Author's Note: This is my valentine to my Sanctuary fandom friends and readers. There's nothing in the world like that first, exquisite rush of romantic love where everything is dizzying and new, and the hardest words to say are, "I love you." Thanks as always to MajorSam, my best beta ever. As always, I own nothing of Sanctuary or its characters. My words, however are my own. Please, PLEASE review, and Happy Valentine's Day, ya'll!
Book of Love
by NoCleverSig
Copyright 2011
John Druitt stood on the edge of Peckwater Quadrangle nervously fingering the decorated, ivory card he held in his hand and peering anxiously at the imposing white columns of Christ Church Library.
Past its dark doors lay one of the greatest collections of early printed books in all of Oxford, second only to the Bodleian Library. But all John Druitt knew was that somewhere inside its dark paneled walls, thousands of books, and towering shelves was a woman that he couldn't stop thinking of.
Helen….
He swallowed hard, shifting his weight from right to left again, wrapping his coat tighter about him as the cold, winter wind whipped through the yard. He'd been standing in the college square for what seemed like hours, the grey skies mocking his once gleeful heart. Based on the bells of the cathedral it hadbeen hours indeed.
What in bloody hell was she doing in there for so long?
Studying. Reading. Researching. No doubt finding some arcane nugget of information that she would bear with great fervor to the next meeting of The Five, and they would discuss late into the night neglecting to eat or drink, until Tesla reminded them, which he invariably would.
A few months ago, John would have been as captivated by their discussions as the rest of them. But in the past few weeks something had changed, and all John Druitt knew was that when Helen Magnus spoke, he was simply…captivated.
She was beautiful. He'd recognized that the moment they'd met. They all had. Yet it had been her intellect, not her visage, which had captured their hearts. The quest for intellectual stimulation and their common desire for knowledge had brought them together in a circle of friendship that was stronger than any bond he'd ever shared with a male friend.
A season passed and the time they spent in discussion with Nigel, Nikola, and James quickly turned into hours spent alone in continued conversation. Soon they were sharing strolls through the Botanic Garden and talking together along the Thames.
Their exchanges, their times together, were always perfectly proper, rooted solely in their pursuit of learning, expanding upon the discussions they had previously engaged in with the group. One day, however, as they walked through the Walled Garden and past the old English yew continuing the previous night's debate regarding the state of mental health care, or lack thereof, in Britain, the Winter light hit Helen's hair just so that John simply had to stop to admire it. When he did, he found himself struck with such a sudden revelation that the conversion of St. Paul along the Road to Damascus could not have been as divine.
How could someone know a person for a time and in an instant suddenly see them in such a new and different light?
She was a vision….
Her hair was a swirl of golden curls. Her eyes were the deepest blue he'd ever seen. Her skin was porcelain white, kissed by the morning sunlight, as smooth and fine as the richest silk. And her body…
She'd walked ahead, not noticing his pause, and finally turned around, her expression first confused then concerned at his absence.
"Mr. Druitt?"
He shook himself, not wanting to follow his thoughts any further.
"Yes, Miss Magnus?"
She returned to him.
"Are you all right? Have you taken ill?"
He smiled. "No, no. I'm fine."
"You look feverish…your cheeks…." She reached her gloved hand up to feel his forehead. He closed his eyes at her touch. His heart raced.
She pulled her hand away from his brow and looked at him as if startled. She started to speak, then seemed to think better of it and stopped. Their eyes locked.
"I'm fine, Miss Magnus, but thank you for your concern. Shall we continue?" he asked, fighting to steady his voice and gesturing toward the path ahead. She simply nodded, and they went on with their stroll in silence.
Since that morning there wasn't a moment when John Druitt didn't think of her. He yearned to see her, hear her, God forbid…touch her, even if it was just to brush his leg against the hem of her dress. When she was close, his heart pounded so loudly he was sure it would work its way out of his chest and fall at her feet in total submission. He awoke each morning eager only to glimpse her smile. And when she laughed… God! His stomach turned in such uncanny knots that he feared he might explode from the sheer joy of it. He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. He barely concentrated in class, spending his time wondering where she was, what she was doing, what she was thinking, and could she possibly be feeling this too?
Only in the past few days had he brought himself to acknowledge what was happening to him.
He was in love.
Completely, utterly, unabashedly, smitten. The question for Druitt, the one that plagued him day and night, was whether Helen Magnus returned his affections?
He suspected, certainly hoped, that she might. He sometimes caught her glances when they were together with The Five. Tesla would drone on incessantly, and he'd feel the weight of her eyes upon him. When he'd turn to look, she'd quickly look away or, on rare occasions, return his gaze and smile, leaving something unspoken between them. Their conversations in the garden and along the Thames had become more…intimate as of late. No longer did they speak solely of medicine and science but also of personal matters, family, hopes, and desires. He swore she drew closer to him now, their clothes, sometimes their hands, occasionally brushing as they walked.
Yet despite their time together he was afraid to ask. Afraid to stop suddenly in his tracks, turn to her, and open his heart for fear that however wonderful and beautiful and kind though she might be, she didn't feel the same as he. The thought that she might reject him and, in doing so, bruise their friendship forever, frightened him into silence.
If he couldn't have her as his love, he'd keep her as his friend.
It was James Watson who finally spurred him into action.
"When are you going to tell her, John?" Watson had asked.
Druitt looked up from his brandy and cards across the table at his perceptive friend, bewildered.
"Tell who what, James?" he replied, confused.
Watson took a puff from his pipe, flicked his eyes quickly from his cards to his friend and back again. "Tell Helen that you are in love with her."
The blood drained from Druitt's face, and Watson chuckled at the fact that his pale friend had become impossibly paler.
"How…." John stammered.
James looked at him and grinned. "It doesn't take a keen intellect to spot a man in love, John…or a woman," he added.
Druitt narrowed his eyes.
"Has Helen said something to you?" he inquired hopefully.
James looked back down at his cards and rearranged his hand. "No," he answered honestly. "But she needn't." He pulled a card from his stack, an ace of hearts, and tossed it onto the table.
Druitt had dwelled on Watson's words and decided that today of all days he would risk it: the possibility of pain, rejection, and failure, just to discover, once and for all, if she cared. To tell Helen what burned in his heart. He twirled the card in his hand, fingering the lace and feathers. Was it too elaborate or too plain? Did it say too much or not enough?
He'd been waiting for her to come out of the library for hours and decided he could wait no longer. He carefully tucked the ivory card inside his coat, put his hands into his pockets, and walked across the yard toward the Georgian-style building. He opened the heavy wooden door, his eyes adjusting to the sudden darkness inside and the dim light of the gas lamps above the tables. The hallway was long and ornate, stacked on all sides with towering shelves of books. Students, all men, hovered in the vast chamber in silence, some searching through shelves, others seated at desks huddled over papers and pen.
She could be anywhere, Druitt thought. And if he missed her…
No. There was only one place Helen Magnus would be.
With renewed determination, Druitt turned to his left and hurried toward the stairwell in the corner. His tall, lanky frame practically leaped down the steps. He hit the landing with a thud, drawing disapproving looks from two gentlemen who sat at a small wooden desk near the basement door. John nodded his apology and pressed on, walking down the center aisle, glancing from left to right, from shelf to shelf, his heart pounding more fiercely with each step until finally he reached the section he had been searching for.
Biology.
"Mr. Druitt?"
He spun around at the sound of Helen's voice. She stood alone down a long aisle of shelves, a large manuscript in hand, pictures of human anatomy, and a stack of at least a dozen other books on the floor beside her. She wore a light blue dress that even in the dim light of the basement highlighted her cerulean eyes. Her blonde hair hung sensuously across her shoulders in springy, golden curls, soft and delicate.
"Mr. Druitt," she whispered again. "Shouldn't you be in class? Is something wrong?"
John walked toward her, the blood rushing to his head, his hands sweating, and his heart racing.
He ignored her questions and focused on the task at hand, fearful that if he didn't do this now, he may lose his courage forever.
"I have something for you, Miss Magnus…Helen," he whispered unsteadily. He reached inside his coat and took out the card. She looked at it, puzzled, and then set the book she held down on the shelf beside her. Shakily, John handed her the square paper, lightly brushing her fingers as he did so.
It was a thick, ivory stock with die cut lace, feathers, painted pink and blue bell flowers, and a simple script:
I think on thee both day and night
And fear to pledge my heart in fright
Yet on this day, St. Valentine
I tell thee true, my heart is thine
Druitt peered down at her as she read. She was shorter than he was and her head was bowed, so much so that he couldn't measure her reaction. She just stood there, perfectly still, holding the card with both hands, not uttering a sound. Surely she'd had time to read it? It was a simple verse. After what felt like an eternity, John began to stammer.
"For some time now I've…my feelings have…My thoughts…I've…What I'm trying to say is…"
Helen reached up and put her fingers to his lips quieting him, her blue eyes shining.
"As do I," she said simply.
The breath he hadn't known he'd been holding escaped him in one giant rush. His knees went weak. If he hadn't had his wits about him to steady himself by putting a hand on the shelf he might have fallen. Instead, he let go and covered the hand she held against his lips with his own. It was small compared to his, yet warm and vibrant. He pulled it away from his mouth but didn't release it.
"Miss Magnus, I...," he stopped, searching for strength and finally finding it.
"Helen, I love you."
She smiled at him, moisture glistening in her eyes. "I was wondering when one of us would have the courage to speak it," she said, laughing softly. "I love you too, John Druitt. I have for a very long time."
Druitt smiled and put his hands on Helen's waist. She rested her fingers, card still in hand, on his arms.
"Would the lady permit a kiss?" he asked, gazing at the miracle before him, this beautiful, intelligent woman who was in love with him of all men.
Helen looked around cautiously. "Here? John anyone could happen upon us."
He smiled at her and nodded. "They could, but I find I do not care. Do you?"
A grin formed across her lips and spread wide.
"No," she agreed. "I think I do not."
With a final glance around, John Druitt dipped his head down as Helen tilted her head up. Their lips met somewhere in between, and hers were as sweet and warm and soft and full as he'd imagined so often in his dreams.
The kiss was simple and chaste but heated John to his very core. He was pleased to see it had a similar impact on Helen. Her cheeks were flush, her eyes wide, the tiniest bead of sweat formed on her forehead.
John stood there, dumbfounded, unable to form words. A noise in the aisle behind them, a rustle of clothes, and a smack of a book falling from the shelf to the floor snapped them out of their reverie. The two jumped apart like two magnets with northern poles.
"Well, Mr. Druitt," Helen said, licking her lips and tugging her dress although nothing illicit between them had happened. "I shall see you later this evening at Mr. Watson's home?"
Summoning all his strength, John took a step back and nodded. "Indeed. This evening, Miss Magnus. It shall be my deepest pleasure."
Her face blushed again and she smiled.
John Druitt turned on his heel, his soul a million pounds lighter. The library, it seemed, held hidden treasures. Today within its confines he had found the book of love.
THE END