Chapter Text
The cursor blinks at him.
There, gone. There, gone. It’s a taunt.
John frowns and sits back on the hard, wooden chair, staring at the text input screen of his newly-minted blog. He can’t think of a thing to say, can’t think of one single part of his day that’s compelling enough to share on the web. He’d spent a good two hours learning how to set the damn thing up, change the font to his liking, and add a photo, but now it all seems like such a waste.
He hits the ‘a’ button and holds it down, watching, hypnotized as the letter repeats and repeats, producing three lines of text before he removes it all with purposeful taps of the 'delete' key.
Despite the late hour, John is wide awake and cannot find something to occupy his mind. He has read the few books he has on hand, and aside from his medical tomes he’d retrieved from Harry when collecting his meager belongings, there’s nothing else to peruse. John doesn’t have a television, though he supposes he could use his computer to load one of those instant-film websites he’s heard about.
After mulling the thought over for a bit, he decides he can’t justify the expense. A shameful, oily feeling roils about in his stomach; it's ten pounds, and he can't justify sparing it. It's more than pathetic.
Breath rushes past his lips, puffing out his cheeks. The feeling of abject uselessness he feels threatens to tug his thoughts down darker avenues and he closes his eyes, falls into a breathing technique his therapist had taught him: in for four, hold for four, out for eight, repeat. He's always surprised when breathing works to calm him down, but he's glad for it, as he refocuses his attention on the computer screen.
The Internet. The World Wide Web. John realizes that he hasn't really had the opportunity to surf the internet for quite some time. He's not sure what's out there on offer, and wouldn't that be a good use of time? Finding out what fulfilling and worthy information he can find, for free, online? After aimlessly tapping on the space key for a few moments he brings up Google. John’s fingers dance over the keys without touching them, wondering what exactly he wants to search for.
Fulfillment, his mind supplies and he gives a harsh chuckle. Adventure, purpose, drive, anything to make me feel useful again. He knows that the search engine can’t provide him with those answers, but he might at least find something to occupy him until he’s made himself weary enough to go to sleep.
The cursor flickers at him once more, and before he can wonder if it’s still vogue to troll chat rooms for anonymous companionship, his fingers are taking to the keyboard. In his twenties he’d browsed chat rooms, sometimes just to feel alive vicariously through others’ experiences, other times for genuine companionship. Now, well, he doesn’t really know what he’s doing. But it’s something that he knows at least a bit about, or rather did, some fifteen years ago.
John frowns as he pecks ‘chat rooms,’ finger-by-finger, into the text input block.
Results return dozens of options, and for a moment he feels overwhelmed and left behind, a forgotten, tarnished remnant of the nineties that somehow slipped inconspicuously and unseen into the oughts. The internet landscape has changed so much since he was last able to surf it freely. The graphics and the text look glossy and updated and for a brief flash John feels entirely too old to be searching for something as silly as chat rooms.
He takes a long pull of his tepid tea, checks his weakened resolve and revises his search criteria, ‘Doctor, chat rooms.’
Again, he’s presented with dozens of choices, so he spends some time sifting through the results, ruling out the ailment-specific ones. He avoids WebMD entirely. Eventually he stumbles upon one titled “Health Chat” and clicks it, figuring it seems as innocuous as any of the other options. John is surprised and delighted to find that there is a disclaimer warning the chat consumers that the status of those giving medical advice has not been verified.
John purses his lips at that, moving the mouse around and clicking on various links. Though it’s an unverified health advice site, after awhile of perusal, John finds that many of the people spouting diagnostics and suggestions seem to be hitting the nail on the head. The layout of the site is sleek and uncomplicated, with a few ads in the sidebar, but nothing ostentatious.
For a time, John simply watches the proceedings in a few chat rooms. He clicks into “Dermatology” to find a discussion about discerning between contact dermatitis and eczema. Over the next hour he finds himself scanning the “Pregnancy,” “Ophthalmology” and “Orthopaedic” boards as well.
John wouldn’t call this website an actual repository of medical knowledge, neither does it seem too shabby. Thus satisfied that he’s not accidentally being scammed into downloading a virus or browsing a site that’s a front for something else—he’s accidentally managed to find three porn sites when he misspelled a word—he clicks on the chat room link for ‘Surgery.’
There are a dozen subheadings and John assesses the website overall. It seems well-laid-out and as though it gets a decent amount of traffic. Convinced, he clicks on a link that states he can create a profile and begin “adding to the discussion.” He spends some time working on that, deciding what information to give; he may have been abroad getting shot at for the past few years, but he does know that there’s been an uptick in identity theft.
His username is simple enough: John5NF. On his profile page, he settles for his first name—common, innocuous—and a listing of his specialties and diagnostic capabilities. He’s careful to omit the fact that he graduated from Bart’s and that he is an army surgeon, but includes that he’s well versed in triaging trauma. Carefully, he rereads what he’s typed and then saves his profile.
He spends the next few hours lurking in the trauma chat rooms. When the shadows on the wall begin to shift and the first rays of sunlight peek through his curtains, he crawls into his saggy twin bed, brain ceasing its incessant buzzing for the time being.
He sleeps for an hour before the nightmares wake him.
—
John spends the next day wandering aimlessly around the city. He feels like a stranger, though London was home to him for years before his deployment. He finds himself checking in on his old haunts: the pub he frequented in medical school, the deli with what he had once deemed to be the best sandwiches, Trafalgar Square and Regent’s Park. It all looks rather the same to him, though he knows it’s not.
These places have changed just as irrevocably as he has, and after spending a short time in each, John grows uncomfortable. He needs to move, needs to get out, away; he feels as though he doesn’t know anything anymore. He feels as though he doesn’t fit anywhere, which is a realization that threatens to knock him sideways on the pavement where he stands; how easy it is for time to slog on and leave people behind.
Leaning on his cane, he hobbles to the Tube and takes the Circle Line out seventeen stops in order to attend his pension-required therapy session. There isn’t much to talk about with his therapist, because nothing ever happens to him. He hasn’t written anything in the blog as she had suggested, but ‘just creating it is progress,’ she says. He can’t fathom broaching the subject of his depression—even though he knows that she knows—and having her pencil it into his file in her neat penmanship. It’s inexplicable, but he has a fear that once it’s written down, it’s easier to lose control of it. If it’s on paper, it can be handed off, copied, disseminated.
It’s a crazy thought, he knows it is. But then, maybe he’s going a little bit crazy. Maybe he’s just perpetually going, now.
He’s a husk, a shell, a forgotten remnant.
By the time he makes it back to his bedsit it is dusk, and he’s contemplating whether or not he wants to bother eating dinner. He’s not hungry, hasn’t felt hungry in ages; he just feels tired, as though he’s living years within the space of a day. It’s another telltale sign of his depression, and he wonders how long he can possibly live while feeling like this. The sensation of being aloof and leaden at the same time confuses him, and he rests for a moment with his head hanging.
Sighing, he retrieves an apple from the tiny, makeshift kitchen and moves to his computer. There’s an email from Harry, updating him on her progress—something mandated by her own therapist, he’s sure—and with a roll of his eyes, he leaves it 'read' in his inbox, planning to respond at a later time. John clicks around the internet, catching himself up on the news and the weather, until he remembers the chat room that he signed up for.
When he logs in, there’s a message welcoming him to the site, from a user who specifies herself as both a site moderator and an MD. There is one spam message enticing him to buy penis enlargement medication that he junks and an invitation from another moderator to “explore the newest posts and open chats in our trauma, palliative care and physiotherapy boards!”
On a whim, John clicks on the link for ‘trauma’ and is taken to a page where there are options for message boards or the live, open chat that is currently ongoing. He selects the ‘Chat with us now!” link and the screen flickers and opens on a page that is instantly updating with user responses and inquiries.
John’s vision blurs momentarily but he picks up a line and follows it, eyes reading along as the chat continues to update. There are a few questions about proper emergency procedures in Accident and Emergency units from a person who seems to be looking to take legal action against a hospital. There is one user addressing that person directly, while others are popping in with simple questions such as, “How long does it take to recover from seat belt injuries in auto accidents?” and “How often is ultrasound used to confirm abdominal injury?”
John chimes in on one or two subjects and then simply sits back and watches the various conversations play out. It’s not boring, but he doesn’t feel very engaged either. He’s finishing up his apple and preparing to click out of the window when guest_47995 asks, “How long would it take for a 200 pound, six foot athletic male to expire from a wound sustained to the femoral artery?”
It’s an oddly specific question and oddly formal. John’s eyebrow perks as he reads it, but still, he does the math in his head, and aside from extenuating circumstances, comes up with a ballpark answer. He doesn’t give it, however, feeling something vaguely off about the question.
Instead, he watches as other users pick up on the odd inquiry.
ThelmaJJ2MD: That’s a very specific question, may I ask how the person would have come to sustain such an injury?
ThelmaJJ2MD: Well, that’s a common injury in auto accidents, was the patient in an auto accident?
guest_47995: Victim. And I am not permitted to answer that.
Abrham27: ngl guest, that’s a really weird question.
Abrhams27: Victim?
guest_47995: Are none of you able to estimate an amount of time? This is time sensitive.
UCLAMed1985: Why time sensitive?
Abrhams27: And why *victim*?
guest_47995: I assure you there is nothing nefarious going on on my part. I simply require an answer. Victim because that is the term that the situation dictates I use to describe this particular individual: a person harmed, injured, or killed as a result of a crime, accident, or other event or action.
There is no chat communication for a few moments and John bites at his bottom lip, waiting.
UCLAMed1985: Better safe than sorry; this seems super weird and I’m reporting you to the Mod, guest_47995.
guest_47995: Is it not within your purview to answer a simple trauma-related question? I suppose that this is what I get for presenting a serious, medical question to an unverified, online community. You’ve all been of absolutely no help.
John doesn’t know why he does it; before he can think twice, he finds himself typing, “How wsa the artety perforated?” He hits enter before he can spell-check himself and cringes.
ThelmaJJ2MD: I’d be interested to know as well.
Abrahams27: guest?
Two users appear and ask other questions of the room and John watches the screen with interest, waiting for guest_47995 to respond. It’s another entire page of text input before an alert pops up on the right hand side: “guest_47995 has left the chat.”
He’s not sure why, but John’s heart falls a little bit at that. At least the question had sounded interesting, and he’d seen many instances of trauma like that before. He was almost certain that he’d be able to provide an accurate assessment if he’d just been given more information. He reviews some of the other problems posed by the users that are still in the room, but doesn’t particularly feel the need to give his input. With a frown, he brings the cursor up to close out the window when a personal chat box pops up on the left hand side of his screen.
‘John5NF: user guest_47995 would like to private chat with you. Please click ‘yes’ to accept and ‘no’ to decline.’
John purses his lips in surprise and clicks yes without a second thought, a gentle thrill raising his body to full awareness.
guest_47995: Femoral artery likely perforated by a blade, not a specialized instrument such as a scalpel.
John5NF: How large is the lceration?
guest_47955: 9.5 centimeters across.
John5NF: Was there a liver temp taken?
guest_47995: Why do you ask?
John chuckles to himself as it all falls into place in his mind. Tongue catching at the corner of his lips, he pecks away eagerly at his response.
John5NF: just put it together now. Victim, your inability to give us any more information, this is for some law enforcement entity, yes? And law enforcement would take a liver temperature reading at the scene.
guest_47995 “is typing” for a few moments. They start and stop and begin again before John finally gets a response.
guest_47995: Don’t jump to conclusions.
John5NF: andyou won’t say because it’s probably not good that youve taken to the internet to find answers to your questions. Why not work with the pathologist?
guest_47995: Liver temperature indicated that the victim had been dead no more than an hour.
John5NF: well with nothing else to go on I’d asay that the victim would have bled out in less than ten mintues..
guest_47995: That is very helpful.
guest_47995: Your typing is deplorable.
guest_47995 has left the private chat.
John’s mouth twists in a low-grade burst of anger. His typing is just fine, damn it.
‘Fuck you,’ he types into the chat box and hits enter, although he knows no one will read it.