"So, tomorrow you get gaped at inside and out by a glorified magnet," Sherlock Holmes commented as he turned the glossy black box over in his hands. "What did you say this way again?"

"A very expensive external hard drive." The author shook out the allotment of pills.

"You know it won't hurt. Unless you have metal in you that you weren't aware of. Then it will be terrible, I imagine." Watson had always been better at bedside manner.

She sighed. "It's just that on every single episode of House, something always goes wrong in the MRI. Always. They take a seizure or they find something awful unrelated to the original problem or they bleed from somewhere disgusting." She began swallowing the assortment. The notion of an E-Z swallow capsule was fictional.

"You'd think living with a painful condition that will likely lead to the slow grinding away of your joints would leave you immune to most other worries." Holmes picked up what appeared to be a cell phone, prodding numbers. There was nothing to her room but medical paraphernalia, technology, and books.

"In ten years I will have no knees left. Then I get titanium joints. They will be awesome. Also they will probably let me get WiFi in my head by that time."

Optimism certainly was a kind blight.