In what could be one of the largest medical breakthroughs in decades, doctors at the Great Ormond Street Hospital in London appear to have miraculously cured infant Layla of leukemia using a new technology called gene editing.
The microscope its history, construction, and application
By Hogg, Jabez, 1817-1899 Evans, Edmund, 1826-1905 West, Tuffen, 1823-1891 King’s College London. St. Thomas’s Hospital. Medical School , former owner Publication info London :George Routledge and Sons,1869. Contributor: King’s College London, Foyle Special Collections Library (archive.org) BIODIV LIBRARY History , Microscopes , Microscopy , Natural history , Zoology
Could I make a request with Sherlock meeting the reader in a hospital in London, where she’s a medical student on an away rotation, and they kinda/sorta date but not really and she gets scared so she doesn’t tell him she’s leaving at the end of her rotation? Then, maybe a year or two later, when he returns to New York, he sees her as a resident in the hospital during a case and tries to pin her down for a conversation? And you can take it however from there! Thanks so much, love (:
I can do this! I really do hope you enjoy it. Here is your one-shot, comin’ ‘atcha!
Walking through the hallways of the hospital, the patient’s testimony whirls through his head as he tries to connect some dots.
But his body comes to a stop when he sees you.
You had grown your hair longer, but it was that same beautiful Y/C/H hair. Riddled with Y/C/HL highlights and your red-tinted cheeks smiling at the nurse station in front of you, he studies you in your white coat as he watches your every move.
You were here.
In front of him.
All of the memories of you come whirring back into his mind: the coffee you drank even more than water. Your disheveled hair whenever you would get off of a 12-hour rotation only to agree to have breakfast with him. The way your smile always crinkled your eyes, no matter how exhausted you were with school.
The way your hands felt against his neck as the two of you kissed…
“Sherlock?” you breathe.
As his eyes widen lightly, he looks down at you. Your eyes were studying him, filled with questions and a bit of guilt.
“Y/N,” he states as he bobs his head lightly.
But you couldn’t bring yourself to finish your sentence.
“Paging Doctor Y/L/N,” the intercom blares.
And you scooted right past him as his body turned to follow yours.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” he asks as he strides up beside you.
“Not a good time, Sherlock,” you breathe as you quickly round a corner and begin to jog down the hallway.
“But you just left,” he begins as you take a sharp left.
“Sherlock, you can’t come beyond this point,” you say as you glance over towards him before swiping your keycard.
“Sherlock!” Joan yells down the hallway, “We gotta lead!”
“Duty calls,” you breathe as you step between the opening doors.
And Sherlock was left watching you leave again.
Wrapping your coat around you as the cool chill of New York shivers your body, you wrap your arms around your chest as a familiar voice wafts from the shadows beside you.
“You look like you could use a hot cup of coffee,” Sherlock says as he steps from the shadows.
Your eyes met his before noticing he held two steaming cups of coffee in his hands.
“Do you have any time to spare?” he asks.
The phrase threw you back in time. Like a bullet rip-roaring through your chest as memories upon memories compound the space in your head still functioning after your shift.
And yet, he just stood there, waiting for you to compose yourself.
“I have a bit of time,” you breathe as the vapor from your mouth wafts out towards him.
As you follow him towards a bench that he motions to, you sink down into it as he sits with a straight back, ready to talk as you ready your ears to listen.
But you decided to interject first.
“Because I was scared,” you admit.
His eyes settle on to you as his lips pull into a thin, taut line.
It made your stomach waft with sickness as you begin clutching your coffee cup tighter.
“It wasn’t right, and I won’t sit here and try to justify it,” you say.
“Good,” Sherlock sounds off.
He was watching you intently as your eyes drop down to your coffee.
“If it’s any consolation,” you say before taking a sip of your drink, “it wasn’t easy.”
Sherlock clenched his jaw tight, but just continued to stare.
“Look, I didn’t really know what we were doing. One minute we were having small-talk in a breakfast nook and the next minute we were ripping each other’s clothes off. I didn’t intend to get physically involved with anyone because it always complicates things, and when the board of my school decided I wouldn’t continue the rest of my residency there, it was a no-brainer for me to come back.”
You lifted your eyes and hooked them with his as he stayed silent.
“I couldn’t just stay, Sherlock,” you breathe as your body begins to grow cold, “I’d invested too much time into my schooling.”
“I would have never expected you to stay,” Sherlock says lowly, “but a little heads-up would have been nice.”
“Why?” you snicker as you begin to throw up your emotional wall to him.
“Because it would have helped with my withdrawals from you,” he states.
The statement caused your entire demeanor to plummet.
“Sherlock, please tell me y-”
“It doesn’t matter what I did to cope,” he says quickly as he cuts you off mid-statement, “the only thing I wanted to know was why you didn’t tell me you were leaving.”
Your heart ached, and all you wanted to do was go home and cry.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper as tears rise to your eyes.
“But you still have not answered my question,” Sherlock states. “Why did you not tell me you were leaving?”
“Because…” you draw out.
“Because I knew that if you asked me to stay, I would have,” you murmur lowly.
And the answer seemed to be enough for Sherlock.
“Well,” he breathes as he stands to his feet and straightens his coat, “thank you for your time,” he says.
“On October 19, 1936, Jung delivered a lecture ‘The Concept of the Collective Unconscious’ to the Abernethian Society at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in London. He said:
‘My thesis then, is as follows: in addition to our immediate consciousness, which is of a thoroughly personal nature and which we believe to be the only empirical psyche (even if we tack on the personal unconscious as an appendix),
there exists a second psychic system of a collective, universal, and impersonal nature which is identical in all individuals.
This collective unconscious does not develop individually but is inherited. It consists of pre-existent forms, the archetypes, which can only become conscious secondarily and which give definite form to certain psychic contents.’”
“In an early definition of the term, Jung writes: ‘Archetypes are typical modes of apprehension, and wherever we meet with uniform and regularly recurring modes of apprehension we are dealing with an archetype, no matter whether its mythological character is recognized or not.’“
“As modern humans go through their process of individuation, moving out of the collective unconscious into mature selves, they establish a persona—which can be understood simply as that small portion of the collective psyche which they embody, perform, and identify with.”
“Jung made reference to contents of this category of the unconscious psyche as being similar to Levy-Bruhl’s use of collective representations or ‘représentations collectives,’ Mythological ‘motifs,’ Hubert and Mauss’s ‘categories of the imagination,’ and Adolf Bastian’s ‘primordial thoughts.’”
A TASTE FOR MONSTERS is set in the London Hospital during the Ripper murders. Illustrated in the background is London, 1888. Big Ben is only 29 years old. Top hats are still a thing. Oh, and Jack the Ripper is terrifying the city’s people and his victims’ ghosts are haunting Evelyn, a young woman who just wants to be locked away from the world.
If “Victorian ghost story” sounds like your thing, this book will be just your…taste.