A/N: This idea came to me out of a mix of two things. The first being that they never fully explained why John needed the serum in the pilot so badly. They didn't explain how it worked and so I've kinda filled in the blanks as I went along. The second thing is something that was said in the episode Normandy [consider this your spoiler alert], which will be made clear at the end.
So, enjoy, and let me know what you think. Believable, outlandish, or what?
The summer night was humid, oppressive in its overwhelming heat. In an effort to catch even the slightest breeze, all the windows in the house were flung open. But the gauzy curtains hung limp and immobile, untouched by even a waft of air.
Helen Magnus lay on the large bed, limbs askance in an effort to prevent a single inch of skin coming into contact with any other inch of skin. Her cotton shift alone threatened to suffocate her, and she'd been debating the virtue of peeling it off, but had thus far decided in favor of her virtue. Especially with all the windows open.
But with her hair drenched and wild, her skin tacky with sweat, she was leaning more and more heavily in favor of sleeping in the buff. James certainly wouldn't mind coming home to a vision like that, despite all his outward Victorian propriety. That is, if he even came home tonight. He'd warned her he might spend the night in the laboratory, and knowing his current project, she didn't begrudge him it. He'd devised a system of mechanics that should, upon completion, be capable of restoring him to full health.
The serum that she'd derived from her own altered blood didn't work as well on him as it did with Nigel. He remained young, but it seemed as though his health, his immune system, could simply no longer keep up. His lungs in particular seemed most at risk these days—even climbing the stairs to their bedchamber left him winded.
Her muscles were heavy with near sleep, the heat alone keeping her from fully drifting into Morpheus' realm. Her eyes were shut, leaden and exhausted, but still she could not slumber. Blast this heat. What she wouldn't give for a decent English summer. The drought that plagued the American Midatlantic region threatened to drive her mad, especially when she knew that merry olde London was no doubt enjoying a heavy summer downpour.
That's it. As soon as James finished his project, they were going to summer somewhere. Somewhere cool. On the coast of somewhere. Perhaps Italy. Italy would be lovely this time of year.
On the periphery of her senses, Helen heard the door open and close with a faint click. She smiled softly when she did not hear the tell-tale heavy breaths of a man exerted—James took such care to hide his ailment from her, despite her profession. No doubt he had stood at the top of the stair until his breath had returned to a normal rate.
She'd have to remember to give him a talking to about that later. But now though, she merely wanted him there on his side of the bed—not touching her, for the love of all that was holy.
But when a weight settled next to her on the bed, she groaned. If her eyes weren't so damned heavy, James would have seen her give a vicious eye roll.
Her lips parted in playful, but no less adamant, protest… but the finger that pressed against her lips to silence her wasn't James'.
Alarm flooded her system, and her eyes flew open in mind-numbing panic. A scream rose in her throat, but the finger on her lips became a hand with crushing force, stifling her cry and pinning her to the mattress in one fell swoop.
A blur of motion in the corner of her vision gave her no warning before a sharp stab of pain in her neck flared into her awareness. But it was gone as soon as she registered the pain, and a hot breath against her ear consumed her attention.
"Helen…"
John.
It was him, though she couldn't see his face through the shadows. She'd know his voice anywhere—her heart knew him.
"…there's no need for concern," he was saying, his voice soft as a whisper.
But there was need. Despite his words she knew she was in trouble when her fingers, now scratching at his wrist, grew heavy with swift and steady numbness. And in that moment she knew what the pain in her neck had been. He'd injected her with something to dull her senses—drugged her.
Fear curled in her belly, screaming for her to react, to fight back even as her body grew increasingly more unresponsive. Her fingers slipped from his wrist, and only his free hand kept it from falling limply aside. The palm over her mouth lifted, and a moment later, a muted touch trailed along her deadened fingers.
Fighting a sleep unnatural, she pried her lids open just in time to see John lift her hand. His lips brushed the back of her hand, so light she couldn't feel it through the growing haze.
"John…" Her voice was barely a whisper.
His eyes met hers, and through her wavering vision she saw his gaze soften. "I'm sorry it had to be this way, Helen."
"What…" But even as her voice failed her, he turned her captured hand, carefully twisting her wrist to expose the vulnerable underside of her arm.
Through hooded eyes she could only watch as he reached into the breast pocket of his overcoat, withdrawing an empty syringe. The silver plunger glinted in the low light of the gas lamp, the needle piercing the crook of her arm with unerring precision. He pulled the plunger back, drawing dark, precious blood from her vein.
"I need the serum," he murmured, his voice low, apologetic. She knew which serum he spoke of—the serum that gave her friends immortality. The same serum that was beginning to fail James. He knew how to produce it himself, but he needed her blood to do so. The blood he was stealing from her at that very moment.
But the horror of that truth couldn't break through her expiring awareness. In moments, she knew, she would succumb totally to the drug, and lose consciousness, perhaps never to awaken again.
His lips continued to move, but the roar in her ears was all she heard as darkness overcame her.
She woke with a start. A hand on her shoulder sought to calm her, and for a moment, she nearly did, believing the hand to be James'. But then memory returned, and she realized the eyes gazing down at her in concern belonged to another man entirely.
Instinct kicked in, and with a vicious swipe of her arm she knocked away the damp cloth he'd been pressed to her brow. He moved away accommodatingly, but before she could rejoice in the fact she'd regained control of her limbs, her world tilted sickeningly as she bolted upright. Her stomach turned, and she clamped her eyes and lips shut against the nausea.
This time, when hands helped her back down onto the mattress, she didn't fight them.
"Easy now, Helen," she heard, John's voice nearly a purr in her ears. Once, that voice had made her weak in the knees. Now, it made her ill. To be so gentle, so like the man she'd loved, even after all the lives he'd stolen…
The damp cloth returned to her brow, breaking through her thoughts. The water was tepid at best, but felt blessedly cool against her fevered brow. How long had she been unconscious? The brief glimpse of her surroundings before her vision had lurched assured her she was still in her room, which came as a relief. Was it dawn yet?
As though he could hear her racing thoughts, John's voice spoke gently once more. "The effects of the injection will pass," he soothed, drawing the compress across her temple. "You've been under only a few hours—the rest will fade shortly as well."
Her panicked attempt to fight him off had depleted whatever energy she had; her arms still felt leaden, and her eyes wanted to drift shut once more. But she fought through the exhaustion, and forced her lips to part.
"Why…?"
The single-worded query took more effort than she imagined it could. The cloth paused against her skin before drawing away altogether, only to be replaced by warm, callused fingers. She tried to keep her gaze focused on the ceiling, but the gentle insistence of his touch turned her head towards him. She forced her eyes open more fully, finding his gaze and holding it.
"I needed your blood, Helen," he said. "We all do, these days… to survive." There was no apology in his words, and she marveled slightly that she'd nearly expected one. She should have known better.
"Why are you still here?" she posed with more strength than she felt. "You have your prize."
Her bitter glare seemed to catch him off guard—for a moment, he seemed almost hurt by the accusation. His gaze shuttered, and it wasn't until that moment that she realized that they had been previously open, unguarded. Honest.
He pulled back, his posture stiffening. "Do you honestly think so little of me?" he returned. "That you would believe me so inhuman that I would drug you, then leave you at the mercy of any who would happen upon you?"
A sharp pang of guilt arced through her, but just as quickly, indignation took its place. Anger spurred her to lift herself from the bed, and sat upright despite the whirling world around her. She refused to have this conversation on the flat of her back.
"Do you honestly think the possibility so farfetched?" she fired back. "Or have you forgotten the mutilated girls you left behind in Whitechapel? Do not dare cast me as the villain, as though the idea is somehow some spiteful vindication—"
"I have not forgotten." His voice cut through her anger, giving her pause. The words were as soft as hers were sharp. "But I have never made my affection, my love for you secret." He paused, hesitant. "I still feel—"
"Please, John—" Her voice caught, much to her humiliation. He shouldn't still get to her as he does, but… she's beginning to wonder if she'll ever be free. "Don't."
For a moment, his shoulders squared, as though readying for a fight. But she was surprised when he nodded in acquiescence. "Very well," he responded, his tone clipped.
By now, her head was pounding, and she let her hand press against her brow. But at the last moment she decided she didn't want to betray her discomfort. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Instead, she ran her palm over her face, rubbing the sweat and sleep from her eyes.
"You could have come to me, John," she said finally, her voice shaky.
She looked up at him, and found his lips curled into a smirk, quite obviously questioning the potential outcome that scenario would have resulted in. She inwardly grimaced, knowing he was right. She might have balked, might have outright denied him the serum—but now they'd never know. All she knew for sure was that stealing it was not the answer.
"Perhaps," he responded, more congenially than she expected from him. A moment later, his mirth disappeared. "But I could not take the chance that you might say no."
This time, Helen drew her knees up, hugging them close to her chest in spite of the heat. Her shift clung to her skin, but she didn't care. Reality was settling upon her, and horror of what he'd done was beginning to make itself known. He was in her bedchamber, uninvited, and drugged her, all to steal her blood.
Steal her blood.
Like a vampire, in all its cliché glory.
It sickened her, and her stomach churned ominously in proof. Tears burned behind her eyes, her chest tight as she tried to keep her breathing steady. Resting her head on her knees, she hid her face from his eyes, refusing to let him see her distress. He'd done enough.
But his presence moved closer, and a moment later his fingers ran over her hair, pushing the sweat-dampened locks from the side of her neck.
"I did consider the alternative, Helen." His voice was gentle, honest once more. "I considered succumbing to the effects of time…"
She pressed her eyes more tightly shut. She knew what he meant—to waste away in the throes of old age, the effects of time all five of them were evading. Perhaps that would have been the better option. It might take years, decades even, but eventually, he would die. His murderous tendencies would be laid to rest, finally, and the world would be that much safer.
His lips brushed her ear, sending a chill down her spine. She shivered, the reflex incongruous to the sweltering summer heat.
"But I am not strong enough for that."
His whisper was barely audible. The hand in her hair tightened on the back of her neck, as John's lips pressed fleetingly against her temple. She didn't shy away from him, didn't move beyond trapping her bottom lip between her teeth. Her protest remained deep in her throat, a solid lump that nearly strangled her.
Then, the hand and lips disappeared with a crackle of energy and the scent of ozone.
He was gone, taking the turmoil of decades with him, and leaving nothing but grief and betrayal in his wake. Just as he always did.
But this time she felt violated, in a way she never had before.
Her fingers gingerly palpated the injection site on her neck. It was sore, but she didn't bother moving to a mirror to get a look at it. The pain would fade, as would any physical markings left behind. But when her hand curled over the sore spot, and she curled even more tightly in on herself, it was not the physical pain she felt.
Somehow, she fell asleep, giving in to the final effects of the drug. This time, her sleep was fitful, and when another hand roused her a second time, she reacted violently and instantaneously. Only James' quick reflexes saved him from a black eye, or worse, and as soon as she recognized him she calmed.
But she wasn't quick enough to hide the mark from him; she doubted she could even if she tried. His health may be failing, but his eyes—and his mind—were as keen as ever.
"Helen, what—" Concern warred with confusion, as he struggled to piece it all together. "What on earth happened?" His fingers brushed gently against her skin, investigating it with the meticulousness that had sparked Artie Doyle's creativity. "Did someone attack you?"
"No," she murmured, allowing him a moment before brushing his hands away. "No, I'm fine."
"You look like death warmed over," he countered glibly. "You most certainly are not fine. What happened?" When she hesitated, he paused. Gripping her hands firmly, he looked intently at her, measuring her distress. "I'm calling the law," he stated finally, moving to stand.
"James, no, please." She pulled him back, desperation creeping into her tone. James met her gaze, and she knew he'd recognized the look in her eye. He knew she knew her attacker. There was no use trying to hide it.
"It was John," she whispered, tearing her gaze away.
This time, the concern in his eyes did battle with the same rage and betrayal she felt. "Did he-?"
"No." Her response was unflinching. "No, he didn't. He just—" She hesitated. "He needed a sample to derive the serum from."
James' comprehension was near instantaneous. He turned her hand over, revealing the second needle mark in the crook of her arm. He remained silent—he'd never been one to state the obvious. But he understood what the mark meant, knew she wouldn't have relinquished her lifeblood without a fight.
"I'm fine, darling," she told him, this time with more certainty. "Merely tired."
"Helen…"
"Please, James." She let her hands pull him closer, and she scooted across the bed until he could sit beside her. He did, however reluctantly. But he knew as well as she that the law could do nothing to help them. Not with John. "Please, just… hold me. I—"
Her breath hitched, and she took a moment to calm the sobs bubbling up in her chest.
"I'm tired, James," she finished finally, her voice attesting to the truth of the declaration. "I'm so tired."
Not from lack of sleep. But then, James knew that. He wrapped her arms around her, and she welcomed the contact. The summer heat was forgotten, overwhelmed by the chill of nightmares decades old.
Come morning, James would be set on contacting Nikola Tesla, who would gladly come and render aid in devising an electromagnetic field that would keep John Druitt from invading her home again.
And when a second Great War gripped the globe, James would accuse his oldest friend of doing unspeakable things to his blood, when not stealing it from others in the dark of the night.
The Nazis witnessing the exchange would be reminded of the legendary Whitechapel murders, the carnage wrought by the infamous Ripper.
Only three people on the planet would ever know the true story.
So... Believable, outlandish, or what?