A/N: Seems like my muse decided to take me on another trip into another AU plot first, so do bear with me first. I promise 'Only You' will be updated as soon as I manage to get the second chapter of 'Healer's Dilemma' up, which is real soon since there's only some proof-reading left. This is non-beta'ed so any mistakes pointed out would be appreciated. Reviews welcomed as well :)
Enough rambling for now, enjoy away!
'This better works.'
John Watson took a step back, the sun-battered skin drawn into a grim frown. The ex-military Healer threw a single lit match into the pile of kerosene-dipped wood with ease and precision that dictated the many, failed attempts earlier. 'It has to work this time, I haven't got anytime left.' With the single, determined goal in mind, the medic watched on for a few moments as the inferno flared to life before him. There was simply no time spared for the man to appreciate the small comfort of warmth brought on by the dancing flames whilst a fierce snow storm raged outside the sanctuary of the small, dirty cave in the middle of nowhere; literally.
Tall mountains surrounded the bleak landscape, trapping unfortunate, ignorant souls into its deadly maws of death. At times when the weather was kind, the victim would be blessed with a swift, painless death. Many unprepared adventurers had suffered otherwise, but never would John Watson be caught off guard this time. Life had equipped the hardened man with much knowledge; be it from continual hardship or unexpected betrayals. It taught John that hope can be cruel yet essential, love painful yet worthwhile; life as a constant battle of contradictions.
'Just like how the hot and cold and be at the same place at one time. They are two complete opposites, yet peacefully co-existing along with the other,' the man mused, somber in his stature as fingers traced the soft slush of earth and melted snow. A circle of ancient runes now circled the blazing pit of fire, accuracy ensured to the last symbol by the repeated attempts.
Tonight was the thirteenth full moon, or otherwise known to the medic as the rare Blood Moon from the aged tome; wrapped up securely within the bundles of supply. Tonight was the sacred night that comes along only every few decades. Tonight was the only night that John Watson, a mere seventh-class Healer in service to the imperial Crown, can summon a being powerful enough to fulfill his wishes. It had been three long years of perpetual research, preparation waiting for this opportunity. Nothing can stop John now as he drew the sharp blade over the delicate skin of his right palm, marred by a tell-tale scar.
A single drop landed, then another.
The Healer made quick work of retracing the runes. By the time John was done, it had left the man slightly dizzy from the blood loss. He shook his head. 'There is no room for mistakes. I have waited too long for this,' John chided inwardly as he pressed the blade to his palm once more when the wound had clotted up. The area appeared close to a scene of carnage, with the rapidly drying stains of maroon. John refocused his attentions, allowing a small rehearsal of the predicted situation to come. If it were a demon from the other world, John would have to be careful of the wordings of their pact. Any member of the Sidhe would require John to close the temporal gate swiftly, lest he incur the wrath of even a commoner. It could be anything and anyone that crosses over from the gate, thus warranting the Healer's caution.
A relatively large packet of salt and silver bullets surrounded John as he loaded the gun, effectively arming himself against more than half of the probable, hostile creatures. It would be John's last chance to make it work. A single try is all he will get. With a quick check, John inhaled deeply, the Forgotten rolling off him as though it had been his native tongue all along.
"I summon. I call upon.
You answer. You obey.
The gates shall open for this pact.
With this blood as anchor, as the key to the locked doors, please answer my call.
With this sincere heart as path, as beacon, please obey my summoning.
Time shall cease to be as futures, pasts and presents collide.
Open, O Great Gates of Power, Will and Might."
The cave was silent, even the snowstorm outside dwindled to a soft, murmuring whisper. For a moment, John was ready to believe that the attempt, his last attempt was another failure. The fire continued to burn, albeit a little more gently as minutes trickled by; as though mocking of the Healer's futile endeavor.
"Damn it! Why!" John yelled, brimming with hot anger and indignation. His fist curled, delivering swift, repeated blows to the rocky wall. The skin broke and left another stain upon the rough surface, but John could not bring himself to care. It would not be another Blood Moon for the next fifteen years. It would mean more time of waiting, thinking and despair, and there was nothing John could do about it.
"Why has it got to be like this? Harry…" The Healer cradled his legs close, taking a few moments to compose and accept his impeding failure, nursing his wounds privately as he was taught during his period of service to the Crown.
With a quick swipe to his forehead, John quickly cleansed off the dirt and blood collected. The circle of runes were left as it is while the man tidied the area, and then settled down to dress the dried wound with washed, boiled bandages that were left to cool earlier. Nothing was wasted within the mountainous regions; for with the scarcity of resources there was simply no guarantee that the next opportunity to restock could be anytime from a couple days to months. A few addition drops of iodine on the wound were all John could afford to spare himself from the threat of possible infection. Exhausting himself by healing would be simply not be a viable option; every bit of energy was precious when travelling alone.
'Not that there's any use now, is there?' John thought, morose as he slung his personal inventory into neat sacks before loading them into the bag pack. The Healer could not help but take one last look at the dying embers, then at the sore sight of the red moon above. John sighed, heavily as his heart was. Just as the man braced for the tempestuous terrain before him, John was granted a small miracle.
The runes lit up, as dark in red as the medium they were scribbled in. John dropped his bag and hastily made way into the edge of the circle, relief and shock forcing the man on his knees.
'Thank goodness! Thank goodness…,' John chanted mentally to whichever of the gods or deities that answered his prayers. The sight before him was just as awe-inspiring as the tome had written of. Small wisps of blue flame burst forth, hovering animatedly from the twelve different runes; identical to a protective barrier between the creature and his conjurer. It would the last and only line of defense for John, and the man simply had no more time left to ready the salt and silver.
A crack splinted from the centre, slow and gradual at first. Then before John knew it, the scarlet light would spill alee from the ground, forcing plots of earth to fall towards the other plane of the universe. The universe that was still warring with the humans for dominance not too long ago; it was otherwise commonly known as the Vermillion for its source. The separation had ensured the two vastly different races to subsist in relative peace from each other, save for the three nights of the Blood Moon where the division is at its weakest.
Humans tempted by the otherworldly promises of fame, power or love often found themselves at the mercy of its allurement; driven to form a Pact with the creature. Both parties are said to benefit from the Pact in their supposed, own ways; where the truth were that many humans often fall prey to the creatures they summoned too often when the initial Pact could no longer satisfy them. The creature from Vermillion, also widely addressed as the 'Migrant' for their temporal dislocation, would then feed off from their Pact holder's life energy. The Pact holder, driven by their earthly vices, would seek to form even more Pacts. They would prosper; lead a life of luxuries that one can only imagine, until their lives are gradually snuffed out like a candle. Once the Migrant gains of sufficient life force, he would be able to walk between both worlds. As one would predict, war would soon break out once more when the balance is tilted.
John was aware of that. Infact, it took much convincing of himself to open the Gate between the two worlds. The fact was, after all, drilled into every human child upon their parents since their wee ages. 'Once you are tempted by the Gate, there is no going back. Vicious monsters would seek to eat you from inside out, slowly and painfully.' The lesson would then be extended beyond home and into classrooms when students would discover of their Niches; small gifts granted by nature's twelve elements: Fire, Water, Earth, Air, Thunder, Light, Dark, Time, Space, Metal, Intellect and Physical.
The stronger the child, the more likely he or she is able to handle more Pacts. Thus, society came up with a label to shepherd its people. The First Class would be where the strongest, most influential be slotted to. There were a total of ten different classes, where John found himself as where the mass majority was. The Healer had long predicted that he was going to lead an ordinary life with his gift. Settle down, start a family and have children.
It was what the man had expected. Yet it all changed when his sister, Harriet Hamish Watson whom John knows affectionately as 'Harry', had fallen prey to one of the Migrant's manipulation. In Harry's grief at the death of her partner, she finally crossed the line and formed a Pact of her own. The Migrant would don on her partner's facial features and indulge in her game of charades until the end of Harry's life. John had fiercely disapproved of his sister's unhealthy denial and sought to talk Harry out of it as much as possible.
The indefinite solution drove them apart eventually, forcing John to seek sanctuary from conscription to escape the family that was swiftly falling apart. The night when John packed his bags, the Healer had expected to return to his family after three years of absence. John had fought hard for the Crown, maximizing his gift to the limit before he was honorably discharged from the military from a nearly fatal gunshot wound to his shoulder. 'Captain' John Hamish Watson was had been proud of his achievement, right until the very moment he had knocked upon the door of his home.
What the man had returned to was an empty house, no longer a home that John had recognized anymore. He rapped on the door in three quick knocks, and then proceeded to repeat the gesture when no one answered the door. John kept at it for half an hour before he was informed by his neighbor of the happenings; happenings whom he had been ignorant from for more than an acceptable period of time.
His father had dwelled within the drunken stupor of spirits ever since his mother's mental ailment took a turn for a worse, where the old man had perished from an unfortunate car accident on his way back one night. His mother followed soon after, though not before landing the family in heavy debts from her exorbitant medical fees. She had, thankfully, passed away peacefully in her sleep. The change had compelled Harry to the similar route as their father to save herself from plunging into the deep recesses of depression, which was much to dismay of her current Migrant. The whole affair ended abruptly with Harry's sudden, mysterious disappearance.
John suspected it had more to do than the usual 'life-emptied-by-the-Migrant' situation. After all, the Scotland Yard had simply closed the file after some simple, quick investigations to the case. John took matters into his own hands after witnessing their reluctance to delve further into the affairs that were related to the Vermillion. He sought out the precious few contacts he had formed during his service and learnt what he could about the Vermillion and Migrants. The man had made it a point to run down every possible lead, aided with the stubborn streak blessed from his mother's side. It was tiring work, and John had more than his fair share of brushes with death from other that did not appreciate his insistent digging for information. So much so that he had developed a limp after a particularly difficult informant.
John, eventually, conceded and concluded that the quickest solution that had the highest chance of succeeding would be to summon the help of a Migrant of his own. He knew it was a foolish idea; Harry's fate had been sufficient proof for John. The Healer had even been resigned to the fact that his life would be shortened as a result.
Yet what other alternative would there be when it had the only goal pushing John forward since his realization.
As John stood before the circle, the logical portion of his brain acknowledged that guilt and responsibility had been his driving force. A smaller, more selfish part of him would have opened the Gate guilelessly for the cheap thrill of satisfying his curiosity. John was aware that, buried deep within him, was a man that craved the constant exhilaration danger had provided. It threw the man off his tangent, where John prided himself in regaining control of the situation. The Healer firmly believed he could deal with anything that came his way with steely determination and sheer stubborn refusal to bow down.
Threats, physical or literal; John would never allow it to faze him.
John knew that even with the level of preparation he managed beforehand; he would be as vulnerable as lamb to the slaughter like any other would be should the Migrant be hostile in its nature. John had fully expected it to be.
Thus, it would explain why the level of surprise at the Migrant's first question.
"Iraq or Afghanistan?"
By the time the Migrant had materialized within the circle, with all the glory of its high cheekbones and pale complexion, John was stunned speechless for the rare few times in his life.