Wound


A/N: Here are two things I didn't mention last time:

- I don't own "Sherlock," not in any fashion whatsoever, other than the fantasy elements and my writing style

- I plan for this story to be short, around six or seven chapters long, and I've already written all of it. Currently I'm just tweaking a few things before posting the next few chapters.

Thank you for reading, and thanks also for the alerts, reviews, and favourites! You are all very kind. :)

Coquillage


John had never expected to be able to heal without ceasing. He had never imagined being able to use his power freely, unwatched by steady, wary eyes, never thought he would have the joy of doing something natural, easy, something good and right and with a fullness of reward. The men and women he touched with his power had lived. Their wounds had vanished; they were alive.

Hectic, terrible Afghanistan had bequeathed this gift to him, had brought him a chance to heal the men and women who would otherwise die. Those who had no hope; these were the ones he could save. No one else would have been able to help as he did.


Sometimes he wonders if the way he views his power is selfish. Perhaps he should tell someone else, someone besides Harry. Maybe he should inform someone high in government, let them know of this skill that is going to waste, see if they wish to use it for the good of Britain. For it is an ability that could heal so many people. A dying grandmother, a cancer-stricken father, a young girl with cystic fibrosis – how is it fair that he can save them, and yet he will not?

Sometimes the guilt builds in his chest until he can hardly breathe; what is he doing, hiding this remedy from those who desperately need it? How can he reconcile his fear of exposure with the fact that others must have use of his power?

And now he is here in London, and the old dread has conquered him once more.


There's cause for it, he tells himself, as he limps along the pavement, looking for a coffee shop before he continues job-searching. Passerby trickle past, murky presences moving at the corners of his eyes. The war has made him more alert, more aware of his surroundings, and even the calm streets of London set him ever-so-slightly on edge.

You've read the stories, he thinks. The Withe are always under suspicion. Remember old Conrad Travis? He was a good Withe, and yet he was drowned by the very people he'd tried to help. Or Silvia Winters – it ended quite badly for her. And of course there is always the matter of the Red Census. You can't go around healing people without having put your name down first.

The Red Census had been in place since the Middle Ages. It was a record of every known Withe, and you were expected to register if knowledge of your power came to you. If you did not do so, you were in violation of the law.


John has never been able to track down the current punishment for not registering, seeing as it has changed so many times in the last few centuries, and since the Census had lain untouched for fifty years, no one is brave enough to risk the streams of paperwork that must ensue once their name is placed on the Red. Furthermore, no one knows the consequences of registering.

What happens if you are the first Withe in these fifty years?

There could be accolades, and celebrations, and you could be paraded through the cities in fancy clothes, smiling brightly and waving to the jubilant public.

Or there could be pandemonium and confusion and distrust, and the government could sequester you in a facility somewhere, to try and figure out why you were the sole Withe to emerge after so long.

John does not want either scenario. He wants to live a quiet life, without the burden of public acclaim or hatred on his shoulders, and he wants to use his power without interference. But sometimes he wonders if the constant feeling of eyes on his back is better than eyes on his face. The weight of secrecy or of fame? (Or infamy?)

This is easier, he thinks. I've been doing this since I was twelve; I'll keep it up as long as I can. I haven't slipped up yet.

But he also knows that when the Burning begins, he has to tell someone else. For it is quite clear by now that Harry, the only one who knows, isn't his Anchor. And without an Anchor, he will die – soon, and quite painfully.

Anchors are notoriously difficult to find; it is why so many Withe have died so young. Without an Anchor, without someone to siphon off the extra power coursing through his (or her) inflamed bones, a Withe always dies within a year after his Burning starts.

John doesn't quite know what the Burning is like, or even if it will really kill him. All he's read on the matter is from a fragment of disintegrating parchment (scanned to a Withe information site, AllAboutWithes.com), written by a hermit called Troilus, a male Withe who had lacked an Anchor.

The fragment reads:

Of harmes of they who are Withe thece are werst:

Bleeding eyen, and reed fingers perced with fire. A fithele brest full of stonnes, a heavy heed, aking bones. I lie awake alle nyght. Wyn, I wepe, but wyn will not stopp my paine. Fire, I crie, but hoot fire con not warme thisse cold. I wepe for song, to drone the sharpe noise, but the worlde is fulle wilde. I seethe in my owne deeth. Kylle me so I may slep, slep like a ded man.

John has read the melodramatic words many times; he knows quite well what they say, but the last line always stops the breath in his lungs.

He doesn't want to live without an Anchor, but he has no way of finding one. Anchors, those few people without a true ability and yet laced with traces of magic, are notoriously rare. To find someone like that in this century is near impossible. He has long since given up on finding an Anchor, and Troilus' warning has been relegated to the far back of his mind. John doesn't dwell on things he can't fix.

Well, he tries not to.


But on this morning he is acutely aware of his approaching, painful demise; he doesn't know why, and he tries to ignore the eerie sinking feeling in his stomach. Standing in the tiny coffeeshop, clutching two folded bills and a handful of quarters, he gazes at the neat hand-lettered sign above the cashier's head. Café latte, café mocha, caramel cappuccino. No, he'll have tea. Coffee makes everything heightened, intense, as if he sees the world with fever-brightened eyes.

A fithele brest of stonnes, a heavy heed, aking bones.

The cashier is chattering to the person in front of him, smiling with brilliantly white teeth. She snaps the proffered money into her drawer, slams it shut with a crash. John stares at the black and pink sign, aware of the twinging pain in his leg. The lady before him departs with her tea.

He shuffles forward to the counter, lifts his lips in what he hopes is a normal expression of good humour.

"Earl Grey. The small, please," he says. The cashier, her face placid, whips out a Sharpie and scrawls on the side of a cup; drops it in front of the barista next to her and holds out a hand for his money.

John fumbles the money into her hand. He forgets to smile: his fingers have brushed softly against her dark skin. There's a sudden burning in his lungs. The shop seems to recede until there is nothing but the small hand beneath his, still extended.

The cashier's palm has a curved, tiny burn, red and fresh, curled just below the joint of her index finger, and everything within him is straining to brush it away. Cold blue fire surges upwards into his head and bursts into his arms, into his hands.

This has not happened in some time, but John manages to pull away, leaving the money in her palm. The healing power strains wildly against the back of his eyes, roiling and blue and fierce to be used, to be free. Shaking his head minutely, he steps to one side to let the next person in line come forward.

No one has noticed his momentary lapse: the cashier continues to work, and the people in line continue to alternate between gazing at the signs and out the bright windows, chatting with one another or texting. All is well.

The barista says his name; he glances up and takes the paper cup of tea, nods gratefully.

He forces himself to breathe deeply, and after a long minute, the blue fire recedes, pulling back like uncurled tendrils into the recesses of his skull. Everything hurts; he can hardly move his leg, even with the hated help of his cane. He clumps over to a side table near the windows and sits down carefully, staring out unseeingly into the busy street as he tries to contain the pain.

Slowly, slowly, the magic packs itself back into his bones, drawing itself into slumber once more, and John lets himself relax.

He sips his tea and watches as a familiar, (surprisingly rotund) face bobs into view across the street. What is Mike Stamford doing here? He should go say hello.


Second A/N: For those of you who found it confusing – and I don't blame you – the translation of the Middle English text by 'Troilus' (they are real Middle English words; I looked them up :)) is as follows:

"Of the harms of those who are Withe, these are the worst:

Bleeding eyes, and red fingers pierced with fire. A filthy breast [chest] full of stones, a heavy head, aching bones. I lie awake all night. 'Wine,' I weep, but wine will not stop [end] my pain. 'Fire,' I cry, but hot fire cannot warm this cold. I weep [beg] for song, to drown the sharp noise, but the world is all [completely, totally, fully] wild [crazy, unbearable]. I seethe in my own death. Kill me so I may sleep; sleep like a dead man."

– Troilus, 14th Century, The Withe Papers

The brackets indicate definitions that also correspond to the Middle English word; i.e. there are more than one correct definition for some of them.

Thank you for reading!

Oh, and I plan to upload the remainder of the chapters over the next week. :)