Blog Like It's the End of the World

A/N: This is just a drabble I wrote in lieu of an entry for Blog Like It's the End of the World Day.


The poor bastard stabbed me, what with I didn't find out until later. It was a screwdriver, one of those flat ones with a yellow and black striped handle. My chest made a little hissing sound when I pulled it out, like an air mattress being squeezed flat. He must've hit a lung - the right one because he'd been left-handed.

I tugged down the neck of my shirt and squinted at the wound, a jagged horizontal line just off-center, making me look like some sort of coin-operated mannequin. It wasn't bleeding. I prodded it, digging in a little and feeling the air flow out. I chewed on a fingernail. I'd like to say I did so thoughtfully, at least, but my mind was pretty blank at that point.

Somewhere to my right I heard a crash and a shout - broken window, probably. I turned and shuffled in the direction of the comotion, stepping over the screwdriver and its owner. I couldn't help a gurgling sort of moan as I walked - my right lung's death rattle. I chewed on a finger as I went, wondering if maybe I should've gotten the man's right hand instead.


Deleted Lines:

This, more than the absence of pain, finally cemented in my mind what had happened to me, made me revise and accept the new self-image.

Blog Like It's the End of the World

A/N: This is just a drabble I wrote in lieu of an entry for Blog Like It's the End of the World Day.


The poor bastard stabbed me, what with I didn't find out until later. It was a screwdriver, one of those flat ones with a yellow and black striped handle. My chest made a little hissing sound when I pulled it out, like an air mattress being squeezed flat. He must've hit a lung - the right one because he'd been left-handed.

I tugged down the neck of my shirt and squinted at the wound, a jagged horizontal line just off-center, making me look like some sort of coin-operated mannequin. It wasn't bleeding. I prodded it, digging in a little and feeling the air flow out. I chewed on a fingernail. I'd like to say I did so thoughtfully, at least, but my mind was pretty blank at that point.

Somewhere to my right I heard a crash and a shout - broken window, probably. I turned and shuffled in the direction of the comotion, stepping over the screwdriver and its owner. I couldn't help a gurgling sort of moan as I walked - my right lung's death rattle. I chewed on a finger as I went, wondering if maybe I should've gotten the man's right hand instead.


Deleted Lines:

This, more than the absence of pain, finally cemented in my mind what had happened to me, made me revise and accept the new self-image.

Eliminate the Impossible

Fandoms: Sherlock Holmes, Ironman, House MD
A/N: I wrote this in comments to seschat, running with her idea and sprinkling liberally with crack along the way. Blame seschat and her entry for this, then, where she said, in a comment:

Also, have you ever pondered the similarites between Stark and Holmes? [...] Both are eccentric geniuses; both are supposedly heartless, but have a distinctly good core, a strong, brave, noble personality, a deeply rooted sense of right and wrong. And I'm totally realizing that could be said about a lot of fictional characters, but ... SOMETHING. Something was there that had me thinking all those thoughts, and considering writing crazy crossovers that wouldn't even be all that crazy because of the similarities!

ETA: crossposted to holmeswatson09 (here) on June 19, 2010

Eliminate the Impossible
See, once upon a time, Sherlock Holmes was tinkering with Science and got caught in a really bright, somewhat itchy light. Moments later, he was on hands and knees - skinned knees, thank you very much - on the sidewalk of an equally bright and somewhat stinky city. It was the year two thousand-and-something and Holmes had no way of getting home and no Watson by his side, either.

So he decided, to hell with it, I'm going to drink. Then, somewhat drunk, he decided, to hell with it, I'm going to philander. And then the betting started...

To make a long story short, Holmes earned a whole lot of money and a whole lot more of a reputation. He changed his name to Tony Stark - it's a long story, involving palindromes, a pyromaniac and a three-legged bulldog and, oh yes, more liquor - and decided to live it up. He still kept tinkering, though. Maybe he'd manage to whisk Watson into this bright new era...

***
The day that Holmes-aka-Stark managed to get his bright-and-itchy time machine thingy working and rigged it to bring across his faithful sidekick, a fatal misspelling occured.

"What the hell?!?"

"Oh."

"Who - you - what?!?"

"You're not Dr Watson."

"The hell I am - I'm Wilson, also Doctor. What am I doing here?"

"I was trying to sort of...fax my friend from someplace. Damn. I'll have to try again..."

"I was in the middle of a consult!"

"How about a drink?"

"You just faxed me!"

"A strong drink."

Eliminate the Impossible

Fandoms: Sherlock Holmes, Ironman, House MD
A/N: I wrote this in comments to seschat, running with her idea and sprinkling liberally with crack along the way. Blame seschat and her entry for this, then, where she said, in a comment:

Also, have you ever pondered the similarites between Stark and Holmes? [...] Both are eccentric geniuses; both are supposedly heartless, but have a distinctly good core, a strong, brave, noble personality, a deeply rooted sense of right and wrong. And I'm totally realizing that could be said about a lot of fictional characters, but ... SOMETHING. Something was there that had me thinking all those thoughts, and considering writing crazy crossovers that wouldn't even be all that crazy because of the similarities!

ETA: crossposted to holmeswatson09 (here) on June 19, 2010

Eliminate the Impossible
See, once upon a time, Sherlock Holmes was tinkering with Science and got caught in a really bright, somewhat itchy light. Moments later, he was on hands and knees - skinned knees, thank you very much - on the sidewalk of an equally bright and somewhat stinky city. It was the year two thousand-and-something and Holmes had no way of getting home and no Watson by his side, either.

So he decided, to hell with it, I'm going to drink. Then, somewhat drunk, he decided, to hell with it, I'm going to philander. And then the betting started...

To make a long story short, Holmes earned a whole lot of money and a whole lot more of a reputation. He changed his name to Tony Stark - it's a long story, involving palindromes, a pyromaniac and a three-legged bulldog and, oh yes, more liquor - and decided to live it up. He still kept tinkering, though. Maybe he'd manage to whisk Watson into this bright new era...

***
The day that Holmes-aka-Stark managed to get his bright-and-itchy time machine thingy working and rigged it to bring across his faithful sidekick, a fatal misspelling occured.

"What the hell?!?"

"Oh."

"Who - you - what?!?"

"You're not Dr Watson."

"The hell I am - I'm Wilson, also Doctor. What am I doing here?"

"I was trying to sort of...fax my friend from someplace. Damn. I'll have to try again..."

"I was in the middle of a consult!"

"How about a drink?"

"You just faxed me!"

"A strong drink."