2. Well, I might call you Doctor.

[bestsir]

Who: Harry Goodsir and OPEN
What: Doctor's hours
Where: Harry's cabin, around town
When: Anytime during October, early November
Warnings: TBD

It's taken some weeks—including the awful voices and even, ironically, the words of Cornelius Hickey—for Goodsir to finally act on advice he'd given to Edward Little when they'd first arrived.

He starts by placing a notice on the board. Then he starts scavenging the town for all the medical supplies he can find, consolidating a store of them in his cabin. What he does manage to find, in combination with the contents of his surgeon's chest, isn't nearly as much as he would like, but it will do.

He has learned much, these last few weeks. That disease and infection is caused not by miasma, by tiny animalcules that may be spread by various forms of contact, and that wounds must be kept clean—disinfected—thus averting festering and gangrene. That there are compounds in food that keep the body healthy, and that not all foods contain those compounds. He tries not to dwell on the lives he might have saved with that knowledge on the expedition, and to focus on the here and now. As he said to Little: to live, and do what good he can.

And to try not to let his hatred of Cornelius Hickey consume him.

Comments

no worries!

[bestsir]

"Yes," he says, and the answer comes without hesitation. "That is—I want to. Will I—will we? I can't say. But some mysteries don't sit well with me, including this one."

A pause, then: "Why Russians?"

[questioningmermaids]

There's a lot of people around that March is realizing aren't nearly as pessimistic as he is. Even the ones that jaded--Bigby comes to mind--have this insatiable urge to keep going, no matter what. Goodsir seems to be in that category. It's admirable.

It's kind of annoying, too, if only because it's getting harder to repress the fact that he knows he never has any follow through. It's a fleeting thought, one that's dispersed with a blink and the stubbing of a cigarette.

"It's always Russians if you read the paper," March figures, "Unless it's the Chinese. Oh--do you guys have America, yet?"

[bestsir]

"That we do," Goodsir says with a laugh, and shakes his head. "Clearly there is much I have to learn about the politics of the future."

[questioningmermaids]

"Oh thank God," March mutters under his breath about America, looking visibly more relaxed. It hasn't occurred to him he was anxious about the answer until the relief floods through him.

"I wouldn't worry about it. I'm not sure it's relevant anyway," March says, not because it's true but because he doesn't know the nuances of the geopolitical spectrum enough to explain it to a Victorian man without the other quickly realizing he has no idea what the fuck he's talking about. March is finding that he's quite fond of someone thinking that maybe he's not a total idiot. It's kind of nice. So instead, he shrugs, the act of shifting his shoulders serving as a way to pluck himself off of the chair.

"I'm, uh. Sorry you're gonna die in the future."

[bestsir]

"That's a condolence you could offer to any man," Goodsir says, and there's something brittle in his voice at that. But he tempers it with a gentle smile and adds, "But I take your meaning, and ... thank you."

[questioningmermaids]

"Yeah." This is weird, isn't it? It feels like a weird note to end on. Probably he should go before things get awkward. He glances at the door.

"Hey," he says suddenly. "At least you know when you go. Which means you're definitely not gonna die here, right? You can't die if you're not back home."

[bestsir]

Goodsir surprises himself—and March too, probably—by actually laughing at that.

"You're an optimist, Mr. March. I admire that greatly."

And he notices the glance at the door.

"You needn't let me keep you. But—good luck with the busybodies and your tobacco."