The door bangs as Sherlock stumbles into the room. "John, John, I—" his voice drops, frightened, uncertain. "I did something bad, John."
John sits up, bleary-eyed, in his bed. "God, Sherlock, it's nearly three in the morning," he mutters after his initial surprise. "What is it?"
The little light in the room reflects off of Sherlock's wide eyes. He frantically mutters a binding, and the lamp overhead sputters to life.
As John blinks away stars, he sees Sherlock's hands. "Oh my God, what did you do to yourself?" He jumps out of bed and runs to his friend.
"It's not mine, John," Sherlock says of the blood covering his arms and up his sleeves and across the front of his shirt. He's shivering, and John sees that not only is his cloak gone, his shirt is torn through along the left side.
Outside, the wind is howling, and he estimates the temperature outside to be near freezing, judging from the texture of Sherlock's skin.
"What happened?" John asks gently.
"I— I found," his voice breaks, "I found the name of blood, John."
A quick intake of breath. "Will you tell me what happened?" John questions, cautiously.
Sherlock shakes his head, vehemently. "It's not going away, John. Names— they're supposed to leave you soon after you've found them, especially the complex ones, but it's still there," his voice deadens, "It's still there and I can see it on my hands and in you and in Molly's stupid cat and in every living thing that I see, and it won't go away."
John blinks. "Okay. I'm guessing that's not a good thing."
"No! No it's not, it's an awful thing and I'm afraid that if I do anything I'll kill someone!"
"Okay," John says again.
"It's not okay, John. I don't know what to do. I can't go to class today. I can't see anyone…" he trails off, then asks frantically, eyes wider than before, "What if they expel me from the University?"
John sighs. "Look, Sherlock, they won't expel you for finding a name. They can't… We'll go to Master Elodin. Right now. I'm sure he can help."
Sherlock collapses back against the door, hard. "Elodin hates me, John. After what I did, do you think he wants anything to do with me now?"
"Bones mend. Egos heal. I'm sure if you really need help, he won't turn you away. And he doesn't mind me so much."
"You don't know Elodin," Sherlock mutters, staring glassily down at his hands.
x
"Of course he wouldn't be in, damn him," Sherlock says in desperation, hammering at the door with both hands.
Elodin's rooms are technically in the Master's Hall, but the eccentric man rarely is where he's expected to be. Almost every student in the University has heard of Elodin's time in Haven. Haven is famous for its patients, those driven mad through naming or sympathy, the Master Namer being the most famous of these. People still wonder why Elodin is allowed to hold the position of Master.
Sherlock slumps to the ground, again gazing at his hands. They've washed off most of the blood, but in a hurry, and under his fingernails are telltale traces of dark crimson. He heaves a deep breath.
"We should try the roof," he says finally.
John looks askance at Sherlock. "The roof," he says, half a question.
Sherlock nods.
x
Elodin is, unexplainably, on the roof, in the middle of the night.
"E'lir John, what brings you here tonight?" Master Namer calls lightly across the wind. His face sours when he sees Sherlock trailing behind. "And the young master Holmes as well, I see. What do you want?"
Sherlock blinks rapidly, then spills out everything he's told John, in one incoherent sentence.
Master Elodin blinks in reply, caught off guard. "I caught something about names, E'lir Sherlock, but not much else, so will you calm down and explain this clearly?" He pauses. "We'll go to my office and you'll tell what you've done now."
x
Elodin's office is both neat and chaotic. His desk is mostly clear and the majority of the objects in the room are in the shelves lining all four walls, but there appears to be no system to the arrangement. Tools are piled on top of jars of dark substances; writing utensils are thrown carelessly into a single boot that is, inexplicably, painted with purple stripes. Empty picture frames are stacked on one shelf. Books clutter every available space except for one drawer, glass-fronted and containing a bent, copper nail.
There is also a skull, which John manages to find amusing before the gravity of the situation overwhelms him.
"You did not," Elodin says incredulously when Sherlock explains. It's the first time either of them have seen the master even remotely ruffled.
"Master Elodin, please, please, I'm begging you, help me. I can't make it stop." Sherlock's desperation is evident through his voice. "It changes, too, and I can see it change when I look at you or John, and if I try to close my eyes it's written on my eyelids." He glances up at Elodin before looking down again. His voice drops to a whisper. "I think I can understand how naming can drive a person mad, Master."
Elodin looks at him sharply. "This isn't the way it usually goes, E'lir, I'll tell you that for free."
John breaks in. "But can you help him, Master?"
"I'm afraid I don't know," Elodin replies faintly. "I don't know."
"Master. Is there a way to put the sleeping mind back to sleep?" Sherlock utters his first entirely coherent words of the night.
Elodin shakes his head. "The same way that one cannot wake it on purpose, one cannot put it away at whim." He sighed, then came to a conclusion. "Sleep on it, E'lir. That's all I have for you now, but tomorrow the masters will speak with you. Noon precisely. Notify me before then if the name leaves you."
John and Sherlock walk back to Mews, both in a daze.
x
"I didn't ask you about the name, E'lir, I asked what you did with it, as apparently Elodin neglected to ask you for that particular bit of information," the Chancellor, Master Linguist, nearly shouts.
"He was under a lot of stress, Master, " Elodin cuts in. "I didn't think—"
The Chancellor scowls at Elodin. "I wasn't aware that you cared for his welfare so much," he says sharply. He turns back to Sherlock. "This is a matter of serious concern for me because, just this morning, I received notice that there is a rather large puddle of what appears to be human remains in front of the Archive."
This time Elodin's surprise is in his lack of physical reaction. "The boy did what?"
Several of the masters share glances. Hemme, in particular, almost looks smug, as does Brandeur, and Lorren does not react at all, which is unsurprising given that the Archive is his domain.
"It was an accident," Sherlock blurts.
Master Herma's gaze narrows. "Then you admit that it was you," he states.
Sherlock looks at each of the nine faces in front of him in panic. He finds no comfort there, not even in Elodin's inscrutable face, and turns back to Chancellor Herma. "Yes, yes it was me, but please, it wasn't on purpose! I can explain—"
Hemme interrupts him. "Do you think that being the youngest student in the University is going to help your case, Holmes? Perhaps because it helped Kvothe? Well, follow his path and you'll end up dead, and quite frankly that's where I think you belong," he spits.
"Master Hemme, you will hold your tongue," the Chancellor rebukes him.
Hemme ignores him. "The boy is insolent, dangerous, unstable. He should not be given the power of the things taught here. It isn't too late to make him leave."
"Master Hemme."
He shuts up.
The Chancellor sighs. "Holmes, you will state your case, in all detail, or I will expel you right now, I doubt that there are any who would oppose this decision."
Sherlock takes a deep breath.
"Loi Seven was going through my rooms, sir, last night. He—"
"You killed Loi Seven?" Elodin asks incredulously. The Chancellor shushes him.
"He took a hairbrush, sir. I didn't know it was him, but I suspected, and my door ward had been tripped. I tracked Loi to the Archive—" He is interrupted again, this time by Elxa Dal, Master Sympathist.
"How did you track him if you didn't know who he was?" he asks suspiciously.
Sherlock flushes slightly. He'd been hoping to avoid that particular point. "My wards are modified, sir. They— take notes, of a sort. When I got to my room, I could tell that Loi had been in my room, and the first thing I checked for was the hairbrush. It wasn't that hard to find him after that. His rooms are across the University at the Cross Keys Inn and the Archive was one of the places he'd go by from Mews.
"He was there, and I could tell that he had the hairbrush. He'd already been shaping a mommet while he was walking, sir," his voice rises, "and he was making a second. I trailed him. He didn't notice me until I was a couple yards behind him, but he did notice me and he caught me by surprise when he spun and threw me to the ground.
"I don't know how it happened, I swear by my hands I don't know. Naming is like that, isn't it? One minute I was being choked to death – he didn't even need sympathy for that –, and the next, I could see it, well, not see it exactly, but it was there, and I reacted in panic. I was scared and angry.
"It was everywhere," he moans. "I was sick, and then I ran to John's room because I didn't know what to do."
Silence pervades the room. Several masters are wide-eyed. Elodin is blank-faced.
x
"They expelled you?" John asks incredulously.
"Yes. It's okay, John," he adds hastily. "I need to find a teacher who will take me for who I am. Elodin can't do that because he's part of the University, and I'm being kicked out at the end of the span."
John is outraged. "It was an accident, Sherlock. You should appeal."
Sherlock sighs wearily as he packs up his meager belongings. "They were pretty lenient, actually. I didn't get any lashes, no fines, no anything but the command to be away from the University and Imre within three days," he paused. "They also told me that if they ever heard news of me causing trouble of any sort, Elxa Dal would personally hunt me down. All in all, a very merciful punishment for murder."
"It's technically manslaughter, Sherlock, and unintentional. Where will you go?"
An awkward pause. "…I'm going to find Kvothe."
"Sherlock, Kvothe is dead. He died years ago." John jumps off of Sherlock's bed and stalks toward his friend.
"No, he's not. I know he isn't. He's still alive, somewhere, and who better than me to find him?"
John knows better than to question Sherlock in times like this. He comes to a quick decision. "I'll go with you."
Sherlock looks up sharply. "No, you won't. John, you have a life here. What about Serrah? She'll miss you. And you'll make Re'lar within two terms. I'm certain of that. And most of the masters like you. Except for Hemme and Brandeur, but Hemme barely likes anyone and Brandeur is Hemme's lackey, for all intents and purposes," he says bitterly.
"Sherlock, I can't let you do this alone. You told me once that you'd never had anyone to rely on. Well, now you do. I'm your friend, Sherlock, and I won't allow you to do something as ridiculous as this without me to watch your back." John is adamant on this.
"John. John." he hesitates. "Look, the real reason why I don't want you to come is that I'm afraid that I'll hurt you. I told you that the name of blood won't leave me, and that's true. Whenever I look at you, I can see it in you and I know what kinds of horrible things I could do to you or anyone else."
John narrows his eyes, "God damn you, Sherlock Holmes. This isn't about the name, or even you. It's about me, and because I'm a decent person, I want to help you. And the best way to do that is go with you."
"But—"
"But nothing. I trust you not to hurt me. You wouldn't let yourself do anything like that. I know you're a good person, Sherlock. Don't let me down."
"I— I'll try not to."
"Then let me come with you."
x
The morning is cool, the air crisp. A couple of quiet birds test their scales. Few students are out on the University streets at five in the morning, but in front of the Archive, there are men scouring the pavement of the last ruddy stains.
Sherlock still has two days of his time on University land remaining, but he's not going to bother staying if he's nothing left to stay for. He exits Mews for the last time to wait in the chilly air.
John arrives a few minutes later, alert and awake, his packs over his shoulders. "I told the masters last night that I was leaving," he confesses. "I had to tell them something, or they would've thought something bad had happened," he pauses. "You were right, you know. Master Arwyl said he'd've promoted me to Re'lar next term. I had to explain why I was leaving, to him at least, even though you told me not to. I asked him not to tell the others. I think he understood."
Sherlock nods. "I wasn't thinking last night. You're right. Arwyl would have looked for you."
They begin to walk.