whoever lived there last thought of it as only temporary, and never bothered to change the colors from the builders grade paint, and if you didn't like it enough to make it at least somewhat your own, why should I pay more than half a million dollars for it?
Caveats to this: I live in a part of the USA where the house behind me that exploded and burned to the ground sold for 250k, wreckage still there.
No house, including one that was built on a boulder that you rode a pirated mining car down some self-installed tracks half a mile to get to, has been on the market for more than 2 weeks in the last 6 years in the surrounding 200 mile radius
The house in question is in a debatable school district, but only because the next town over is the highest rated in the state and everything else is obviously going to fall short.
These are the colors that are "too much" for the realtor:
From left to right: living room, 2 options for the hallways/connecting space, upstairs bedroom, and kitchen.
do you know of any shows/movies where the whumpee being attacked (or almost attacked) while in the hospital? i just watched half man 1x04 & it made me realize what an underutilized trope it is... i know it happens in 9x24 of criminal minds and in an episode of graceland, but i'm looking for new recommendations!! have a great day :0)
Ooh very good question. My first thought was Covert Affairs 1x11. Ben is recovering after being shot and he and Annie get attacked. It's pretty good. https://aceofwhump.tumblr.com/post/658708806742818816/covert-affairs-2x01-annie-protects-ben-who-is
The Mentalist 6x07 kind of. After the explosion, Director tries to kill Jane but Lisbon interrupts before he can. https://aceofwhump.tumblr.com/post/684867173862244352/the-mentalist-6x07
Murdoch Mysteries 12x18 is perfect for this. https://aceofwhump.tumblr.com/post/776324446167416832/murdoch-mysteries-12x18-darkness-before-dawn-part
Angel 3x17 when Angel tries to smother Wesley. I don't have a gifset of this to share but trust me it's good.
Hudson & Rex 2x16 https://aceofwhump.tumblr.com/post/682820519712718848
Teen Wolf 3x01 when Isaac gets drugged and kidnapped out of the hospital https://aceofwhump.tumblr.com/post/630561528213635072/teen-wolf-3x01-kali-drugs-isaac-while-hes-in
Sherlock 4x02 https://aceofwhump.tumblr.com/post/634645711417458688/cinnamonrollwhump-sherlock-s04e02
MacGyver 5x21 (THE OG MAC NOT THE REMAKE!) https://aceofwhump.tumblr.com/post/629007691876057088/whumpty-dumpty-macgyver-1985-s05e21
Does Once Upon a Time 2x12 count?? https://aceofwhump.tumblr.com/post/189123707647
Season 2 episode 2 and 3 (I think) of Dark Winds - Jim Chee is shot by an assassin and is then again attacked by the same guy while he's in the hospital
Scandal season 4 episode 20 - Jake Ballard is stabbed and left for dead, brought to a underground hospital (it's not a real hospital, it's one of those sketchy "we patch you up and don't tell the cops" places) and is almost killed by the same guy who stabbed him in the first place
X Files season 5 episode 19 - Mulder is committed to the mental hospital and is attacked by the creature only he can see that landed him there to begin with.
Lethal Weapon season 2 episode 13 (kinda fits the bill) - Riggs is undercover in a mental hospital where he is thrown into a padded cell and the doctor and orderlies attempt to kill him via overdose
I put off writing this for the last twelve hours, but I have no choice now, and I can't sugarcoat it. I was braced to move into my car indefinitely tomorrow, with my plan to park at various McD's, Dunkin's, and the Barnes & Noble in town, hanging out inside so I could have bathroom and electricity access, to keep my phone charged. Had a wee errand to run today, but my car wouldn't start. Long story short? I can't move my car anywhere now because the alternator died. Estimates for replacement & labor are $500-$1,000. So basically, I'm screwed.
I got two nights grace from a relative who can't really afford it, to allow me a couple nights more in a room before I'm out on the street. There's no way I can live in my non-working car in the motel parking lot. To try to walk to the nearest public restroom as needed is out of the question with my heart condition, let alone the heat. I'm nearly out of time and nearly out of hope. So here I am again, begging for the kindness of strangers--honestly, I'm so worn down by the Struggle to Survive, there are moments I just want to lay down, fall asleep, and not wake up.
Hey, but don't worry, I could never take my own life. First, because as I'm sure I've mentioned, I'm the most stubborn b*tch that you might ever meet. And more importantly, there's this quote that has stuck with me my whole life since reading it in my teens, from Samwise Gamgee in The Two Towers:
"...but where there's life, there's hope..."
Yeah, a Hobbit's wisdom. Tolkien's wisdom. Keeping me hanging on by a silver thread.
Anyway, if anyone can help, I'm setting the goal at $600, fingers crossed the job can get done, and soon, for less. Amen, Lord. AMEN. And bless anyone that answers this plea!
$0/$600
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