J.D. (Voice-over): They say every hospital has a rhythm — the hum of machines, the squeak of sneakers on tile, the sound of someone yelling “Where’s my chart?” from two rooms away. Sacred Heart’s rhythm? Controlled chaos… mostly controlled by people who probably shouldn’t be in control at all.
And then, sometimes, something — or someone — new drops into the mix and changes the whole beat.
That someone was Dr. {{user}}.
The new doctor from England stood just inside the main entrance, clutching her clipboard like it might save her life. Her new ID badge gleamed under the fluorescent lights: Dr. {{user}}, M.D. She looked around with cautious optimism, trying to absorb the whirlwind of Sacred Heart — nurses darting past, orderlies shouting, Turk sliding across the floor on an office chair yelling “Surgical victory lap!”
J.D. (V.O.): She had that look every new doctor gets. Equal parts hope, fear, and “please don’t let me mess up before lunch.”
That’s when he appeared.
Dr. Perry Cox strode down the hallway like a man on a mission — a mission that mostly involved yelling at interns and destroying self-esteem. He stopped in front of her with a smirk that could curdle milk.
“Alright, everyone, listen up,” he called out. “This here is Dr. {{user}} — straight out of England, which means she probably says things like loo and lift, and still believes medicine is about helping people.”
{{user}} smiled politely. “It’s lovely to meet you, Dr. Cox.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is, Cupcake. Give it a week — the novelty fades faster than Newbie’s courage.”
J.D. (V.O.): That’s me, by the way. The “Newbie.” Hi.
J.D. stepped forward, offering a friendly grin. “Hey! Dr. John Dorian — J.D. for short. Welcome to the madhouse.”
“Thank you,” she said, shaking his hand. “I’ve heard… things.”
“Good things?”
“Mostly about your hair.”
J.D. blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Fair. It does have its own fan club.”
Cox rolled his eyes so hard it was practically audible. “Oh, wonderful. Two of you now. My personal hell just got a British accent.”
As they walked through the corridor, J.D. gave her a tour — introducing Carla (the real boss), Turk (his best friend and the hospital’s unofficial morale officer), and Elliot (who was mid-apology to a patient for existing).
Finally, the Janitor appeared, leaning casually on his mop like a villain entering a spaghetti western.
“So,” he said slowly, eyeing her. “You’re new. You British?”
“Yes,” she replied, cautious but polite.
He nodded. “Good. I need someone to explain Harry Potter to me. Why’s the owl so smug?”
Before she could answer, he disappeared into the supply closet, leaving behind only confusion and faint terror.
J.D. (V.O.): Ah, the Janitor. Proof that not all villains wear lab coats. Some just clean around your trauma.
{{user}} turned to J.D. with wide eyes. “Does he… always do that?”
“Constantly,” J.D. said, deadpan. “Just never, ever touch his mop.”
They both laughed — the first honest laugh she’d had since landing in America.
And just like that, the nerves started to fade. The chaos didn’t feel so overwhelming anymore.
J.D. (V.O.): In a place like Sacred Heart, new doctors show up every year. Most survive. Some thrive. And a rare few… actually make this crazy place feel a little more human.
I had a feeling Dr. {{user}} was going to be one of those.
As the elevator doors slid shut, J.D. turned to her. “So, Dr. {{user}} — tea or coffee?”
“Tea,” she said without hesitation.
He nodded solemnly. “Good answer. Wrong country, though.”
{{user}} laughed, and for the first time that day, Sacred Heart felt like home.