Title: 'Counting Sheep'
Author: Anna Rousseau annadelamico@yahoo.co.uk
Genre: Cast/Crossovers
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Find out what happens when our favourite ER characters cross over into the land of celluoid film...

Disclaimer: I own all the characters, I have supreme power over what they say and do, I can kill off Cleo if I want...dream on, Anna...

Disclaimer 2: OK, just so I don't get sued, all the ER characters belong to the big guys at WB and the other characters to who has their copyright...capiche...comprendez...das ist gut...and now the story.

Personal note: No offense to any one from Basildon, Essex, UK. If anyone has more ideas for this series, reply via the news group, SVP. My first attempt at humour- but it isn't the laugh a minute sort, so don't expect it:)


'COUNTING SHEEP'
================

Dr. Elizabeth Corday slammed the door of the surgeon's lounge with the strength of a bionic woman, a bionic woman before the bionic pieces where put in place.

This was not the Elizabeth Corday he knew, loved and tormented, Dr. Robert Romano thought as he lay back in a large leather swivel chair no-one else dared to sit in for fear of suspension. *No* Romano mused, this was the remnants of Elizabeth Corday after she had been chewed up, digested and projectile vomited by an eight hour assist on a complex new neurosurgical proceedure. But god, she looked beautiful.

Corday walked over to one the dark brown suede couch in the corner of the room and flopped down into its soft depths with a grunt. She could just imagine how undignified and untidy she looked and heard her grandmother's voice in her head barking at her about the proper way a lady should sit.

She craned her neck to the side with great difficulty, "Shit!" Corday muttered in a low tone as she noticed Romano in the chair opposite her, tapping his fingers together methodically.

"Looking gorgeous, Lizzie!" Romano boomed, handing her a cup of coffee, which she pushed away, with the force of a piece of limp celery.

Corday groaned and clapped her hand to her forehead as if it would stop the herd of elephants inside her cranium from preforming their Gene Kelly tap dance routines. "Not now, Robert," she protested feebly.

Romano grinned slyly, "OK, then Lizzie. Get some sleep, there's an emergency heart transplant in one hour exactly."

Corday opened her eyes quickly, mentally pinching herself, but this wasn't a dream, "Why me?"

"You're Associate Chief of Surgery," Romano shrugged his shoulders as he slammed his mug onto the sideboard and headed for the door. "That's the way the cookie crumbles."

She let out a moan and sunk deeper into the warm suede, "I always get the fuzzy end of the lollipop."

By the time Romano was out of the door, Corday was unconcious

****************


A piece of duct tape was fixed across her mouth, Corday screamed, but it came out as a pathetic whimper that sounded like a King Charles Spaniel with stomach ache. Or maybe a pre-op Gretal.

The surgeon glanced around the room, finding it disconcertingly familiar. It resembled one of the senior staff offices at County General. The only difference was this office looked like a 1960's luxury batchelor pad, with pieces of modern artwork, white emulsion walls, op-art blinds, a deep glacier white shag-pile carpet, a red bubble chair and a large black leather swivel chair with its back to a white marble top desk. Classical music played over a modern looking turn table set.

She then inspected herself, she was wearing a Mary Quant style dress and jacket, with a blue gingham print and the occasional signature daisy. A pair of white stilleto heeled leather calf boots completed the period look. *Good God!* Corday thought, if she had bleach blonde hair and dark roots, she might as well be an Essex girl in 80's Basildon.

Corday swiveled around on the office chair, moving slowly to not aggravate the burn marks that were forming on her wrists by the the length of nylon rope tied to them.

She broke out in a cold sweat as she shook her curly copper hair out of her eyes and identified the object.

Attached to the desk next to her was a large, shiny, electrical device...it had a digital display on the front, 57, 56, 55, 54, 53, 52. Corday gasped as she recognised an unnerving numerical pattern. This may be a dream, but she certainly didn't want to die.

The best thing, she decided, was to get as far away as possible. Corday pushed her heels against the desk, in order to create maximum velocity, but instead she moved a centimeter, toppling over and landing painfully on the floor.

Unintentionally, she knocked into the table and the bomb landed on her stomach. She could almost feel it ticking.

Without warning, the frosted glass door burst open and a tall man, with longish dark hair, dressed in a dinner suit and bow tie entered with a Smith and Wesson.

Corday screamed and the man moved over to her, untying her and helping Corday to her feet. She tottered on the high heels for a second before regaining balance, her knees melting at his supportive touch.

She ripped the tape off her mouth, saving her self a trip to the beautician for electrolosis and burst out loud, "My god Kovac, when did your hair get so greasy?" Corday reckoned she could speak her mind in her dreams, and it really *did* need to be said.

Kovac looked puzzled and brushed a hand through his hair self-conciously, "Moneypenny, what are you doing here?"

James Bond-eh? She always had these dreams, but never with Kovac. Doug Ross was more suited to Batman she decided, Malucci just wanted to bed her and Mark, well, he was a rugged as Bill Gates. Corday laughed at Kovac's absurd Croatian accent mixed with a hint of the Queen's english. He sounded even worse than she did when she was trying to impress someone whilst slipping into East End tones.

"I don't know," Corday said truthfully, wondering what would happen next in her dream. She really thought Kovac should wear a suit more often, not that he didn't look good in anything, or nothing...

Kovac waved his gun around and shot at the bomb. It shorted in a blaze of sparks and crackles waking Corday from her dream with in a dream.

She gasped as the chair behind the desk moved around slowly, revealing a bald man in a black suit, groaning under the weight of a massive grey, curly haired dog.

"Blofeld!" Kovac gasped melodramatically, "I should have known it was you!"

"Mister Bond!" Romano boomed as he chucked the dog on to the table, pressing a button and summoning his guards, "We keep meeting in the funniest places!"

"I'd love to stay and chit-chat, but I hear the call of life," he replied very cheesily, Corday really wasn't any good at snappy dialogue in her dreams. Give her a heart that needed a triple coronary bypass and she was fine, but whenever she wrote an article she would come out with the same monotonous tripe every time.

Kovac grabbed Corday's hand roughly and she followed him across the room as they broke through the window and landed deftly in a silver Austin Martin. Within minutes they cleared the vicinity of Romano's, or rather, Blofeld's lair.




"Ah Mr...what was your name?" A tall man with white hair asked, snapping his fingers as if it would cue his memory.

Corday observed her surroundings, the lounge in the ER which had apparently been turned into a sort of gadget laboratory. She was standing in the middle of it at the moment with Kovac and Dr. Gabe Lawrence, who's Altzheimer's was getting worse even in this dream.

"Bond," Kovac replied.

"Ah, Bond, John Bond, I remember," Gabe said as he pushed a button on the coffee table which produced two cups of coffee from out of the fridge.

"So, Q," Kovac started as Corday watched the scientists at work with various gizmos, the only useful one she saw was a demonstration of the Intubocam 2000.

"Hmm?" Gabe asked as produced a donut from his labcoat pocket.

"Q?"

"Who?"

"You, Q is you," Kovac explained leaning over to Corday, "he is getting a bit scatty in his old age, Moneypenny."

Corday smiled grimly, it pained her much to see such a great doctor in this state, "So what's your latest invention?" She asked with forced enthusiasm.

"Ahh," Gabe said, putting the name coinfusion out of his head, "this is your new pocket calculator, Mr Prond," Corday sighed as he pulled out a little black object.

"Now pay attention, double-oh, oh, uh, what is it," he asked scratching his head, "these things, you know," he waved his hand over his head, "they just, 'whoosh', you know... I, I blame it on the caffeine."

"Seven," Kovac prompted. "Double oh seven."

Gabe nodded as he slid off the calculator's cover, "Like I said, pay attention, double oh eleven. This is not only an arthmetic aid, no, it has metric to imperial conversion, currency translator and it plays the theme tune from Friends when you use the Pi button. Great- eh?"

Corday went along with it as he started to calculate the volume of a sphere, delighted at his new invention, "Great, that will really come in useful when I'm out for a meal in China and I need to work out the exchange rate!" Kovac said in a very un-Kovac tone of sarcasm.

Gabe looked up annoyed at his procociousness, "What'd'ya want, eh? A BMW that spits fire with revolving numberplates, a tuba toothpaste that is actually dynamite...geez, grow up double-oh, eleven."

"SEVEN!" Kovac grunted, grabbing the device.

"That's what I said, geez!"

********************

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dr. Kerry Weaver collapsed onto a gurney in the pedes ER, relieved that she had found somewhere quiet to take a few minutes rest inbetween two mind-numbingly tedious shifts. She had no intention of doing anything that involved using her neurons in the next 2 hours, and if anyone disturbed her, well, they could go to hell.

With her face set firmly in a grimace she chucked her crutch on the chair next to her and placed her glasses next to a bottle of hydrogen peroxide before she drifted to sleep, firmly hoping it was the one with Kovac in a pair of tight red Speedos.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Captain!"

Weaver opened her eyes and was greeted by seeing the interior of a gigantic bridge of a starship *this dream again, can't I come up with something more original?*

"Kerry?" Asked a bald headed man sat in the command chair next to hers.

She looked down at the PADD sat in her lap, which was now clad in a uniform she reconised off one of the Star Trek series.

Weaver turned to him, "Yes, Mark."

"Who's Mark?" Mark asked as Weaver noted a riduculous blue tattoo that covered half his scalp and forehead, "I'm Greene."

"O-Kay, then," Weaver replied as she looked around the bridge.

"Commander Greene?" A thick Croatian accent asked, as Weaver turned around to see Kovac, complete with Vulcanised ears *dammit, no Speedoes* she cursed.

Greene marched over to Luka's station, "What is it, Luka?" Weaver asked over her shoulder.

Luka looked puzzled, "Captain, I would ask you to refrain from calling me by that name, Lieutenant Commander Kovac will be satisfactory."

"Right," Weaver replied, walking to where Greene was standing.

"What's the matter Kovac," the commander asked sternly.

"There have been complaints about Lieutenant Malucci." Kovac replied, his face void of any expression.

"My best helmsman," Weaver remembered from one of her previous dreams.

"It appears that he has been harrassing our Chief of Engineering, Lieutenant Chen."

Greene chuckled, "I thought that they had something going on."

A young man commented something from his station at systems, "Dave thinks they have, Deb doesn't," he grinned as he analyized some details from a recent away mission to the OR stoke Starship.

"Ensign Carter, I think Lieutenant Chen prefers her full Klingon name," Kovac replied as he ran his fingers over a control panel.

Carter's face flushed from the admonishment, "Right, Jing-Mei."

"I would like to prepare a security team to ascort Lt. Malucci to the brig," Kovac continued as he loaded phaser.

"Yes I agree," Weaver replied as she took on her role as the captain of this damn fine ER stroke Starship, "I don't like the way he's been carrying on with all the yeomen. Consider it an order Kovac."

"Aye, Captain," He turned towards Carter, "Would you like to come, Ensign?"

The over enthusiastic ensign jumped at the offer, "Really, you mean it? Thank you sir, can I Captain Weaver? Ple-ase?"

"Shut up and get off the bridge," Weaver yelled, all to annoyed at Carter's excited response.

As they were just about to leave, Lt. Chen rushed in and hid behind her station at Engineering.

"What the hell is going on?" Weaver shrieked, as she saw Lt. Malucci run in after her.

He found Chen in a second and edged closer to her, "Come on, Jing-Mei- I didn't mean *that*, I was just interested in the Klingon etchings in your back for a research project, honest!"

Kovac and Carter grabbed Malucci and dragged him out of the bridge, kicking and screaming.

Weaver sighed as she sank into the Starfleet captain's chair.

"USS County General," she heard a woman say, she turned and saw Randi listening to an earpiece. "Right, so you would say this urgent. Hmm, you wanna talk to the captain, sure, but don't yell at me, geez!"

Weaver called over to the dark haired woman who was dressed in an extremely short and low necked Star Fleet regulation dress, "What is it."

"The Borg, on the main screen," Randi replied popping some gum and turning back to her PADD which was loaded with the Special Summer Sex 2331 edition of 'Hot Bajoran Guys Monthly'.

"On screen," Weaver ordered as she stood up, without the aid of a crutch, well it was her dream and damn the crutch.

"Captain Weaver, we meet again," announced the sardonic overtones of a Borgified man, "It is I, Romanus, four of tertiary adjunct five, commander of the Delta Quadrant Borg.

Weaver sighed, Romano was an asshole in her dreams as well as real life.

"Oh, what can we do for you?"

Romano's voice was mechanical, but it was still loaded with his familiar venom, "Give up your Borg or be assimilated."

"Captain," a emotionless voice said, "I believe my time has come to join the collective of boring Borgs."

"Cleo-of-nine, don't go!" Wailed a lowly ensign in the corner, who bore a striking resemblence to Peter Benton.

"I say good riddance," commented Lt. Chen.

"Hear, hear," shouted Greene, Kovac, Carter and Randi.

Weaver raised her hands to silence the pandemonium, "OK, OK. I get the idea. Which way's the air lock?"

"Ooh, can I push her out, ple-ase?" Carter and Greene asked simultaneously.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Mark Greene left the pedes ER quietly, so not to disturb Kerry who was fast asleep, "Hey, Jer?" Mark asked after walking down to admit where Jerry and Randi.

"What?" The clerk replied, looking up from his hand.

"What's free?" Mark asked, rubbing his eyes, fighting away the waves of fatigue

Jerry scanned the board, "Suture room."

"Thanks," Mark said, slightly startled at Randi's next exclamation.

"Ha," she slapped down her cards, "I win, come on, off with your lab coat."

"I thought the idea of strip poker was to get the woman undressed, Jerry!" Malucci commented eyeing up Randi who had only removed her shoes.

"Tell me about it."

In two minutes, Mark had climbed on top of the gurney in the suture room, and was consumed by deep sleep.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""

A few pieces of tumble weed flew past Mark as he walked out of the saloon, the coral doors snapping behind him.

Hey, something wasn't quite right. *Oh my God!* Mark thought, not quite syre what this dream was subliminaly telling him. He was clad head to toe in frontier saloon girl get-up, complete with ruffled petticoats and a corset. This was absurd, Elizabeth in this ensemble would be, well, great...but this really freaked him out.

He was startled by a gun shot that sounded from the wide dirt road that ran inbetween two rows of shops and saloons.

A person in a stetson and jeans blew the smoke away from their gun. Mark moved closer, only then did he recognise the woman, who spoke from underneath the mop of curly hair surrounding her face.

"This town ain't big enough for the both of us," a quaint English voice exclaimed as the other person pushed their stetson from their head to their head. Dark blonde hair cascaded across her plaid shirt.

"Oh yeah?" A throaty American voice challenged.

"So Susan Lewis," Corday spat into a nearby spitoon. Mark grimaced- that was extremely un-Elizabeth like, "You wanna stand down, or have your body riddled by bullets and exploded in the gold mines?"

Susan spat further than Elizabeth, blinking the dust out of her eyes, "Meet me here, noon t'morra, thirty paces, to the death."

"This ain't over yet, sonny," Elizabeth reminded her as Susan mounted her horse and rode away, stopping breifly to swing Mark up onto the saddle behind her.

Mark winced as he heard Corday fire shots after them, why couldn't have been the Baywatch dream?

"""""""""""""""
TO BE CONTIUNED


Hey, I hope my attempt at humour was OK, never really tried it before, appart from one I did with my friend based on my teachers at school, that was satire I guess, it came easy.

Anyone have any ideas on what should happen next. More movies to parody, TV shows even (Ally McBeal, Friends, Star Wars, Indiana Jones?)

Feel free to archive, just tell me where.

annadelamico@yahoo.co.uk