The Seventh Spleen
As soon as I walk into the building I can hear Blair muttering... it doesn't take a genius to figure out that he is not a happy anthropologist/detective, not by a longshot. He was released from the hospital ten days ago and he was ordered to rest for two weeks and by now he's feeling better... but he's still banned from the station. I know my partner well enough to be very aware that he doesn't do rest graciously, in fact I think by now his doctors should have figured that one out, but still they keep cutting him loose and ordering him to take it easy, leaving me to deal with the aftermath... and that aftermath is exactly what I fear I'm about to walk into.
As I open the door I can see that Blair is fully dressed and sitting in front of his computer, that's not exactly what he should be doing but I guess it could have been worse. I scan the loft with my senses but I can't detect any evidence that he's gone out today and that's more than I had dared to hope, still, whatever is on his screen I can tell that it's bothering him, deeply. I drop my keys in the basket and the noise they make is enough to alert him to my presence.
"What's up, chief?" I ask hoping to get a better idea as to why he's so upset.
"Hi, Jim! I just can't believe these people, I mean, this is so not fair..."
"What's not fair?" I interrupt, hoping for something remotely resembling an explanation.
"This!" he says, gesturing toward his laptop before explaining. "I was kind of bored, you see, so I decided to go online for a while, just to keep myself busy, seeing how you told me I'm not allowed to go out just yet... and don't think I'm about to forget about that anytime soon, just wait until you are the injured party. Anyway, at first I wanted to check out some anthropology sites, you know? I mean, I may be a cop now but I still like to keep up with what's going on in that field and seeing how I was out of the action, again, I decided this was as good an opportunity as any. The thing is that I was also kind of curious to see if they were still talking about me and my dissertation, now that the dust has hopefully settled but instead I found a whole bunch of stories with us as their characters. Man, talk about weird..."
"What kind of stories?" I ask with a sinking feeling.
"Fanfiction, I never knew we were so popular," grumbles my partner, obviously less than thrilled with his newfound 'popularity'.
"And that's why you are so upset?"
"Yes, well, as I said you wouldn't believe some of these stories. Anyway, remember how you called me a trouble magnet once?"
"Yeah, though come to think of it, it bears repeating."
"Very funny. Anyway, these people seem to have latched on to that comment and the one I made about you being my Blessed Protector with a vengeance."
"So? I mean, you may not like how you are being portrayed but it's not the end of the world, is it?"
"Not the end of the world? You have no idea. I've been going over these stories for a couple of hours now and so far my arms and legs have been broken several dozen times each, I've had more cracked and broken ribs than there are ribs in a damned snake... and believe me, snakes have an awful lot of ribs and that's just the tip of the iceberg. I figure that by adding up the time I've spent in a coma in the different stories I've been unconscious for over a hundred years, I've had several skull fractures, my appendix has ruptured at least ten times and my spleen has been taken out at least six times. That means I'm in my seventh spleen and that so sounds like a lousy parody of Bergman's film!"
"Ouch, that's got to hurt," I say, trying to keep a straight face... and failing miserably. Luckily Sandburg is not really paying much attention.
"No kidding, and you don't even want to know how you come across in some of these stories."
"How I come across?" I ask, not liking where this is going.
"Yes, you see, for the most part your spleen is still there, you are nowhere near as 'accident prone' as I am --in spite of the fact that you keep dropping your gun every five minutes or so-- though you do get banged up sometimes."
"So what's the problem?" that doesn't sound anywhere near as bad as I had feared, though the gun part does bother me.
"The problem is that you are either depicted as an insensitive jerk or as Florence Nightingale on steroids."
"Florence Nightingale, me?" I ask in total disbelief.
"Oh, yeah. I mean, for starters you would never have gone back to the station, not until I was ready to go there with you. You would have stayed here by my side where you belong, feeding me peeled grapes, fluffing my pillow every fifteen minutes like clockwork, checking my temperature, helping me to the bathroom and generally catering to my every whim."
"You are kidding, right?" I ask, more than a little horrified at the thought.
"Okay, so maybe the grapes part was a bit of an exaggeration but it's not so far off the mark."
"Let me see," I say reading a couple of paragraphs. I had really hoped that Sandburg was exaggerating but it doesn't take me long to figure out that he's not.
"So, you still think it's funny?"
"Is there anything we can do about this? I mean, it seems to me like we are totally at their mercy!"
"I've been thinking about it and I think I may have a plan," he says with a mischievous smile, one that I find oddly reassuring... at least this time around.
"What are we going to do?"
"The same thing we do every night, Pinky."
"Ooops, wrong show."
"No kidding, brainiac, so what's the plan?"
"We write fanfiction about them and see how they like it."