autopsy-table

Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017 - Day One

It’s not quite the 14th here, but I’m calling it close enough.  Utterly unbeta’d because that’s how I roll during Appreciation Weeks (apparently).  I am aware that Lestrade is a DI in the series, but this is set prior to Series 1 so I made him a Sergeant.  Also, I know absolutely nothing about medical jargon so please bear with me and my friend Google.

Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017 - Day One (Non-Canon - First Meeting)


He Took Her Breath Away

The first time she saw him, he took her breath away.

Literally.

She’d only been working at Barts for a few weeks—still technically shadowing Doctor Riker as she finished her “getting to know how we do things around here” training—when a slightly older gentleman came into the morgue.  

Doctor Riker introduced him as Detective Sergeant Lestrade with New Scotland Yard, and reminded her that they occasionally provided information regarding autopsies to the police.

Sergeant Lestrade gave her a slightly distracted smile, but it was obvious that the majority of his attention was focused on Doctor Riker.  “Have the results come through on the lab work I asked for?”

“You’ll have to ask Doctor Hooper,” Riker huffed. “I haven’t the time to humour your … associate; looking for traces of foul play that don’t exist, when Mrs Perkins clearly died from injuries sustained in a vehicular collision. Getting hit by a bus when you’ve darted into traffic can often prove fatal.”  He smirked and tried to share a ‘Can you believe this?’ look with Molly, which she pretended not to see.

“Yeah, I imagine it does.”  Lestrade nodded, then quickly turned toward Molly (and very deliberately away from Doctor Riker).  “So, the results?”

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anonymous asked:

What do you love the most about Erwin?

Dear Anon, I’ve had your ask in my in box for weeks (months?) now, but I haven’t been ignoring it, quite the opposite.  I’ve been hoarding it like treasure. Every so often I take it out and admire it, then I put it back in the box to keep it safe, because it’s precious and to be honest I hardly know where to start with this. However you deserve an answer so let me try.  

Apart from the obvious, ahem, aesthetic appeal, I am in awe of Erwin’s vision. He has an unnerving ability to look past the obvious, the superficial, to see the potential that most people are unwilling to see and don’t even bother looking for. He did it with the Survey Corps, he did it with Levi, with Eren, with Hanji and Historia.  Without Erwin’s vision, without his belief, the Survey Corps would have been decimated long before Shiganshina, the corrupt nobility wouldn’t have been overthrown, Hanji wouldn’t have become the 14th Commander, Historia would never have taken the throne, Levi would have remained a petty criminal in the Underground and Eren would have ended up as so much meat on the autopsy table.  By any measure, that’s an impressive record for just one man. Levi wasn’t wrong when he said that Erwin is gazing up at something he can’t even see.

But vision is something you admire rather than love so the things I love most about Erwin are his self less courage, his humility and his enduring humanity.  

By courage I don’t just mean his unfailing willingness to lead from the front and put himself directly in the line of fire. I mean the courage to make the hard decisions that every military commander has to make, the decisions that send soldiers, comrades and friends to their death; the courage to keep making those decisions over and over and over again, even though every death weighs heavily on his conscience and the guilt keeps dragging him down. Erwin just shoulders the despair and keeps on going, that’s what military commanders do, and its only at the bitter end that we see that toll that it takes on him as a man.

Perhaps the most astonishing thing is that Erwin does all this without the slightest question or complaint.  There is not an arrogant bone in Erwin’s body. He is willing to play the role required of him; to be the monster, the devil, the fraud.  The commander with the heart of stone who sends men to their death without even blinking.  And it’s only when he finally breaks that we see that beneath the implacable façade he is still just a man.  A man who hurts and bleeds like every other man.  A man who underneath it all is still just the child haunted by his father’s death.  

And that’s really what I love most of all about Erwin, after all the war and guilt and sacrifice, he never looses his humanity. Every death touches him, every face is etched in his memory, but he still has the ability to connect to those he loves and respects.  He never looses the capacity to love. Right at the bitter end he is still able to open his heart to Levi and lay it all before him.  And if that’s not a reason to love the man then I don’t know what is.

There is poem that was often quoted in my previous Age of Sail fandom, Kipling’s The Song of the Dead, and though I’m no fan if Kipling, there is a line in it that always makes me think of Erwin

If blood be the price of admiralty,
    Lord God, we have paid in full.

Erwin certainly paid the price in full, but he never lost his humanity, and that dear Anon, is what I love about him the most.

anonymous asked:

8i for the ficlet thing

Ahhhhhh I don’t know how to make things short anymoreeeeee.

***

Dr. Merlin Emrys was the best forensic scientist in Camelot City. He was detailed and thorough in everything he did. There was never a scrap of evidence out of place or a particle forgotten when Merlin was working on a case. It was probably the only reason Super Special Agent Prat-dragon put up with Merlin for so long. Especially when Merlin called his boss, Special Agent Arthur Pendragon, any variation of his real name. It was a miracle Merlin hadn’t been sacked for insubordination.

Arthur usually said that he only kept Merlin around because no one else could identify ‘random shit’ like Merlin could. Merlin took it as a compliment since the evidence he found was usually essential to their cases. Once Arthur even admitted that without Merlin his team would have been dead in the water on a few cases.

Despite all Arthur’s talk, Merlin was fairly certain that Arthur kept him around because Arthur actually liked him. Merlin had been added to Pendragon’s team five years ago, and despite a rocky start, Merlin and Arthur had clicked within that first year. Their minds worked in sync and as soon as Arthur had something, Merlin was one step behind him. They were two peas in a pod, despite the fact that they bantered more than they talked. They saw each other everyday. If it wasn’t at the morning report, it was lunch in the cafeteria, or Arthur visiting Merlin in his lab. Arthur often brought Merlin his favorite coffee from Dragons Cafe with a perfect amount of whipped cream (too much whipped cream in Arthur’s opinion). Merlin also knew that Arthur went in person to get the coffee, instead of sending a terrified lackey, because the cups always said ‘Arthur’ on the sides. They had become a pair, and Merlin had thought perhaps if they hadn’t met at work…there would be something more there too.

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!!!!!!!!STOP WHITEWASHING IDOLS!!!!!!!!!!

Their natural skin color is beautiful already and doesn’t need to be changed for any beauty standard.

You’re not making them look “better”.

When you whitewash them you make them look dead pale. They look like Casper when they’re not supposed to. Like they just got off the autopsy table and are being prepped for their casket.

Don’t. Do. It. I don’t how many times we have to say it before y'all get it. The color of their skin shouldn’t be changed for the sake of appealing to some people’s fantasies about how they think their fav should look.

So many idols are already insecure about their skin and you’re not helping.

So…..y'know……stop🙃

When they’ve got him in the interrogation room every officer seems to have the same question; was it worth it? With all that happened, with how it turned out, the years of drunken revelry, the constant media attention, the heists, the hubris, the way it ended in a bloodbath the likes of which Los Santos has never seen. This is your legacy Ramsey, was it worth it?

They ask like his answer means anything, ask like they even care what he thinks, ask like they don’t think he feels anything at all. They ask like it wasn’t his plans that brought him here. Like it wasn’t his plans the led to six body bags and a single pair of handcuffs, a room full of tactless officers and a kingpin with no one left to call crew. They ask like can’t help themselves from asking.

Was it worth it?



There’s never a serious discussion, no big heart to heart, but there’s no escaping the fact that the Fake’s all know they are dying in slow motion. More or less signed their own death certificate’s years ago, living on stolen time, and sooner or later they’ll find themselves in the ground.

They took Los Santos by storm and defended it with their lives. With each others lives. Have sacrificed themselves and the ones they love to a city that takes no prisoners. They fought hard for their crown, and kept on fighting every single day to succeed, to profit, to reaffirm themselves as the city’s biggest bads. They knew that they would only be unstoppable until they aren’t. Until the day they fall, and eventually they must fall.  

Even after all the years of action, all the blood, sweat and tears they’ve poured into this empire, everyone knows there is no such thing as retirement for the Fake AH Crew; for all they’ve already trained their own successors the frontrunners of the reigning crew in Los Santos will never be allowed to simply step down and move aside when their time is over. Between old enemies and constant rivals, members of law enforcement and anyone simply looking to boost their own reputation, there are countless numbers who would hunt them to the ends of the earth. Everyone knows, one way or another, the FAHC is going out bloody.

And by god, did they go out bloody.



The Fake’s die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. What a fucking inconsequential day right? They were owed a Friday at the very least, were meant to go out past midnight, meant to go out in a blaze of glory. They were meant to go out all together. They weren’t meant to go out at all.  

The wheels fell off weeks before, a series of questionable jobs and public fights, a level of disorder totally out of line with the crew’s trademark cohesion. Rumour has it they were rife with in-fighting. Rumour has it after all this time the cracks were finally showing. Its easy, afterwards, to read into the events that came before, to manufacture clues, to swear the writing was on the wall for anyone to see. In reality no one saw it coming. In reality the whole damn city was taken by surprise.

Maybe they bit off more than they could chew, maybe they were distracted, out of sync, or maybe it was just the inevitable finally catching up with them but in the end the Fake’s wind up in a firefight they aren’t winning. After endless years of near misses and close calls, of lucky runs and brilliant timing, after thousands of impossible victories, the FAHC finally lost.

To lose like this, picked off one by one, powerless to save themselves, to save each other, must have been their worst nightmare. With every body on the ground those left only grew more furious, more reckless, lose whatever feeble grasp on self-preservation they ever had, throwing away any possibility of retreat in favour of retribution. It wasn’t enough.

In the end the only one left breathing on either side is Ramsey. The scene finally gone still, silent, the echoes of screams and gunfire fading away into a shivery stunned kind of shock. They say Ramsey’d fallen to his knees amongst the grime, iconic suit near indistinguishable under all the dirt and ash, the blood of men and women who thought they’d live forever. He kneels there in silence while sirens grow ever louder, makes no move to flee, doesn’t even look up from bodies as cars scream to a stop around him.

The messed up thing, the really fucked up part? They say Ramsey was laughing by the time the police got there. Say he stood and brushed himself off, surrounded by the bodies of those he claimed family, drenched sickly red while his empire lay in ruins, and laughed. And god doesn’t that confirm what everyone’s always thought, doesn’t that just prove he always was a monster. Never cared for anyone, for anything, not really. People used to say the one thing Geoff loved was his crew but it seems Ramsey’s cold-blooded ruthlessness won out in the end.



In the fallout of a travesty, of a victory, of an unexpected bloodbath, in a stark grey room faced with a distressingly apathetic villain, in circumstances none could have predicted, all the detectives seem capable of asking is if it was worth it in the end. They ask and ask and Ramsey’s answer never changes, his cold smirk never fades, so calm and unconcerned they catch him glancing at the clock, as though he’s bored. As though even now he’s got somewhere better to be. And still, full of horrified disbelief, they have to ask.

Was it worth it? Yes. Was it worth it? Always. Knowing what you know now, knowing how it ends, how they all go down for you, would you do it all again? Every damn time. Surely you have regrets, you had to know one day it would end like this.  

Oh baby, who says it’s over?



It comes together as a joke more than anything, the cumulation of too many late nights followed by too many bad movies. Their last job was tense, a heist with months of preparations and so much on the line, and while they’ve certainly celebrated their victory like royalty they didn’t come away unscathed. The injuries, numerous though mostly minor, serve to once again remind them all how lucky they’ve been so far. How most don’t make it nearly this many years without tragedy, couldn’t be in the game this long, let alone running the game this long without signing up for devastation. How losing a member, to outright death or crippling injury, is without a doubt only a matter of time at this point. How such a loss will be so much worse in this ridiculously close-knit crew than any they’d experienced before.

Sobering thoughts, combined with the difficulties of winding down after endless weeks of  stress eventually leads to the discussion they never have, the question of what else they could be doing with their lives, what choices brought them here, what they would do if they could just step out, sign off, retire. It’s not that they’re bored of this life they’ve built – how could they be when the world is their oyster – but there’s no denying the fact that after all this time terrorising Los Santos doesn’t quite thrill them like it used to.

If you’d asked any of them ten, five, hell even two years ago they’d have scoffed at the idea of ever retiring, would have sworn up and down that they wanted to go down in flames, to end with a bang, and at the time they meant it. At the time it was true. It still is, in a way, they’ll probably always see something dreadfully appealing in going out on top, but with every passing year it’s harder and harder to look at a room full of people they love and consider playing a role in their deaths. Every time they get hurt it takes a little longer to heal, the old aches and pains are becoming more prominent, and their ever growing patchwork of scars have started looking less badge of honour than they do morbid countdown. Obviously they’ve still got it, still in their prime enough to keep their crown, but between age and gratuitous injury, time is creeping up on them all.

The Fake’s used to joke about the end, said whoever lasted longest won, got to make off with the fortunes, live like a king, but that reality isn’t quite so funny anymore. The idea of surviving, of being left behind with nothing but cold hard cash and heyday memories is enough to make them physically ill. So maybe retiring doesn’t seem quite so unappealing anymore.

Maybe a passing comment way too late at night, after far too much mixing of alcohol and pain meds, in the spirit of some dumb con movie they’d all been heckling, was enough to plant an idea. A ridiculous, unrealistic, completely unattainable idea, but still an idea nonetheless. They’re all a bit hung up on it, still joking, still assuring one another that they aren’t serious, but still bringing it up all the same, running through all the possibilities.

It would take far more than simply disappearing; they have too much wealth and notoriety, have far too many enemies, the world is simply too easy a place to comb through these days. People, at least the vast majority of people, would have to be convinced not to come looking. Convinced there was nothing to look for, nothing to track, would have to think the absent members of the Fake AH Crew were in the one place no one could ever reach them.

There are ways, of course, to feign death. For those with the right contacts, with endless money and enough resources, there are ways to trick the body into something close enough to pass, at least for a time. But even then it’s not so simple; there must be witnesses, there must be evidence, crook and cop alike must be sure. Of course with a public death comes increased risk- it wouldn’t do to go so far in their act that appearances became reality, to go to such lengths to imitate death only to wind up that way regardless. Somehow, someone’s going to have to play guardian, prevent anyone’s corpse from catching a stray bullet to the brain, or jerking back to life too late with guts already laid out on an autopsy table. Someone has to be ready to whisk them all away, and who do any of them trust more than the man they’ve been following all these years. The boss they’d die for. The boss they will die for.

They don’t talk about it, because no one wants to admit it might be happening, no one wants to burst the bubble, to invite reality to rush in and crush the unbelievable thought that the Fake’s might get a happy ending, but at some point they stop laughing. At some point they each quietly start getting all their ducks in a row, using their free time to organise their affairs.

No one questions the way Geoff and Jack have started having day-long meetings with the support crew in-between jobs, the way Lindsay’s spending far more of her time recruiting than ever before, the way Gavin’s taking calls at all hours of the day, rarely in english, clearly haggling over something. They don’t wonder why all their money is getting moved around, why Ryan and Michael are busy collecting all outstanding debts while Jeremy and Ray are plotting the layout of the police station, the morgue.

It’s all happening on the down low, all behind business as usual, but eventually, after nearly a year of quiet organisation, they are just about ready to disappear. All that’s left is the bang, the flashy smoke and mirrors, the hook to stop anyone coming after them, anyone even thinking to track them down. One final step, one last decision to make, a choice they must commit to as one or not at all. All they’ve got left to do is die.



Over the years the Fake AH Crew has grown exponentially but the original elements have never drifted apart, never gone looking for something else or turned on one another. The crew has flourished, become a full blown empire, but nothing can touch the unity of the innermost members, as strong now as it have ever been. For all their loyal familiarity was mocked back in the day, for all their closeness was seen as a weakness, after all these years it seems only death itself will seperate them now. If they had the chance to evade their own mortality one last time, to get out, to be free, would they make the leap?



The Fake’s die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. Pattillo, the Vagabond, Mogar and the Golden Boy, Little J and Brownman, but not the boss. Well not on paper anyway – any who knew them must know Ramsey’d never recover from the loss. Any who didn’t just know the LSPD took seven bodies away that day and none of them ever came back. It’s not a stretch to assume Ramsey’s survival was a rumour. To believe it wishful thinking, to say he died at the scene or died at the station, delayed injury or the cops cleaning up the last loose thread of the group who’d made their lives living hell for years.

There’s paperwork out there, somewhere, claiming a different story. A report that barely makes a lick of sense, the sworn record that a kingpin arrived in chains and left with corpses, slipped out of his cell like he was never there, without a hint as to how he got free. He disappeared like smoke, not a trace left behind, and none of the seven alive or dead ever resurfaced. The story is embarrassing, inexplicable, and it reflects badly enough on the LSPD that it is quickly buried.

Even if it hadn’t been there are few who would believe it. Few who could believe for even a moment that Ramsey could walk free and not be with the last of his crew, that he would let another run his empire, run his city, if he was in any way capable of preventing it. No, however it went down Ramsey did not survive. It’s fitting, really. No one can live forever and the OG Fake’s were certainty pushing their luck, had been pushing it for years; a crew that close should go out together.



The Fall of the Fake AH Crew isn’t much of a fall, in the end. The seemingly inevitable power vacuum one would expect following the death of the group who’d been running the city for endless years never comes. It shouldn’t be possible but even after the most devastating loss imaginable the the FAHC isn’t toppled from their throne. They restructure almost overnight; many of the oldest, original members of the support crew bow out, disappear on the wind without a trace, but there are more than enough left behind to fill their shoes. It’s almost perfect, almost unbelievable, some of support shuffling into the spotlight while still more unknown faces are revealed to boost their ranks. Their ability to keep their enemies at bay during the turmoil is impressive enough, but it’s the absence of internal conflicts that is truely boggling; there are no betrayals or executions, no public power plays or jealous feuds, somehow the city’s most scrutinised gang managed to completely restructure after the loss of not just their leader but all their key members without a single hitch. Almost like they were ready, like it was planned.



If the Fake’s had the chance to stay together, to start over somewhere else, stop waiting for the day one of them inevitably doesn’t make it home, but in return they had to step away from the action, give up everything they’d built, hand if off to legacy and fade out into legend, would it be worth it?

Apparently, yes. For all of them, from the moment the possibility arises, throughout every conversation, every debate and consideration, with everything they will lose, with everything they stand to gain, every goddamn time without fail, yes.



Somewhere out there, worlds away from Los Santos, a man sits on a private beach. He isn’t armed with anything more than a beer, there are no weapons, he simply sits upon the sand enjoying the breeze. There’s a woman to his right, sunbathing, a man to his left doing the same; golden tans make their startling number of scars stand out in stark relief but the heat of the sun does wonders for stubborn pains. At the shoreline old friends are knocking shoulders, bumping each other nearer and nearer to the water, not quite rough-housing like little boys but they’re getting close, voices rising on the wind.

The single house behind them is huge and noisy, full of music and chatter, full of monsters and overgrown children, the most loyal humans the man has ever had the honour of knowing. In a brief moment of silence sound from the television drifts down to the beach, an American news anchor reporting the latest infraction of some criminal organisation in a far away city; the house cheers and kicks back into a merry roar. Down by the water there is a betrayal, a splash and screeching protest as one winds up in the waves against his will. Safe on the sand, without a trouble in the world, the man laughs.

anonymous asked:

Were dylan's eyes opened or closed in the autopsy or did they force them closed?

Since the swat and forensic team never released photos of how the two looked in their original death poses upon being discovered in the library, it’s difficult to say. The crime scene shots we do have of them is after they were searched for explosives and so Dylan was moved significantly from his original pose. The shots are taken at a distance shot and aren’t clear enough to indicate whether Dylan’s eyes were open or not. I tend to think Dylan died with his eyes at least partially open because of the fact that his body struggled before expiring as he coughed a bit while unconscious trying to purge the blood out of his airway. The swat and forensics team may have closed them all the way while he was being removed from the library but I tend to doubt it. Gently closing the eyes fully is generally a gesture reserved for those deceased who are deserving of respect. But after the heinous things these two had done, I doubt those in care of their bodies felt they were deserving of any reverent care. So..Dylan and Eric would’ve ended up on the autopsy table with their eyes open or partially open.

He's Back: Part one

Theo Reaken
Word count- 1100
There will be smut later on. SPOILERS. Hope you guys enjoy. Send me feed back. I do not own any of the cast of Teen wolf. The first two parts. I give the story line of the first two parts to Jeff Davis and the writers of Teen Wolf. After the first two chapters the story line will be mine. Please do not steal my story.

Theo Reaken. The boy I love is back from Hell and in a jail cells. Liam is currently talking to him, trying to get information out of him on how to get Stiles back and stop the Wild Hunt. After another minute or so I hear Liam groan and walk out of were Theo is.
“He won’t tell me anything until he talks to you first.” Slightly nervous I stand up and walk to the cell Theo is in. His heartbeat quickens as her sees me.
“Babygirl I missed you so much. Or did you just use me to get to the pack?” I ask trying to show no emotion.
“I love you. I truly do. Listen to my heartbeat. It stays the same.” He almost whispers.
“You and I both know that you have mastered keeping your heartbeat steady. But I know you’re telling me the truth, you slightly raise you left eyebrow. But you lied during our relationships, so why should I trust you now?”
“I never lied about loving you. You are the only person I’ve ever cared for, the only person I’ve ever loved and by the sound of your heartbeat you still love me. Babygirl please believe me. My plan never involved hurting you or the rest of the pack. I was going to tell you everything and tell The Dread Doctors to eat one, but they threatened you and said that if I told you or left they would kill you.” He finished with a tear sliding down his cheek. I took a step closer to him and gently put my hand on his face wiping the tear away.
“Theo look at me. I love you and I don’t know what happened to you in hell but the old Theo would never cry.” Theo sniffled and leant into my hand. “I trust you but getting dad and Liam too is another story.” A few moments after Theo’s tears cleared up, Liam and my dad walk in.
“Tell me one thing.” Dad spoke harshly?
“About what?” Theo has a confused look on his face.
“My son, tell me one thing about my son.” Dad almost yelled. Theo looked at me for a moment before he spoke.
“You open the door and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” I look at Theo with pleading eyes. Dad only crosses his arms and turns to leave. Theo looks at me then opens his mouth. “He was smart, he was smart enough not to trust me.” A load echoed through the station. Dad quickly opens the cell door. Theo ran to me and gave me a huge hug. After returning the hug he let go and we follow the Sheriff to the main lobby where the sound of spears got louder.
“How many?” Dad asked.
“Five maybe more.” Liam responded as dad grabbed his gun and took the safety off then cocked it.
“Five against four.” Dad walked to the door to open it. Before he got there Theo grabbed his shoulder.
“You’re just going to try and fight them?” Dad nods and opens the door to be faced with at least ten Ghost Hunter. The Ghost Riders wasted no time and shot my dad. He disappeared in a could of green smoke. Theo pulls me along with Liam. We run to the police car parked outback. Theo pushes me into the car and climbs into the front seat. Liam starts frantically handing Theo keys. “This isn’t even a car key.” Theo almost yell frustrated. Finally that car is started. Theo slams the car in reverse and hit a Ghost Rider. He then puts the car in drive and tears out of the parking lot. “Babygirl, Hey Babygirl listen to me we’ll get them back. I promise.” I snap out of my trance like stat was Theo talks to me.
“Go to the hospital we can hide there.” Theo gets to the hospital quickly. We get out and Liam turns on an ambulance sirens.
“Are you trying to lead them here?” Theo tries to turn the sirens off. Liam pushes him back towards the door.
“Yes, because if they’re here that aren’t trying to get to Scott.” Liam gets angrier with each word.
“Guys we don’t have time for this. We have to get to the morgue.” I yell at the two.
“Why the morgue?” They both ask.
“The Ghost Riders Hunt the living, so we hide with the dead.” I pull Theo and Liam into the hospital. Theo stops when we get to the hallway to the morgue. He has a scared look on his face. “Theo? We have to move.” I say softly.
“I’m fine let’s go.” He starts to walk again. Once we make it to the morgue we barricade the doors. “Do you hear that?” Theo looks at Liam and I. “Do you still hear the sirens?” We both shook our heads. The Ghost Riders are getting closer.
“We’re going to fight. Find a weakness. Use it. Try not to get shot. I grab Theo’s hand. When we heard aGhost Rider outside the door we push the autopsy table into him. We look down the hall and six Ghost Riders appear. We looks at one another a change. Liam is the first to rush toward them. Theo stands in front of me then follows Liam. I look at the ground and find a bone saw. I quickly grab it and run to one of the Ghost Riders. As I reach him I use the blade to but his throat. Black sludge comes out as he falls to the ground. I grab his gun and shot the others. Theo and Liam look at me with disbelief written upon their faces. “Don’t stand there grab a gun and let’s go. Before I could finish my sentence more Ghost Riders showed up. Theo, Liam,and I run to the elevator and open fire. The guns run out of ammo. Theo runs to the elevator and presses the button to call the elevator. When it opens Theo drags Liam and I to the shaft. He jumps out before the doors close. "Theo what are you doing?” I yell. Theo turns around with a smirk but a sad look in his eyes.
“Being the bait.” The doors shut and we began to move. I stand and put my ear against the door to hear what is happening. Theo growled and several gun shots sounded. Liam is beside me with a look of shock. He grabs me and holds me tightly.
“we have to get the back.” I whimpered.

Things that will haunt my nightmares

Dead people groan.

Yes. You read that right. Dead people can make noises. And I don’t mean a little grunt. They can make ten second long “uggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh” noises that sound way too much like a live person in pain for my comfort.

I had been on the forensic rotation two weeks without hearing this and without anyone telling me it could happen. 

So we go to put one of our bodies on the autopsy table like normal. After we are done taking our external photos and undressing them, we roll them from the transfer table to the autopsy table so that they are facedown. I had been up close and personal with this guy and knew for sure he was 100% dead. But then.

Then as soon as we get done rolling him he starts groaning. I went into instant fight or flight mode, with flight winning by a landslide. My heart started pounding and I started unconsciously backing away while frantic thoughts spun through my head like “holy shit guys he’s alive he’s fucking alive omg what do we do why isn’t anyone doing anything I didn’t fucking sign up for this!” 

Meanwhile the doc asks, “Is that him making that noise?”

And I respond, “Yes, DOES THAT HAPPEN??!!!!!”

She shrugs and goes, “Yeah sometimes.”

Cool I’ll just faint now. And never sleep again. 

Originally posted by runwithrockets

Truly nothing in my almost 4 years of med school has ever affected me like this. I found my limit. 

Shared with permission.

Cynthia Sharpe wrote the following:

Day 136. It’s story time.

Over my (wacky) career I have gotten to go some amazing places and see incredible things. I was on the set of the X-files, popped out of Flukeman’s sewer, and sat on Scully’s autopsy table (no, really). I’ve held artifacts that were touchstones of my childhood (Rolf!). I’ve chatted with celebrities and gotten to give them V/O direction (are you kidding me). But absolutely none of that has held a candle to what I consider one of the most important and transformative relationships I’ve been privileged to have as a direct result of my career.

17 years ago, there was an article in the paper about the best exhibit you’ll never see- a display of pop culture spy ephemera collected by a guy named Danny Biederman, that was showing at CIA headquarters. Naturally, you can’t just swan into Langley. My boss at the time said ‘find out more about this!’

So I cold called the CIA.

This is not something I recommend doing, by the way.

Fortunately, the museum director was (and is) a kind, generous soul, and called me back. I’ve been honored to know her and her team for all these years. She has welcomed me into the halls of Langley (….after some background checks) and guided me through a fraction of their collections. The objects she has shown me have prompted speechless amazement - and wracking sobs when I’ve been back in the privacy of my hotel room. You can see some of the objects on their website, and that will have to suffice for the vast majority of folks.

But what I want you to understand is this. As a visitor, you cannot walk into a quiet exhibit space and see the Holy Bible used in the memorial service for Mike Spann without walking through the lobby. You cannot see a crate of lapis lazuli used by al Qa'ida as payment without walking through the lobby. You cannot see the military service ribbons, still stained with jet fuel, worn by a service member in the Pentagon on 9/11 without walking through the lobby. You cannot see the ephemera the agency made for 'Studio Six’ and the articles about 'Argo’ they got into Variety to give the cover story legitimacy without walking through the lobby.

You cannot see the letter that OSS Officer Richard Helms wrote to his three year old son on Hitler’s personal stationery without walking through the lobby. The letter reads, in part, “Dear Dennis, The man who might have written on this card once controlled Europe — three short years ago when you were born. Today he is dead, his memory despised, his country in ruins. He had a thirst for power, a low opinion of man as an individual, and a fear of intellectual honesty. He was a force for evil in the world. His passing, his defeat — a boon to mankind. But thousands died that it might be so.”

I keep mentioning the lobby of the old headquarters building because it is one of the most sacred, holy places I have ever been. It is boxlike, and rather plain. The CIA logo on the floor. As you enter, on the south wall, the white marble has a single star carved into it, memorializing all who gave their lives in service to the American intelligence community as part of the OSS, the forerunner of the CIA.

On the north wall, there are (currently) 117 stars, each one commemorating a CIA officer who gave their life in service to our country. Before it sits a beautiful, simple, terrible book- the Book of Honor. It is a list of years, and stars, and next to some stars are scribed the names of the dead. There are only 84 stars with names, because to identify 33 of the fallen is to put others at risk, to reveal sources, to compromise efforts, to get someone killed.

Every year, the CIA reassesses whether it is 'safe’ to reveal a name. There are blank entries older than I am.

There are leaders who are mincing around the issue, saying that *legally* the President has the right to reveal classified information to foreign powers.
There are 33 names unidentified.

I guarantee you, after yesterday, there will be new lines with gold stars, and no names next to them. Because people will die as a result of the president’s breathtaking narcissism, Mitch McConnell’s craven desire for power, John McCain’s unwillingness to take a stand, Paul Ryan’s thirst for victory- the list goes on and on.

For all that have made the ultimate sacrifice, and for all who will as a result of this breathtaking, unimaginable hubris, this full on assault on everything we as Americans should be and should stand for, you know what you need to do today.

#notgoingquietly

May be shared by copy and paste, as long as the attribution is left intact

You know what, Booth and Brennan will always be my #1 otp because they gave me so much as a couple. I mean, I’m not talking about sex or smut because that’s fanfiction material (like you go girl, want to see your fave ship bang on a piano? go and read that !!!! that’s what that website is for) but everything else. The ‘platonic’ aspect of their relationship has always been the best part of their dynamic to me, but they were still able to overcome that phase and be a family. This being said, that original dynamic has never been compromized, not to me at least, because when it comes to the important stuff, Booth and Brennan are still partners first, they are still the people they would give up their life for, they would fight for each other. While the majority of other ships kinda change once they get together. Booth and Brennan never completely changed, so much that people complain because they’d rather have them being romantic the 100% of the time. I don’t. Also, it’s the little things that matter to me, like it might sound stupid, but I find it extremely adorable and precious that Brennan knows Booth by knowing his injuries. Every time something happens, she’s able to compare factures and other stuff to Booth’s. And that’s so IC, that’s something I really want to see because it’s them. And it’s been this way since she first found out about his past in 1x15 and it never changed. She imagined him on that autopsy table in 11x01 by looking at the bones, just like it happened on 12x04 with Aldo and in other many occasions. Brennan saying like I know that because of your brain tumor. She knows his brain scans. YAAAS. Give me this stuff. Give me Booth and Brennan that can’t sleep without each other at night when one of them is struggling with something, give me them talking about taking someone’s life and carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. Give me them hurting each other to save each other. They would never cheat on each other or hurt each other because they want to. They only do it because it’s the only way. Yaas. Screw sex, just give me this stuff.

3

Fun with recolours!

Continuing work on my latest project…particularly proud of my organ donor carrier and autopsy table…which is a recolour of Holy Simoly’s Industronovo’s dining table with a Buggybooz’s sink placed into it using an OSMP  *pats self on head* :D

Stay tuned…

haywarde37  asked:

Nothing makes Mulder harder than seeing Scully in scrubs. When she comes home from work in them impromptu sex occurs no matter how inconvenient. He'd engage in a little foreplay at work but the morgue creeps him out

HARD TO GET IN THE MOOD WHEN THE TABLE YOURE BANGIN ON IS THE AUTOPSY TABLE

@enter-at-your-own-peril

Zim squinted at the red-haired kid standing nearby, his hands nervously twisted together. This human was very short and looked young, but he was wearing a white lab coat. White lab coats meant scientists, and scientists meant getting cut open on autopsy tables. Zim shuddered.

“What’s your angle, bleezlee-blug?” he muttered to himself. “Are you some form of micro-scientist? You won’t get my precious organs today…”


EPISODE 22

Rafael walked into the Medical Examiner’s office, spotting Melinda at her desk in the far corner and smirking softly.

“ME Warner,” he greeted.

“Mr. Barba, you never come with simple tasks now, do you?” She set the photos of the autopsy on the table. “We don’t have much, whoever did the initial autopsy was sloppy.”

“That’s an understatement at best,” Rafael mused, sighing heavily. “Were you able to find anything that wasn’t in the initial report?” he asked gently.

“It looks like there was dirt and blood under her nails. The ME chalked it up to her own blood and didn’t do any further testing.”

He narrowed his gaze. “Tell me he at least took samples to identify her blood type,” he replied. She shook her head. “What about the abrasion I highlighted, could that have been caused by the fall?” he asked.

“No, judging by the height and trajectory of the fall, her body wouldn’t have had that kind of abrasion on impact. In fact, marks like that are typically made by consistent pressure, not one hard smack against the concrete. If I had to give my best guess, she was being grabbed, hard.”

“Hard enough to leave a handprint?” he asked hopefully.

“No, but hard enough to get you a warrant to do further searching if you had to.”

He nodded his head, giving her a polite smile.

“Thanks, Melinda,” he replied, turning to leave when he remembered the piece of rubber glove. “One more thing, were you able to get anything from that partial glove?” he asked. “Touch DNA?”

“Unfortunately no, after four years it was a shot in hell.”

He sighed heavily. “She wore a ring, it was her grandmother’s, Liv should’ve sent over the evidence from the case. Did you test the blood on any of that?” he asked. “Or any fingerprints on the bottles found in her room?”

“Not on the bottles, but the ring did come back with traces of blood on it.”

“Cory Johnson was indicted on rape charges, his DNA should still be in the system. Did you run it?” he asked, a little impatiently.

“You’ll watch your tone counselor, I am doing you a favor.” She quirked an eyebrow at him. “There were a lot of key markers that are conclusive with his DNA, but there wasn’t enough to get a definitive answer.”

“What are the odds that the DNA belongs to someone else?”

“Around one in seven billion,” she said as she read over her chart. “In my professional opinion, it’s his DNA on your victim’s ring.”

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Letting the teacup shatter: a “Primavera” meta

From denial to acceptance

When Will first opens his eyes in the hospital, after regaining his bearings and getting a sip of water (a dutiful nod to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs), his first mental effort is to reconstruct Abigail out of death, to visit him in the hospital. As an audience, we see her coming into focus at the foot of his hospital bed, but before the scene plays itself out–and after the title sequence and commercial break–there’s an insert of Abigail emerging in reverse from the bloodbath in Hannibal’s kitchen, her blood drawing up inside her neck, and Hannibal un-slicing her throat.

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Fic: Case #10043 (or The one with Miss Cries-a-lot) (iZombie; Ravi/Liv)

Fandom: iZombie

Rating: PG

Pairing: Liv Moore/Ravi Chakrabarti

Summary: He sighs, stepping into the room, grabbing hold of his lab coat as he does, “I see brain of the week is a real Debbie Downer, haven’t had one of those yet.” “Yeah,” she says, “She’s a real barrel of laughs.”

Author’s Note: The lack of iZombie and Ravioli fic was making me sad, so I’ve resorted to writing my own. I’m not sure anyone is actually going to read this. But anyway, I’m still getting a feel for the characters so apologies if it’s awful.

 

—–

 

Case #10043, MW

Cause of Death: Massive internal haemorrhage

 


 

Twenty-two year old Marcia Williams breathes her last under the screech of rubber tyres going seventy miles per hour.

She doesn’t see it coming.

And the driver doesn’t stop.

She dies bleeding out in the middle of the road, panicked strangers swarming around her, uselessly flapping about and screaming incoherent orders.

Her eyes slip close and never open again.

Marcia Williams dies completely alone.

And all Liv is left with is nothing but random memories triggered by the most unexpected of things and a personality trait that marinates in her insecurities and loves to ruminate on her failures. Her complete inability to help Clive solve this particular case takes front and centre stage.

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... sorry ... one more and I'll be quiet

Drake stood alongside Captain Jackson in front of the autopsy table in the death room. Their noses and mouths were covered with perfumed pieces of cloth. Their eyes watched helplessly down to the human flesh. It was moving.

“We must do it” frowned Drake “you’re the doctor, go on.”

Jackson who could hardly hear Drake’s words because his ears were stiffed with cotton balls to muffle the deafening noise the room made a gesture to show that he had no clue what to do now.

Drake rolled his eyes. It couldn’t be so difficult. Women do it every day.

The Inspector removed the soft blanket and opened the ribbons, buttons and hooks of the layers of tiny clothes afterwards. Jackson followed Drake’s example.

Finally, the two men succeeded and their babies were almost nacked; only the final frontier was left.

“Now the nappy” breathed Drake and wanted to start, but Jackson stopped him. He turned around, rummaged in one of the drawers for medical tools and came back with forceps and scissors, showed them to Drake. He nodded approvingly.

In the moment when Jackson began the removal operation, somebody behind him shouted “what the hell are you doing there?”

Jackson lifted up his head and looked in the shocked eyes of his wife.

“Changing nappies” explained Drake to support his fellow.

Susan’s face softened. “Oh, I see. Then it’s perfect timing.”

“Yes, darlin’ ” Jackson stepped away from the table to give Susan space to act.

She came closer, laid the moving bundle in her arms on the table and went back to the door.

“Captain, you didn’t think I’ll do your job, did you?” she said amused. “When you already doing diapers change you can go on with your son. He needs a fresh one too.”

“But …”

Susan widened her eyes innocently “you asked me to bring him along that you can spend more time with him” then she disappeared.

“Three” sighed Drake desperately. “We need help. Somebody, who’s experienced in this subject.”

They eyed each other.

“REID”

***

Half an hour later, three men stand in front of three screaming, nacked babies with full nappies.

Reid rose his eyebrows, pursed his lips and said wisely with his hands on his hips

“Gentlemen, this battle can’t be won. Wrap them and bring them back to their mothers .”

The High of the Fallen (Part 1)

Author: C. Ford

Characters: Reader x Sherlock, John, Molly, Lestrade, OC

A/N: The second part will most probably be angsty.

Story Summary: The reader is a consultant for Scotland Yard and like Sherlock, she has made a name for herself by doing a good job at what she does. Her most notable closed case was of the London Face-Stealer a few years back, but as she slowly moved-on with her life, she accepted the faults in her past. Everything was already wrapped up and tied neatly but then it suddenly unravels all over again.

Themes: Fluffy fluffiness. Smut (The romantic kind). Constant use of the word ‘love’ 🤗.

Word Count: 2100+

It was a bright and sunny morning. John was reading the day’s newspaper while casually sipping tea and Sherlock was still in his robe, playing a mellow tune on his violin. John glanced up Sherlock who was staring through the window.

“No case then?” John asked as he continued to read the paper.

“Not at the moment, no.” He replied.

“I’m sure Lestrade will have something-” John’s sentence was cut off by the ringing of Sherlock’s mobile phone.

“Speak of the devil…” Sherlock smirked before answering the call. “Hello?”

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Here’s some schmoopy hurt/comfort for your troubles.

She hates Sherlock Holmes. With every fibre of her being. He is a thief. Not content with stealing her heart, without notice or cause, he wanted her words too. Maybe that’s why she stole his right back. The consequence for him, a consequence for his cruelty.

So when her phone rings again, she answers and asks a simple question, one she learned from Mary, when Mary took it upon herself to bring Molly into the fold, no longer on the fringes, in the lab sitting there waiting for the grand consulting detective to stride in, but among them, in the battlefield that is Holmes and Watson:

“Vatican cameos?”

“No,” he sighs.

She hangs up and doesn’t answer when the phone rings again.

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