(Untitled)

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Scritchity-scratch-scratch creeeeeeeek, goes a door in the Staff and Other Important Areas part of the bar.

A gray and black form slinks out at the creeeeeek noise and darts through the sea of patrons' ankles, tail held high and slobbery paper something-or-other clutched in his jaws. The dog- not quite two feet tall at the shoulder, somewhat

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[hello_freak]

Sherlock had been sitting at the bar, leafing through today's paper and counting the number of patrons of a non-human morphology. Aliens. Robots. Lizardmen. Some strange thing with tentacles for a mouth and a glowing sphere on a tether.

And now a dog.

A dog with a purpose, it seems. This is not something one sees every day, even in a bar at the end of the universe. Clearly, this needs investigating.

Sherlock folds his paper neatly, and leans forward a bit.

"Need some assistance with that?"

He leans forward and gingerly, in a way best described as non-threatening, holds the bag in such a manner that the dog can grab the handles of the bag.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Dogmeat understands a fair amount of English. Mostly the parts that involve action verbs, if we are being honest. The rest of it is translated more from tone and accompanying action than understood directly, but the net effect is the same. When Sherlock holds up the bag for him he waves his tail gratefully and bites down on the bag's handles with great care. It's a little bit awkward to carry, but no worse than a shotgun or a human arm.

... probably best not to ask about the last one.

He wags his tail again thankfully and eases himself and his bundle down to the floor.

[hello_freak]

But of course.

Which is why Sherlock is tucking his paper under his arm, and following, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

He'll even hold the door open for the dog, if it makes his path any easier.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

It does, significantly. Dogmeat is used to having to wait for a human to push the door open, or sometimes just to wait for the big metal doors to suddenly unbuckle themselves and slide apart. Nosing the door open doesn't work that well when he's carrying stuff, so the strange human following him is appreciated.

He pads past a couple of other doors- closets, mostly- and stops with an expectant look outside the one labeled Infirmary.

[hello_freak]

Which means that Sherlock is now opening the door to the Infirmary, and peering around, curiously.

And of course, following the dog.

It's what he does when he's bored.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

The infirmary itself is a very neat and tidy place, since it hasn't got many patients just at the moment and both doctors and Oompa-Loompas like to keep it tidy. Good luck deciphering the tech levels involved here, though; there's equipment from several different universe and time frames on display, and not all the medicine is likely to be labeled in English, or even in the Latin alphabet.

Dogmeat, of course, ignores all of this and trots over to an occupied bed. There's a pale young woman- perhaps nineteen or so- stretched out in it, doing her best to reread her issue of Grognak the Barbarian without getting too upset about how long it'll be before she can pick up her sword again. Someone shaved her head a few days ago; it's growing back in patches, and there's not nearly enough fuzz to cover some of the scars along the hairline area.

At the sound of claws, she looks up. "Good boy, Dogmeat!" she says and reaches for the bag. "Did you have any trouble?"

[hello_freak]

Holmes can tell at a glance that the young woman is healing from severe radiation burns. But another equally quick glance shows no warning signs that she shouldn't be approached, so of course, he ventures into the danger zone.

"Oh terribly sorry to intrude," he gives her a bright, plastic smile. "Is this your dog? Such a clever creature, to bring you what you need."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Hm? Oh-" Ellen looks up from the bag, wide-eyed. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you there, sir. Um. Thank you for helping Dogmeat get here. I was hoping he'd be able to bring the Bar my request. Dr. McCoy doesn't want me walking around just yet and I'm going bugnuts in here."

Dogmeat sits back on his haunches and turns to nibble at an itch. Yeah, he's used up most of his attention span for the day.

[hello_freak]

Sherlock stoops to ruffle the dog's ears, regardless, using the moment to glimpse more details. The girl's dosimeter reads as clean, which gives him some hope.

"Sherlock Holmes, and it's no trouble at all. Boredom is my greatest curse, so I can sympathise. Haven't they got a television in here for you? Or at least a connection to the Internet?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Well, John brought me some vids," Ellen says, indicating the portable DVD player nearby. "I've watched them already. It's kind of weird seeing anything on such a small screen in color. I just wanted some rehab equipment so I could get a head start on physical therapy."

She's seen one or two television programs in Mr. Mills' world. They tend not to engage the brain all that much. With a physical workout, at least you're too busy sweating to think.

[hello_freak]

"John?"

Could she mean Watson?

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Um- John Baum," Ellen says. "A friend of mine, from here- not from my world, I mean. I'm sorry, were you looking for someone?"

[hello_freak]

"Oh. Not -- exactly. I was following your dog. Also, out of boredom."

Of course she didn't mean John. Just because he's a doctor and has field experience with such strange things as radiation, doesn't mean he'd turn up here.

"And are you sure that's wise? Starting your physical therapy so soon after your -- exposure?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

She sighs, looking down at one of the larger burned patches on her forearm. "I've had really good medicine," she says. "Even if it's not the kind that Moira tested on me when I picked up six hundred rads back in Megaton. and I spent at least four days unconscious. Maybe more, I don't know. I don't- I don't want to have to make up for all of that."

She really wants to scratch, but she's not going to. Every time her hand so much as twitches towards a rash patch she thinks of Gob.

[hello_freak]

"Six hundred rads? That's -- six grays, good Lord, you're lucky to be alive." He doesn't feel the need to varnish the truth for her. She seems to have a pretty clear, firsthand understanding of the experience.

"Good heavens, I don't know if I've ever heard of anyone surviving that level of exposure for more than a few hours. What kind of medical treatment are you receiving here, anyway?"

Boredom is receding in his rearview mirror now.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

The unit of measurement goes right over Ellen's head, but she nods. "I was helping a woman back home test an anti-radiation treatment, otherwise I wouldn't have sat still for anywhere near that kind of exposure," she says. "I- oh..."

She'd been about to say I have a Geiger counter built into this, but the Pip-Boy's not on her arm any more; the missing weight on her left forearm's a clear reminder of that