A/N: Thanks again to the unbelievable interest in this story.

Thanks to mattsloved one for catching all of those things I routinely miss:D

3. We Were Waiting, You and I

A burden. That was what he carried, a secret, weighted burden. He couldn't say for sure whether or not the guilt over three people's deaths was the main influence for choosing to become a doctor before he entered the army, but it was there on the edges of his thoughts, and he was sure it was an influence if nothing else.

Ten years is a long time to stay away from something, and it is long enough to attempt to forget the things that shape you. He saw the scarecrow again one night, not long after he had finished school, but before he joined the army. He went home to tell his parents of his decision. He had kept the idea of the army from them, knowing his father would not be pleased.

He wasn't. Drink now consumed the man and it would kill him, someday soon. His father saw John's joining as defiance and despite the fact he was an adult and had graduated from medical school, he felt he stilled owned his children.

There was a terrible fight and words were flung into the air that could never be unsaid.

As his father struck him across the face, there was the sound of breaking glass, and the scarecrow was there in the space between one breath and the next.

Its long arms wrapped around his father's chest and it began to squeeze.

"NO!" John shouted.

The creature paused and looked at him, but still held his father's life in his hands.

"No," John said more gently. "You can't. You can't kill every time I am hurt. Put him down."

The scarecrow turned his head and looked at his father and then back at John.

"Put him down!" John said it more firmly, holding his hands out, trying to placate the monster.

The creature let go and backed away.

"Now go!" He said. "GO!" The creature looked at him with a sorrow John did not understand and turned and left.

His father was too drunk to understand what had happened and would not remember in the morning, but John would, even if it felt part bad dream, part overactive imagination.

The next day he went to his Grandparents. He knew he would find the scarecrow nearby.

It was the only thing blurring the day, the heaviness he carried, marking the time with an unnamable darkness. It was sad, as it was a glorious, breathtaking day, the kind that filled your lungs and cleared your head, a day of possibilities.

He was visiting the one place he felt he belonged, where he had discovered who he was, his Grandparents. They were still alive although getting frail and they lived in the same house they had bought after selling the farm. The visit this time was in spring, and the air was fresh with the promise of newborn life. Trees were in full bud, birds were singing in the early hours, and everything was green.

He honestly wanted to see his grandparents. They were the only ones who had loved him like he wanted to be loved. But he also felt the need to see if what had happened last night, ten years ago, sixteen years ago was real and not just a product of his ability to repress horrific memories. He had shoved the times he had met something outside of the realm of what is real deep down to where dreams and nightmares reside. Something thirsted in him to discover if it was true. Perhaps being in life and death situations for so long made him long for something magical.

Waking early was now so ingrained the fact dawn was just creeping over the edge of the horizon was normal. After the first cup of tea, he decided to walk down to the old farm. The something that called to him as he slept was closer to the surface of his thoughts and although deep down he knew what it was, a part of him still pretended it didn't existent, pretended the scarecrow was in equal parts a product of a young child's terror and a night of too much alcohol.

He walked down the lonely country lane, listening to the chatter of the birds as they worked their way up to a full song with the rising of the sun. It was a fair distance from the village but being young and fit it was pleasant to stretch his legs. The closer he got to the old farm, the more his heart rate increased with unnamed anticipation. He wasn't sure if it was remembering the past or something else, something that hovered on the peripheral.

His Grandparents had said that most of the buildings were abandoned these days. No one lived there; the property was rented out to a big farming corporation. He felt sad seeing the lonely buildings, not lived in, not filled with laughter and warmth, smiles and love. The memories he had, the good ones of being on a farm, had built him, had made him who he was. The bad ones too, he supposed.

He stood there, living in the memories. As he travelled down his thoughts to the past, he saw movement down by the dilapidated barn. A thrill of wonder and apprehension flowed through him. Even though he knew, here was proof he hadn't imagined it after all.

He wasn't sure if he should make the first move; he wasn't sure if he wanted too. He had only been alone with this strange being when it was either standing still, guarding a field full of crops against the depredations of crows or when it was feeling murderous and protecting him from the assaults of humans. But something tugged at him, and he needed to go, even if it ended in darkness and pain.

He walked toward the figure standing there, dryness in his mouth making it difficult to swallow. He had only seen this creature in the flesh, so to speak, a handful of times but the closer he got the more memories of dreams and nightmares resurfaced. Emotions and desires he couldn't name were wrapped up in this meeting. He had a feeling that this was the beginning of something he had been travelling toward his whole life.

The scarecrow stood there, its eyes never leaving his face. The closer he got the more he saw it had changed once again, become realer, perhaps as his belief in it increased, perhaps as a nameless demand for it grew.

Its clothes were still the same, tattered and torn, faded, but its features were finer. The visible skin was smoother, but still had the look of old cotton, thin and discoloured. Its eyes were what drew John closer. It stood there with an equal measure of hunger and want, want for John, gleaming out of them and with an emotion that he would have bet any amount of money was love.

He came within arm's reach, and the scarecrow shuffled closer. John's heart skipped and thudded, and the dryness in his mouth became more pronounced. He knew he was afraid but he didn't know if it was of the scarecrow or of facing his longings.

The scarecrow made the next move. It raised a hand, no longer gloved, long thin fingers reached out and carefully as if trying not to startle John, carefully touched his face.

A deep, resonant voice came from the lush mouth, gravelled as if seldom used, "John. You left. You went away."

John swallowed. "I know. I had too."

The scarecrow blinked at him. "I'm only here because of you. I'm only whole because of you."

There was such sadness in its voice John didn't know how to respond.

"Please stay."

John blinked. "I can't. I have work far away. I need to leave soon."

More shuffling as it came closer and leaned into John's space. "I will not be here the next time. I can't stay either if you are not here. You were almost too late this time."

"But you look more human every time I see you," he said puzzled.

"That is what you want to see. I am not human. I am of the earth. You hold me here. I am because you wanted me."

"But I'm afraid of you. I don't understand." John asked, shocked at the quiver in his voice. How could he care for a monster? One that killed so easily and had almost murdered his father.

"You wanted to live more than you wanted to die."

It made it seem so reasonable. John wondered if he was even really having this conversation, if this was happening. Maybe he was lying somewhere, bleeding into the dirt of a far away land and this was what his mind gave him to hold instead of pain. The moment was fraught with uncertainty and mysticism, strange magic filled the air. How could he possibly believe any of this?

John looked down at his feet, tightness filled his chest. "I can't stay. I have duties. I must go." He knew in his heart that there was too much guilt and dismay at what this creature had done for him to stay even if he could. "I have to leave because of what you do. Do you understand? You can't keep killing and hurting people because of me."

"If you go, I will die, and I won't be here. You hold me together."

It paused and looked at him.

"If I don't exist, you will die, and I won't be there to save you."

"I will die either way, but if I go,' and his voice choked up. "If I go, you won't exist, and you won't hurt anyone."

He was startled to see the eyes of the creature were filled with pain. He instinctively lifted his hand and touched its cheek. "Don't be sad. We all die someday."

The wind sprung up from nowhere, and the raggedy coat of the scarecrow swirled around them as if shielding them. It leaned closer to John and laid its head on top of his own. John's arms came up and wrapped around its back. It didn't feel as if it were made of straw. It felt solid and warm, and he could feel muscle and sinew move under his hands. He heard the thud of a heart as he placed an ear against its chest.

The creature turned its head and placed soft lips, softer than he thought possible against his own and John felt his mouth open, welcoming death if need be, so enamoured with the creature before him. He closed his eyes and gave in to everything he had thought or wanted. A warm tongue entered in and carefully, cautiously tasted him. He tasted back, not sure what he was expecting; dust, dirt, straw, but he tasted summer's last memories, the promise of fall's crispness, he tasted the sweetness of ripe apples, but mostly the sadness and longing of birds in flight searching for a winter home. There was wildness in the kiss as well, a wildness that matched the unnamed yearning in John's soul.

He broke off the kiss and pushed the creature back carefully. "I…I have to go. I can't stay. I am so sorry. If I had known, I would not have done this to you, but I can't stay."

And for the first and last time in his life he ran away from something, something bigger than himself, something he couldn't keep or control or save. It almost broke his heart, but he didn't look back.

Shortly after, he left his Grandparents and spent the remainder of his leave with friends in the city.

When he returned to his unit, people noticed he had changed, that he was different, more remote.

He kept to the army as a way of forcing the terrible truths away from himself. There isn't time to think about magic and wonders and monsters and remorse when you are saving people or being shot at, sometimes at the same time.

He felt he had destroyed something precious and unique, and he didn't know if the stained glass fragments of his heart would ever heal.

But the world doesn't stop because you are mourning and life continues in spite of trying to hold it stationary. Ten more years had passed before he saw the creature for a final time.

He had believed he had honestly forgotten about it, but the day he was shot there it was, unbelievably in the desert of Afghanistan. Still wearing the tattered clothes. Still pale and perfect.

It came up to him, just as he imagined when he seen it on the farm the last time, he had wondered if it had been a figment of a pain induced dreams as he lay bleeding and here he was. It would be funny if it weren't so tragic. He found himself chuckling quietly, in pain.

The creature came up to him and knelt by his side, lay down and wrapped long arms around him. "I have been looking for you."

"I thought you'd be gone by now. I'm so sorry I wasn't brave enough to stay with you," he murmured, agony making his voice weak.

"You needed me too much. I am part of you, the darkness you fear, the shadow within. I am you your other half, created out of fear and horror but held here by love. Of course I will be with you at the end."

"You're not really here, are you?"

"No. This time, I am a figment, a wish. I turned to dust long ago."

Tears filled John's eyes, but he didn't know if it was for himself or the creature. He saw blackness creeping on the edge of his vision. He heard a voice shout out "Watson", but he wondered if it was too late.

John turned to the creature and said, "Don't leave me. I'm not ready to die alone."

"You won't."

He couldn't feel anything except the creeping cold of death's embrace. He turned his head to watch the scarecrow. As he watched, it began to fade as if were simply held together with cobwebs and sunlight and it disappeared.

"Don't go," he whispered, as he slipped over the edge of the abyss.

He didn't remember anything else until he woke up in hospital.

The doctors came and told him it was a close call, which he almost hadn't made it. He wasn't sure why he was alive. He wasn't sure if he wanted to be. Everything felt grey and plain, and there was no joy or awe left in him.

He was sent back to London, his purpose gone and it wasn't until he was walking through the park one day and bumped into an old friend that colours returned.

St. Bart's was different than he remembered. It had been a long time since he'd been, back when he was more innocent. He followed Mike into the room. There was someone else there and at first he didn't really think about the other person, didn't take him in but when his eyes swept around, and he saw the pale, tall, gangly but graceful figure standing there, he felt his breath catch. He was at loss to explain his existence. Wonder and enchantment had returned to the world.

He wasn't quite the same. He was taller and thinner. The hair was not as curly and was lighter in colour, shot with auburn. There was more green in his eyes and a level of shrewdness and intelligence looked at him and absorbed him in a way no one ever had, but the essence was there, the way his eyes tracked John's stillness. It was almost as if someone had taken the idea of a magical creature and given it living, breathing skin instead of flesh made out of rain-soaked and sun faded cotton.

In the blink of an eye, John was back in an autumn field, the sound of the wind dancing with leaves. And then, just as fast, he was back in the here and now and before the man asked for a phone, before, there was the mention of a violin, before the comment about days of silences, before the amazing deductions and the lady in pink and the death of a lethal cabbie, before, before, before, John said two words, just under his breath, just on the edge of hearing, loud enough to intrigue, low enough for the meaning not to be entirely clear, similar to the whisper of crow's feathers.

"Hello, Scarecrow."