war injuries

The Right Way

When John opens his eyes, everything is white and silent.

His first feeling is shock.
Shock over this surreal environment. The sand, the heat, the tanks and the death have disappeared. No screams and no helicopter sounds can be heard. Instead, quiet, friendly voices around him. Birds singing somewhere. Well, outside. Outside where the sun shines. Where there is a daily life. Around him is the smell of disinfectants and mild detergent.

John blinks at the bright light in the room. He realizes he’s in a bed. No narrow, hard cot. It is a large, soft bed. A thick pillow under his head. A blanket pulled up to his chin. It’s warm.

He also notes that he can hardly move. It’s like a heavy weight is pushing him down.
John grunts, and wiggles tentatively with his toes under the blanket. This works very well. But as he tries to lift his head, an unpleasant, throbbing pain passes through his shoulder. At the same time, it occurres to him that he has been shot.
Shot. In Afghanistan.

John lets his head sink back into the pillow and breathes in the cool air in the room.
I was shot …
Pictures before his eyes make him swallow.
Running soldiers, screams, shots, an explosion. A hand on his arm, a whisper, a groan as eyes close forever …
And then the sharp pain as the bullet pierces him. Pain, so much pain, he falls into the sand and he can hear his name. Someones shouting his name …
A moment later it’s all gone.

John knows he’s been taken to a hospital. For the initial treatment. And then. Home.

Home, meaning this hospital.

He sighs, and licks his dry lips. Thirst.
His gaze falls to the side of the wall, where a call button is.
He presses it.
A few minutes later, a young nurse comes into the room. She smiles the certain standard smile, which is so common in a hospital.
“Ah, Dr. Watson, you are awake. Very good. The doctor will want to see your wound soon. Do you need something?”
“Water,” John can only croak with difficulty. And he points his finger vaguely at the bed. “Could you … raise it please?”
“Yes, of course.” The nurse pushes a button on the bed and it slowly lifts. “I’ll bring you water.”
Then she is gone again.

John can see the room better now. And when he looks aside, he sees that he is not alone.
Next to him is another bed. And there is a man in it.
The face half hidden by an oxygen mask.
John can see thick, dark locks. And pale, almost white skin. He judges the man to be in his mid-thirties. He stares at the completely motionless body and swallows. Something is drawing him to this unknown man … something he can not explain. John notes that he is fascinated. Fascinated without really having a reason for it. He shakes his head slightly.

The nurse comes back with a mug and a water bottle.
She pours him water into the mug and John takes it with a still unsteady hand. He drinks, relieved.
Then he says softly, “Who is that?”
The nurse follows his gaze and says with a sad undertone, “Oh, this is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. He’s been here for a long time. Almost half a year. He’s in a coma.”
“Ah,” John says, swallowing. Half a year. That’s a long time. “How …?”
“How it happened? He overdosed on cocain. We … well, we can’t ask him, but we think it was a suicide attempt.” She gently shakes her head and takes the empty mug from John. “It’s really a shame. He never gets any visitors. Never. The thought that no one in the world is there for him … Who knows if he will ever wake up again. Perhaps there is simply nothing worth it for … Oye, I talk too much.” She seems a little embarrassed and clears her throat. “If you need anything, just call, ok? The doctor should be here any minute.”
“Thank you. Yes.”
The nurse leaves. John does not look away from the sleeping man in the other bed.

Half a year. No visit.

The days pass at a quiet, slow pace, which both soothes and disturbs John.
He is not used to it.
He almost expects to be suddenly torn from the calm routine by a shrill siren. Or suddenly lie back in the hot, bloody sand of the desert.
But of course it doesn’t happen.
Instead, he wakes up around 9 in the morning, receives his breakfast and is examined. The doctor is friendly and passive. Nodding pleased at the sight of John’s wound, while John himself stares at the hole in his shoulder with a growing nausea.
After that, he can only watch TV, or watch Sherlock being fed.
It’s hard to watch.
No reaction comes from the comatose man, when the nurses lift his limbs off the bed to wash him. Turn him to his side. Dress him again.
The motionless body doesn’t resist. It reminds John of a doll. He does not like this thought.
At noon, they bring John food again.
For Sherlock, of course, nothing comes. He is fed artificially.
In the evening, more food. And more TV.
A lot of rest. A little too much, John thinks once, and feels strangely guilty at the thought.
On the third day of this routine, he talks to Sherlock for the first time.
It’s because a James Bond movie is on.
John always liked James Bond.
And that’s what he says.
“This is a good movie. A really good movie. Lots of action. And the women are pretty, the men too,” he says aloud in the room. And laughs. There’s no answer. And he feels a little stupid.


After a while, John realizes that he will not get any visitors either.
It’s not really that surprising.
Harry is … well, he doesn’t even know where his sister lives. His mother is dead. And he does not want to see his father. Not that he thinks, his father would want to see him …
Once, he receives a call from the leader of his unit. From Afghanistan. He says something like, “it’s a shame” and “get back on your feet soon”. John doesn’t say much. He only murmurs “Yes, sir” now and then.
His hand is trembling as he holds the phone. A tremor. It hasn’t stopped since he woke up.
He doesn’t get any visitors. Just like Sherlock.
Only the nurses and the doctor enter the room.
“Here we are, huh?” John says to Sherlock while eating his bland soup. “We’re alone together here.”

And then the nightmares start. About the war. About death and pain. About men he could not save. Distorted faces in the dark. Eyes full of despair.
He wakes up in the middle of the night. Heavily breathing. Bathed in sweat.
He moans and sits up with difficulty. Runs a hand over his face.
He looks at Sherlock. Sherlock, who is, as always, motionless in bed. A part of his face lit from the machine that measures his heartbeat.
John swallows. He must … He feels the overwhelming desire to talk to someone. It needs to stop. He can not … Oh, hell, he has no one and it’s not like Sherlock would complain, right?
He clears his throat and begins.

“Well, uh, Sherlock. How do you feel? Um, I hope I didn’t wake you. Sorry, haha, bad joke … I had a nightmare, which is quite obviously, right? Well, uhm, I hope it doesn’t bother you if I just talk a little. Yes. I’ll talk. So make yourself comfortable. Haha.
Sometimes I think I’ve gone the wrong way. I became a doctor because I wanted to help people. And the army … Well, it was just a whim. An idea that me and my friends had. One of them is dead, by the way. Mmh. I … it was not always bad. The training was exhausting though. Sometimes I thought I could not make it. My family was not much help either. My father is an asshole. There is no other word. My sister was thrown out. My mother died. It was all … a mess, you know? Anyway, I’ve been struggling. I wanted to do it. This one thing. And I did it. I’ve become a doctor. I went to Afghanistan and treated soldiers. I’ve seen things that would turn your stomach. Wounds that seemed like death sentences. I’ve looked into hopeless, desperate eyes. Sometimes I saved them. Sometimes I couldn’t.
And the faces of those I could not save, they haunt me now, you know? In my dreams. God. I’m so sorry. I really am … Do you see that? I’m crying. That hasn’t happened for a long time. It seems to make you sentimental when you get a bullet in your shoulder … " 


"Thank you for listening to me all the time, Sherlock. All this blabbering must be terrible. I thought about James today. Who that is? Well, good question. We were more than friends. But never more than … no idea. I kissed him. Well. In the desert, watching the sunset. Once. Just once. Do you think that is romantic? Shit, yes. Mabye it is. ”

“My middle name is Hamish. I hate it. I mean, who calls their child John Hamish? My father chose my name. There we have it again. This bastard. Hamish. I always avoid telling people that name. So, I guess that makes us mates? Hey, buddy, haha. No. That just sounds wrong. Sorry.”
"I can get up today. Great, huh? I feel like an old man. My damn shoulder, my trembling hand … a pretty sad picture I make, huh? ”

“It was not so bad. I mean, I for some reason I’m limping, quite badly, but the fresh air was great. I was down in the park. And imagine, a woman spoke to me. She’s called Mary. She said she’s working here. She is nice. And you know what, I asked her if we could go for a coffee. She said yes. Can I get a ‘well done’? No? All right. ”
“Do you know, that you’re pretty? Really, you are. I maybe would have asked you out, if I met you somewhere else before. Oh God, sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I … Maybe I’m just afraid. Because … well. I’ll have to leave here soon, I guess. And I don’t know what to do then …”
“Well, that’s it. I … tomorrow I can go. I don’t know exactly where, but I can go. Mmh. I think I’m really scared. Mary said I should do therapy. No idea if that would help. I guess, I can try it. Maybe. Well, I’ll pack my things. You know … you really could wake up to say good-bye to me. It would be nice …”
“Surprise! Yes, here I am again. I … I missed you, Sherlock. You’re a good listener, you know? Better than my therapist … So, what happened since I left, tell me, haha.”
“I will marry Mary. That’s … yes, that’s good, right? She is … she gives me a certain hold in life. I would not know where else to go. What else could I do? So. We are getting married.”
“Oh God. Fuck Hey, Sherlock. I … She’s pregnant. She … she’s really pregnant. Did you hear that? I’m having a baby. I’m going to be a father. I. Can you belive that? No, me neither. I … Oh my God, what am I doing?”
“This is not what I wanted, do you hear me Sherlock? That … my God, I can not do that. That’s … That’s not me. Fuck. ”
“I love her … Really, I do. I mean, I married her. But … I just do not know what I’m doing. I’m … This is not me. I don’t want a quiet family life in a terraced area. I want … I don’t even really know what I want … But, I hate all of this. I … I thought I was going the right way this time, but that … that’s not what I want. I’m not a family man, Sherlock. ”
“You know, Sherlock, you can just wake up once. So … so we could really talk. Because, well … You listen to me here as I talk every day. Aren’t you bored. Jesus. I know it would be a miracle if you woke up. I have … I’ve heard the nurses talking. They’ve given up on you. It would be a miracle. But … I don’t know, maybe you can just make the miracle happen for me? Simply … Oh God, I don’t know what I’m talking about. Good bye, Sherlock. Until tomorrow.”
6 weeks later.

“Hello, Dr. Watson. I’m sorry to call you so late, but he … he’s asking for you.”

“Who? Who is asking for me?”

“Sherlock Holmes. The coma patient you have been visiting. He woke up and now he’s asking for you. Very urgently.”

John hurried to the hospital. He doesn’t even notice that he left his cane at home. Until Sherlock points it out. Sherlock, sitting upright in bed, an exhausted, oblique smile on his face.
Sherlock, who says quietly, “Hello, John.”
Sherlock, who steals John’s heart within a second and opens the door to a whole new, completely different story. Who shows John a new way. Which is finally

           the right one. 

This was inspired by this beautiful post of @johnnlocked: AU in which Sherlock is in a coma and John is in the same room.

Corrected by my wonderful beta @bakerstreet-irregular <3

Tags are under the cut. As always, if I forgot you or you want to be tagged in future works, tell me :)

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The Bloody Red Baron’s traumatic brain injury,

 The issue of head trauma and brain injury has been in the spotlight a lot lately, especially when it comes to sports and athletic injury, as well as auto accidents, job accidents, and of course, soldiers returning home from war.  Perhaps one recently recognized case of traumatic brain injury in history is Manfred von Richthofen, also known as the “Red Baron”.  One of the greatest combat fighter pilots of all time, the German ace helped form the foundation of aerial dogfighting.  He wasn’t the most skilled pilot, but he utilized tactics which made him the most dangerous airman of World War I, earning him 80 kills, making him the highest scoring and most decorated pilot of the war. Richthofen’s incredible success was mostly due to his strict adherence to a set rules governing dogfighting called the “Boelcke Dictums”, written by German flying ace Oswald Boelcke.  Today the Boelcke Dictums are holy gospel among fighter pilots, still taught to trainees in air forces around the world.

On July 6th, 1917, Richthofen suffered a gunshot wound to the head, damaging the frontal lobe of his brain.  Amazingly, the wound didn’t kill him, and he was able to land in friendly territory. He had to undergo several operations to remove bone fragments from his damaged brain, and was temporarily blinded and paralyzed. Amazingly, Richthofen made a quick comeback, spending only three months convalescing and healing, attempting to return to active duty in August but finally returning to the air on October 23rd.

Richthofen wasn’t the same after his head injury, and modern medical professionals  have looked over his case and determined that he could have suffered from a serious traumatic brain injury. He become disinhibited and compulsive, often making snap judgments and irrational decisions.  He also had less control over his emotions, becoming moody and depressed.  In his journals, his writing became more simplistic, disorganized, and nonsensical.  In the air, he became more and more reckless, taking more dangerous risks and ignoring the Boelcke Dictums which he had rigidly adhered to before.  It is was quite clear that Richthofen was suffering from head trauma (and perhaps battle fatigue) resulting in decreased cognitive ability. It is a good possibility that the Bloody Red Baron had lost his edge due to his injury.

On April 21st, 1918 Richthofen broke formation with his squadron to chase an Allied plane.  Flying mere hundreds of feet above the ground, Richthofen pursued the fighter deep into enemy territory, totally oblivious of enemy fighters diving on his six and a mass of anti aircraft fire rising from the ground.  Neurologists call this “target fixation”, a habit common among those suffering brain injuries where a person will fixate on a particular object or thing while losing awareness of his or her surroundings.   Richthofen sustained a mortal gunshot wound to the chest, going down and crashing.  He was buried with honors by British forces.  Today, most medical and military experts agree that the Red Baron would have never been allowed to fly again in any modern air force.

"The Theater of War" | Ch 1. Learning Through Suffering
By Brian Doerries – Read by Adam Driver
"The Theater of War" | Ch 1. Learning Through Suffering

I finally started The Theater of War audiobook, narrated by Adam Driver. What made me pick this up was an older post titled Moral Injury, Tragedy, and Kylo Ren about how Adam’s experience as a former marine, his involvement in theater, and knowledge of Greek plays may have informed his portrayal of Kylo Ren who is quite a flawed and tragic character in his own right. 

As @arrivedmadpointed out, Adam has worked closely with author Brian Doerries since his days at Juilliard. He also runs a non-profit org that brings plays to those in the military, so this is a subject that he cares deeply about. 

If you don’t have time to pick it up, I highly suggest this 5-minute talk done by the author. This audio clip is an excerpt from chapter 1. Transcript is below:

We love stories about well-intentioned flawed characters because they make the most compelling drama. Also, as Aristotle pointed out, we take no pleasure in watching morally flawless people suffer. 


In other words, tragedies depict characters making mistakes rather than inherent flaws in character. I know I miss the mark every day. I often have to lose my way to find the right path forward. Making mistakes, even habitually and unknowingly is central to what it means to be human. 

Characters in Greek tragedies stray, err, and get lost. They are no more flawed than the rest of humanity. The difference lies in the scale of their mistakes which inevitably costs lives and ruin generations.

At the same time, being human and making mistakes, even in ignorance, does not absolve these tragic characters of responsibility for their actions. Had they fully understood what they were doing, they most certainly would not have done it. But they did it all the same. It is in this gray zone, at the thin border between ignorance and responsibility that ancient Greek tragedies play out. 

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anonymous asked:

Hi! What kind of injuries could cause a fairly young, healthy guy to walk with a limp & require a cane for the rest of his life? He would have been fighting in a war- fantasy set in modern times, with a fair mix of magic, modern, and ancient weapons (or combo of any of the three). There are also magic users, though not too many of them.

Hey there nonny! Really any significant injury to the leg can justify this, but especially sharp force trauma (stabs and slashes) and blunt force trauma (breaking the leg). Depending on how things heal, it’s definitely possible to have some trouble getting around. 

Damage to the knee will also typically cause significant limping. 

One other thought… medieval armor was heavy. Much like a shocking number of modern troops, knee injuries could be very common. Alternatively, significantly twisting the knee could cause an ACL or MCL tear, which again leads to limping. 

The question I would really ask myself about this injury, then, is why? Why did this character get hurt, and more importantly, how did getting hurt change him? Did it end his career as a soldier? How would it have affected his mindset? His ability to work? What does he do to get around his disability? 

And – if he had to, even disabled, would he take up the sword again? Disability could change his relationship with the war he fought or with the army he fought for. (Were there mages who refused to help him? Was he supposed to get a pension but didn’t?)

In short: don’t just give him a limp to give him a limp. Make it a part of who he is. Honor people with mobility issues by making this character a fully-fledged person, with that disability incorporated into it. 

Best of luck with your story! 

xoxo, Aunt Scripty


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Under Yellow Moons by skoosiepants

They stare at each other, half-grinning, and Derek knows it’s definitely the absolute wrong time for this, but he wants. He wants to grin at Stiles over dinner every day for the rest of his life, baffled over yams and Moon Pie Day, and, god, crap, goddamn, when the fuck did he have time to fall in love?


The life and times of Deputy Stiles and Supernatural Foster Dad Derek Hale

Mates and Mushrooms by mikkimouse

Derek’s not that excited about spending three days at a conference getting propositioned by every Alpha with a single pack member. Stiles has a plan to make it stop.

It might be a great plan…if only Derek weren’t head over heels in love with him.

It might be an even better plan if someone at the conference didn’t have a vested interest in Derek staying single.

A Garden Is a Lovesome Thing by fauvistfly

After the chaos has died down, Stiles attempts to find normalcy in his life. Somehow, helping Derek bring a garden back to life becomes part of that normalcy. Through the seasons, they fight, laugh, talk, eat, breathe.

In the end, they find that what comes to life is more than just a garden.

i brought my pencil by betp

Your typical, classic nerd/jock au, but with a shittier attitude.

Ardently by roundelet

Mr Stilinski contends with the loss of his family’s funds, an unfortunate predilection for pastries, and an inconvenient attraction to this Season’s most eligible bachelor.

Lord Hale contends with a reluctant return to Society, hiding a war injury from meddling sisters, and the trials of courting a thoroughly oblivious young man.

Everything Under the Moon by standinginanicedress

“Just go in and buy him something and attach a note that says, like, I don’t know,” she flips a curl over her shoulder, “let’s bone.”

Derek looks up at the sky and purses his lips. Doesn’t dignify that with a response. There’s no way in hell Derek is going to attach some dinky little note to Stiles’ gift that is either as crass as Erica’s suggestion or as humiliating as something he could come up with himself – no fucking way in hell.

But she does have a point. Stiles’ birthday is coming and Derek is shit out of luck and shit out of ideas for ways to make Stiles see him as anything more than just Derek. The way Stiles looks at him sometimes, it’s like he has no fucking idea.

anonymous asked:

“Will you let me rub your back?” - Tony/Rhodey

Tony watches Rhodey flop onto the couch after physical therapy. He tries to make the flop look graceful, and it somewhat does, but that’s only because Rhodey is made of grace. It’s definitely a flop of an exhausted man, no two ways about it.

Rhodey groans into a pillow but then goes still, probably too proud to admit that he hurts. Or, Tony thinks bitterly, too worried it’ll set Tony off if he knows Rhodey hurts. Like he doesn’t know.

Tony goes to therapy to work out his issues with what happens and Rhodey does double duty, therapy and PT. The point is, Tony isn’t about to unload his shit on Rhodey at the first reminder that Rhodey’s body hurts a lot now, parts of him pulling double-duty, compensating for his paralysis.

Instead, he sits down on the couch. “Will you let me rub your back?” He asks.

Rhodey shifts his head slightly to the side so he can speak. “What?”

“Your back,” Tony repeats. “Let me give you a back rub.” He doesn’t have to explain that he’s sure Rhodey’s shoulder muscles ache from the manual wheelchair and from his work on the parallel bars, all the upper-body work he does now. Rhodey’s smart; he knows that Tony knows.

Rhodey hesitates, still proud, but the fact that Tony’s Tony seems to win out. “Alright.”

Tony pushes up his own sleeves even as he begins leaning over. “Stay right there,” he encourages. “Let me do some work for once.”

Rhodey snorts but obediently holds still.

Tony gets his hands on Rhodey’s shoulders, rubbing at the muscles through the thin, warn-through t-shirt. Rhodey groans.

“Just gettin’ started,” Tony promises, and follows through, going for the spots he thinks are probably the sorest.

He doesn’t push hard at the muscles–he has the number of a professional, if they need that–just gives them some gentle rolls and a rub down.

By the time he’s done, the sweat from PT has cooled on Rhodey’s skin, and Rhodey’s essentially melted into the couch. He hums a bit when Tony bends to place a final kiss on Rhodey’s neck.

“You stay there,” Tony instructs. “We’ll eat on the couch tonight.”

“I can help,” Rhodey protests, but his voice is muffled, face pressed mostly into the couch.

“It’s called relaxing,” Tony says easily. “You should really try it sometime. I got this one, Rhodey-bear.”

Rhodey grumbles but makes no move to get up, just seems to sink further into the couch, and Tony’s going to call that a win.

Books and Injuries--Poe Dameron x Reader

Pain seared through your entire being as you were being wheeled to the infirmary. Your clothes were slowly becoming stained with blood and your vision was beginning to unfocus and blur with each passing second.

“Come on, (y/n), were almost to the infirmary. Stay awake for us, please,” a voice said to you. You groaned as another pang of pain struck you, this time coming from your left side. You could only make out colors now and even then they were all blurring together like the colors of a watercolor painting. Your breathing began to become labored and eventually, your vision turned dark. Unconsciousness was bliss.

Poe landed his X-Wing and hopped out of the cockpit. The landing strip was chaos as a few resistance members were arriving home from missions. Each one of these members had an injury of some sort. After placing BB-8 onto the ground, Poe left in search of someone who would know what was going on.

“Poe!” He heard his name being called by Finn.

“Finn! What the hell is going on around here?” He asked.

“There was an ambush by the first order during a reconnaissance mission,” Finn began, panic laced within his voice. Poe’s heart dropped. He knew about the mission that you were going on today and he had hoped that this wasn’t your team.

“Which squadron was it?” Poe asked hurriedly, eyes wide and heart pounding.

“5A,” Finn replied. Poe cursed to himself as he looked at the ground, worry beginning to take over his being.

“Have you seen (y/n)?” Finn shook his head. At that moment, Poe handed sprinted to the infirmary in hopes of seeing you with minor injuries and a smile on your face. As he passed, some gave him weird looks and others showed sympathy on their faces.

The medical bay was swamped with people, non of which being the one Poe was looking for. He quickly approached the desk.

“Is (y/f/n) (y/l/n) here?” He asked quickly, not wanting to waste another second. The woman nodded. “Room 1.”

“Thank you,” he said before walking to your room. His stomach was doing flips and turns as he trekked to your room. He quickly walked inside to see yoy laying on the bed in a mint green gown with bandages all over your body. An IV was inside of your arm and your eyes were still closed. The monitor beeped a steady tempo, revealing that you were still alive. Carefully he walked up to your bed and sat down on the chair beside it. Tears brimmed his eyes as he studied you more.

There was a bandage wrapped around your head, as well as a bandage around your left arm and shoulder. Your lip was busted and a bruise was starting to appear around your eye. Poe then reached his hand out, grabbing your cold left hand, holding back the tears. A knock disrupted the moment and he looked to see a doctor walking and stopping in front of the bed.

“She suffered some serious wounds to her abdomen, arm, and head. She’s lost a lot of blood, but luckily we were able to get her stable,” he said, now placing a hand on Poe’s shoulder.

“Is she going to be okay?” Poe asked, his voice quivering.

“As of now, yes. We will have to watch as she progresses, but if she keeps improving through tomorrow, she will be alright.”

“Thank you,” Poe said, placing his hand over the doctor’s on his shoulder. “When will she wake up?”

“Not for a while. Again, as I said, she lost a lot of blood so it’s going to be some time before she wakes up. You should be alright to get some food and change if you feel the need to,” the doctor said, leaving the room.

Around ten minutes after the doctor left, Poe decided that he was going to do what the doctor said.

“Hey, (n/n), I’ll be back in a little bit, I promise,” Poe said, placing a gently kiss on her hand. He was rewarded with only the sound of the heart moniter.

Poe left the infirmary and went to his quarters, where he was faced with BB-8. The small droid beeped in surprise as Poe entered and began to change into sweat pants, a T-shirt, and a jacket.

“(Y/n) is in the infirmary with some injuries, BB. I’m going to grab some food and head back there if you want to join me,” the pilot told the droid. A series of beeps erupted from BB-8 as he hurried out of the door and down to the mess hall. Sighing, Poe grabbed a random book and followed his droid, not wanting to be left behind.

Poe arrived back to your room with his droid in tow and a book in hand. He looked at the cover of the book.

“X-Wing Mechanics 101,” he said to himself. He scoffed as he sat down in the chair. You were still in the same position as you were when he left. BB-8 moved himself next to Poe and beeped wildy, seeing you in this state.

“She’ll be alright, she’s a fighter,” Poe told his companion and opening the book. “Looks like we’re going to learn about the mechanics of an X-Wing, (y/n).” Ruffling his hair, Poe began to read.

“The X-Wing is a complex machine that has the ability to fly and fire various weapons while also having the ability to house a pilot and any droid of the pilot’s choice. Understanding the abilities and mechanics of this complex machine from this book will make you not only a better pilot, but also allow you to have a better understanding of your craft,” Poe scoffed. “Yeah, as if. I didn’t read this and I’m the best pilot in the resistance.”

Poe glanced up at your form. You looked so peaceful and calm. Poe could only imagine the you were in when you were awake. He wished that he could have been there to protect you and to help you. He was glad that you didn’t die, at least not yet. He grasped your hand once more and studied your face, remembering the way your dimples would pop when you smiled or the way your nostrils flared when you laughed.

A quizzical series of beeps came from the orange and white droid to his left.

“I’ll tell her when she’s awake,” Poe replied to the droid. BB-8 countered him with three short beeps, causing the pilot to laugh. “You do have a point, bud. Anyways let’s get back to the book.”

Three hours had passed and Poe had only read through half of the book. A yawn escaped his mouth as he marked the page he was on and placed the book on the bedside table. BB-8 had left to recharge for the night.

“Y'know, I was expecting you to wake up and slap this book out of my hands,” he said to your still figure. “I’d be grateful if you did that for me. That way I can see that you’re really okay and I wouldn’t have to keep reading this boring thing. I bet the nurses who came in to check on you were so confused,” he laughed. “I’m sorry it’s such a dry book–it was the first thing I grabbed. Anyway I can’t wait for you to wake up. I miss your smiling, happy face short-stack.”

With that said, Poe stopped his conversation and stood. He walked out of your room and to the vending machine that was nearby, gabbing a bottle of water.

“It’s really sweet of you to read to your girlfriend while she recovers, even if it is about the mechanics of an X-Wing,” an accented voice said from behind him. A blush creeped onto his face.

“Thanks,” he said before heading back to your room, drinking some water from the bottle. He sat down. He held your hand once more and ran his thumb over your knuckles.

“I wish I had the guts to tell you this while you were awake, but I love you, (y/n). More than you can imagine. I rushed here as soon as I heard about what happened, hoping that you would be alright. I wish I was there to protect you, but then again you’re a tough cookie who can handle herself. I have to leave for the night, visiting hours are coming to close. Until tomorrow,” he said standing again and kissing your forehead goodnight.

Poe arrived to your room early the next morning after eating breakfast. He didn’t sleep well the night before, but that didn’t stop him from trying to sleep.

“Morning (n/n),” he said before sitting down. “I see you haven’t woken up yet.” The medical unit was silent this early in the morning, no visitors came this early, even though the hours started at this time of day. Poe held your hand once more, but this time he heard your heart moniter begin to speed up the slightest bit.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Poe said soothingly. The moniter began to go back to its or final pace. “That’s it. I guess you can hear me now. Unless you’ve always been able to hear me. Can you squeeze my hand?” Poe was becoming anxious as he awaited your response. He felt a faint squeeze, but it was there. A smile graced his features.

“Hey, take your time waking up, I’ll be here, I promise,” he said. You took a deep breath and calmed once more. “In the meantime let’s finish this book.”

It took only an hour more to finish reading the book that Poe had brought from yesterday. He placed it on the he table and watched you rest. Suddenly you began to shift, followed by a groan and followed by your eyelids opening to reveal (e/c) eyes. Poe pressed the call button for a nurse as he held your hand once more.

“Hey,” he said, tears beginning to pool from his eyes. You smiled a pained smile.

“Hey,” your voice croaked, causing you to cough and causing pain to surge through your stomach. You groaned. The nurse then walked in and checked all of your vitals and your responsiveness. Finally she started a morphine drip to help you through the pain.

“I thought you were gone,” Poe said, tears sliding down his cheeks. You smiled.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily. Besides, ever since you’ve started that book, I’ve been trying to wake up and throw it out the window,” you said. Poe began to chuckle.

“So I’m guessing you were able to hear some other things then,” he said, cheeks blushing. You smiled.

“Yeah. I never took you for the sappy type, Mr. Dameron,” you teased. “But I guess I love you too.” Poe’s face lit up as you said that and he placed a soft kiss onto your lips.

k-192  asked:

Can I ask for an scenario about the imagine of "hiding an injury from War and then he finds out"? (And if you don't mind, can you add Death and Azrael too?) >\\\< Thank you!! ^^ Tbh this is my favorite imagines blog so far!

I’ll have to add Azrael and Death in the morning 😘 xx p>You try to suck in a steadying breath as you wind the century old bandages around the enormous bite in your calf. After your narrow escape from a Goreclaw, you’d managed to convince War that you needed to stop for the night, without letting on that you needed to rest your wounded leg or you might risk losing it. 

As the sun sunk below the city’s skyline, War pushed you into the back of what used to be an art gallery. You attributed the tears rolling down your face to the sadness you felt looking at all of your destroyed history, rather than the tremendous pain you were in physically. War seemed to buy it, although he still looked skeptical when you bit your lip and whimpered. 

War was reluctant to leave you alone, but you insisted that he not accompany you to the bathroom. He waited outside the gallery’s loos all the same. Inside, you were having a hell of a time trying not to cry out too loudly as you washed and bound your injury. It wasn’t any easier with War shouting through the half-rotted wooden door, “Are you finished?” 

“Just a second!” comes your strained reply. Semi-satisfied, you hobble out of the bathroom, ignoring War’s suspicious stare as you stumble past. “I’m just tired, War,” you try to reassure him. Indeed, you are exhausted, so he stands over you whilst you lay your jumper down as a make-shift pillow and thump down onto it with a sigh. 

You were asleep when he found out. 

You’re jostled awake by a livid looking War, who’s glaring fiercely at your leg and baring his teeth. You follow his gaze and pale at the sight. There’s blood oozing through your bandages and dripping onto the cold, marble floor. It pools around your feet at an alarming rate and you start to feel sick. 

“Why, the Hell would you keep this from me?!” he bellows, ripping the bandage off your leg, roughly and pressing fresh cloth to the wound. You thought, at first, that it was cloth from his own cloak, what with how red the damn thing was. But you realised with a sinking feeling in your gut, that it was already soaked through with your own blood. You don’t remember much of what happened after that. 


You awaken once more to find War hovering over you, his expression worn and concerned. He’s pouring some sort of fluorescent, green liquid onto your leg. And by God it hurts. War’s face shifts into a scowl when you start to scream. It only deepens when he stops and you start to cry. 

You succumb to the lull of sleep shortly after the pain begins to fade. 

“What was that stuff?” 

You’d come around about 20 minutes ago and to say it was awkward was an understatement. War had refused to acknowledge you, aside from checking that your wound wasn’t bleeding. Sometimes, he had to hold you down with his Tremor gauntlet so that you’d let him examine the bite. 

“A poultice,” he sighs, “from Vulgrim. He thought it might come in handy…” The horseman sneered at the memory of the demon merchant practically forcing the healing potion into War’s hand, insisting that he take it for your sake. Why Vulgrim gave a damn is still beyond War’s comprehension. 

The sound of your moan draws his attention back down to you as you struggle to sit up properly. “Ugh, remind me to thank him,” you grunt, taking War’s proffered hand and allowing him to drag you upright. You squint through your sleepy haze up at the horseman and wince at the stern look on his face. 

“…You’re lucky I discovered it in time,” he grits out, “Any longer without a healing potion, and you’d’ve died from infection…” The abruptness of his statement makes you feel a tad sick all over again, but you push the nausea aside in favour of examining your leg. To your surprise, the bite is little more than the size of a cat scratch, and just as deep. A far cry from the inch deep incisions you’d sported beforehand. 

You test your leg, stretching it out and hissing when it stings in protest. 

“Easy!” War reprimands, settling a stilling hand on your thigh, “You’ll only hurt yourself further.” He stares at you for a long time whilst you chew your lip and avidly try to avoid his intense gaze. 

“Y/n?” he finally asks, causing your eyes to flit up to meet his. 

“Yeah?” you mumble. 

His mouth draws into a grim line and his brow furrows upwards a little, “Do you have any idea of how close you just came to death?”  When you don’t respond, he continues. “Too close. Too close for my liking,” he states, but his voice has softened considerably since your life was no longer in such imminent danger. 

“I’m sorry War,” you mutter, shyly. A soft sigh captures your attention and you look up to see him regarding you worriedly. 

“Just…” now it’s his turn to avoid your gaze, “Just don’t hide something like this from me again, alright?” 

Blinking up at him, surprised, you reply, “I just didn’t want to cause any trouble.” 

“Yes, and look how well that turned out,” he grumbles, indicating your semi-healed leg. Ashamed, you duck your head and chew on your bottom lip self-consciously. Above you, you hear a rumbling sigh before you feel a heavy, metal hand pat your knee, taking care to avoid your injury. War blows air out through his nose and scrutinises you, glowering. 

“Stop worrying about what I think,” he suddenly states, causing you to raise an eyebrow up at him. “I would not think less of you if you were injured, Y/n,” he explains, “You’re human. You get hurt, you might die. I want to prevent that….” War’s show of concern for your wellbeing touches you in a way you haven’t felt for a long, long time. 

“Alright, War,” you nod bashfully, “I’ll let you know next time something takes a chunk out of my leg.” He huffs, but looks at least somewhat satisfied with that answer. War grunts as he places his hand on your shoulder and pushes you down onto the ground, making sure your head hits the make-shift pillow. 

“Sleep,” he orders, never taking his eyes off your leg. He almost looks guilty, you notice. 

Smiling, you reach up your hand and pat the top of his gauntlet, “Thanks for the help, big guy.” 

War looks mildly shocked at that, but he swiftly turns his head away to the side and barks out a gruff, “I said, sleep.” Your eyes unfortunately close before you spot the way his azure eyes travel from the far wall back to your leg and he hums, a worried sound that wouldn’t sit right with you, had you been awake to hear it…. 

anonymous asked:

Hi for fic recs I'm good with anything I just am in a slump trying to find some good Granada style fics and so I thought I would seek the help of an expert xD Maybe some fluff or h/c preferably 1k+ words

Originally posted by jeremyholmes

Oh good! let’s do this :D

Particular Pecularity by saavik13m, 43k, Mature: “How high is your regard for me, Watson?” He asked abruptly, his eyes still trained on the fire. “If I were to confess my darkest secret would you leave? Would you abandon me here to my melancholy?”A case forces Holmes to reveal the truth to Watson and risks both their reputations and their liberty. Just how understanding is John Watson?

Since First I Saw Your Face by Stavia_Scott_Grayson, 42k, Mature, Holmes POV, wip: During the Great Hiatus, Holmes, studying in Tibet, reflects on his first meeting with Dr John Watson. Full of historical references, with a hopelessly in love Holmes, beautiful writing, one of the best fics of the moment. I can’t recommend it enough, it’s so good D:

Le Beau Gent sans Merci by SweetSorcery, 2k, Teen: News of Captain Jack Croker and Lady Mary Brackenstall start Holmes and Watson talking about the perfect relationship.

All the Makings of a Great Romance by fleetwood_mouse, 12k, Explicit, Holmes POV: Sherlock Holmes lays down his account of the events of The Adventure Of The Empty House, the years leading up to it, and the night that followed.

Notes On A Love Story by A_Candle_For_Sherlock, 4k, gen: Watson finds a copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray in Holmes’ room. Or: what happens when a queer novel upends Baker Street.

Hidden Depths by Susannah_Shepherd, 7k, Explicit: Watson inadvertently lets slip that his war injuries are far more extensive and crippling than he has formerly admitted. Holmes encourages him to confront his fears and find new hope.

Lesson Learned by Shadowycat, 9k, Mature: In which, Holmes makes a discovery, Watson makes a decision, and Holmes learns a lesson (or two) he never thought he’d want to learn. (Alternating Holmes and Watson POVs.)

Rubicon by Janeturenne, on livejournal, 4k: “One minute we were both on the deck, and the next minute we were both in the river…“ after an explosion while working on a case, Holmes and Watson think they’ve lost each other.

and, if you haven’t read all of Katy Forsythe, you should ;)

Draco x Hermione

Title: Static

Author: galfoy

Genre: Angst/Romance

Chapters: 21

Word Count: 75,632

Summary: The Order rescued Draco and Lucius Malfoy after Lord Voldemort turned on them. All the safe houses are full, and Hermione Granger is the only one who can take them in. Will she agree after having suffered a drastic nervous breakdown?

The story of Kylo Ren is the archetypal journey of a soldier, and I don’t believe it will end in darkness or despair: (Or, how I learned to stop worrying and trust Adam Driver)

Here’s a link to a video about Arts in the Armed Forces (AITAF), the non-profit organization created by Adam Driver and his wife Joanne Tucker in 2006 when they were students at Juilliard. It’s more than a half hour long, but take some time and watch the whole thing.

This is the work Adam Driver undertook when he was just twenty-three years old, and it is clear that this group of people – active duty military, veterans, and their families – are an audience very close to his heart.  While Star Wars appeals to all of us, I think that through the character of Kylo Ren, Adam Driver is telling a story intended to resonate especially with this particular audience, and that the story will be one of redemption and reconciliation.

Star Wars has always been a story about hope, and Arts in the Armed Forces, with a mission to honor, educate and inspire active duty military personnel and veterans, is about hope as well. It’s also about engaging people whose experiences of war and its trauma may separate them from our contemporary society, in which a small number of people carry a disproportionate burden of war.  AITAF uses the arts to help people make sense of and process experiences that may otherwise be difficult to live with.  It’s happening on small stages with small groups of people, where real work of finding meaning and connection can be done.

“Before I was at Juilliard, I was in the Marine Corps with 11 Weapons Company, 81st Platoon out at Camp Pendleton, California, and when I got out of the military I thought my transition from the military life to the civilian life would be pretty simple. I was quick to learn that that was not the case.  

My transition from military to civilian life was…a bit complex. [At school]…I was exposed to characters and plays which had nothing to do with the military but were somehow articulating my military experience in a way that before to me was indescribable, and I felt myself becoming less aggressive as I was able to put words to feelings…and what better community to arm with the tool of self-expression than those protecting our country?”

-Adam Driver – Arts in the Armed Forces

Playing the character of Kylo Ren in Star Wars, Driver has stepped onto a world stage and is beginning to tell a story about what it means to be human. I am confident that he is working from the same set of core values that motivated him to create AITAF.  Star Wars is a fairy tale, but like the stories presented by AITAF, Kylo Ren’s story in The Force Awakens and in the subsequent chapters of the new trilogy will be a story that will help people to process things which may feel indescribable – it is already engaging audiences in bigger questions about what it means to be human, about what it means to fall, rise, forgive, integrate the past, and live.  

It has been broadly reported that when Driver was approached to play the role of Kylo Ren in TFA, he did not accept the offer immediately. He spent time talking with both JJ Abrams and Kathleen Kennedy before agreeing to take on the part. I think that those discussions had something to do with what would happen to the character he would be bringing to life, and that he was thinking about the people for whom he created the AITAF when he said yes.

I believe that Driver is creating a story he hopes will resonate with a group of people who are very important to him, and there is simply no way he will break faith with this particular audience by telling them that a person cannot be redeemed, that no past actions, even terrible or traumatic ones, can strip a person of his humanity.  I believe that the final lessons of the new Star Wars trilogy will be that it is never too late, that hope will never be utterly lost. No matter how far into darkness a person may fall, a return is possible.

The story of Kylo Ren is the archetypal journey of a soldier, and the journey will not end in darkness or despair, because the young man who created Arts in the Armed Forces won’t let it.

Through the character of Kylo Ren, Adam Driver is telling us a story about finding a way to be human and connected, to process the experience of war, and to heal from trauma. It is no coincidence that this is also part of the work that he, Joanne Tucker, and others are is doing though AITAF.  

“One thing we’ve always been talking about from the beginning of our project is what’s the risk of going to people on the front lines? Why is that actually necessary? Does it cause more of a disruption than it heals anything? And I can’t help but think that even in the most stressful circumstances, offering a new means of self-expression, or showing characters that I feel will resonate with that audience, or just giving a vocabulary to that audience through these really human characters that we’re representing – no time in anyone’s life is that bad.

We can’t place a value on the arts, and that’s a hard thing to convey. It’s whatever we’re offering…you may not initially see the benefit, but just planting that seed of a character we can all relate to may have benefits down the road.”

-          Adam Driver, Arts in the Armed Forces

As a fan of both the original trilogy and the Force Awakens, I approach these ideas as a person who has not been a part of the Star Wars universe for the past thirty years, so the lens through which I am looking has little to do with past history of the franchise, or any particular knowledge of Star Wars Canon. And I could be wrong about this of course, but I really don’t think so.

We all have to wait and see what happens, and there are many ways the storytellers could get this wrong – they’ve been known to make mistakes with this epic fairy tale in the past. We should all keep on keeping a watchful eye on the progress of the story over the coming months and years. I’m going to keep on being an advocate for the character of Kylo Ren/Ben Solo, especially now, when his story is only beginning to be told, and many people find it easy to hate and condemn him. There are valuable conversations to be had about the damage we do to one another when we label someone as “other,” about the nature of good and evil, and what constitutes redemption and reconciliation. Let’s keep having those conversations.

Although it’s fair to say I don’t completely trust our storytellers to get it right – I find I do trust Adam Driver, and for me, that is enough. I trust that he knows where he is taking us, and that everything is going to be all right in the end. There’s a chance it might even be amazing.

Notes: I wrote this essay in the winter of 2016, shortly after TFA was released. In the months since, my sense that the storytellers DO know what they are doing has generally grown stronger.