Chapter 7: Life for A Life

John doesn't know it yet, but he has managed to land only three cars down from the one Sherlock made it into. He is jittery from the chase so he paces inside the empty car until it becomes too bumpy to do so. He manages to pull the door most of the way closed so that it at least cuts down on some of the cold rushing through the car. The floor is wooden and with each rotation of the wheels, it creaks. John sits against the wall farthest from the door and draws his knees to his chest. It's going to be a long day.

After resting for a couple of hours, he can feel the train starting to slow. He has no idea when it is going to stop again, but something in the back of his mind is telling him that he needs to find Sherlock now. Right now. Maybe it's his former medical education, because once he starts thinking about death from exposure he cannot shake it off. He moves towards the door and pushes it, trying hard to ignore the landscape flashing by.

Without stopping to think about how stupid this really is, John puts his feet down on the narrow rail under the car. He leans against the wooden sides and pushes himself along. It takes a few minutes, but he finally gets to the next car down the line. He crawls in through the door and searches. This one is empty. He goes back out and starts all over again. This time he's a little faster. After crawling into the second car, he is really starting to feel the cold and he sees that the sun is much lower on the horizon. A nagging little voice in his head tells him to keep going. Once it's fully dark the cold is only going to get worse.

~0o0~

Three cars from John, Sherlock has quite literally passed out from the cold. He didn't have the strength to even pull the door partially closed. He is completely unaware that another man joins him at the next jumping-off spot along the trail. He's a big, burly man whose eyes gleam with malice when he takes note of the weakened condition of other person in the car with him. He slides the door closed.

Ian Keller moves in on Sherlock like a cougar stalking its prey. He leans over the unconscious man, allowing his eyes to give the once-over. He hates Injuns and he hates half-breeds and he sure as hell hates these pretty boys.

"Fucking pansy. I'll betcha this one reads, too." He spits out. Of course, Sherlock can't hear him, but it makes him feel better to say the words all the same. He kicks at Sherlock's body and gets no response. Might even be better this way, he thinks. Let this little bastard wake up while he's teaching him a lesson. He pulls at Sherlock's clothes, undoing the fly on his jeans and yanking them off of him. He starts in on the long underwear and almost has them all the way off when Sherlock comes to.

Sherlock's mind may be sluggish, but he's been in life-or-death situations before. He comes fully aware in a matter of seconds. In the dim light of the train car he can make out the size and shape of the man who is attempting to get his clothes off. Sherlock kicks out and the man grunts when his boots make contact with his chest. Sherlock is winded easily, though, mostly from struggling through the cold for the better part of the day. He's had nothing to eat or drink since supper the night before.

A large hand reaches out and grabs Sherlock by the throat. The man attached to the strong hand leans in and Sherlock recognizes Ian from that day at the stockyard. His eyes grow wide and he fights for control as Ian squeezes. Sherlock knows that Ian only has one hand on him, because the other one is still fighting to get the long johns off of his legs. Knowing full well what Ian intends he kicks his legs and claws at the hand on his throat. Sherlock's fingers are so numb that he can barely feel them. Ian is not looking at Sherlock's face; rather he's watching his prey while he pulls the young man's clothes off of him.

Sherlock's world is slowly going black around the edges. It's only a matter of time before he will be completely at this brute's mercy. He knows that mercy will be the last thing he is getting so he feebly continues to kick and thrash his legs. He may be losing this fight very soon, he thinks desperately.

~0o0~

John gets to the third car to find the door almost completely shut. He works his gloved fingers into the crack between the wall and the door. It's hard going with the train beginning to speed up and the wind beating against him. It finally starts to give and as John slides it, the sight that greets him almost stuns him enough to let go.

Ian Keller is holding Sherlock's throat in one hand and his other hand is tugging at Sherlock's long underwear. Sherlock's jeans are already off, stopped from hitting the dirty floor by his boots. His eyes are closed and his legs are barely moving. John summons what strength he has left in his shaking hands and arms to reach down into his own boot to remove the hunting knife he keeps stashed there. He pushes himself off of his knees and moves up behind Keller, who is a good head taller than John. Ian outweighs John at least two-to-one.

John steals a look at Sherlock. His eyes are closed and his face is a sickly bluish color. John needs to stop this right now. That's enough to spur him into action. He expertly shoves the blade between two of Keller's ribs. Keller releases Sherlock instantly and Sherlock hits the floor of the train car hard, his head bouncing as he lands. Keller locks his eyes on John's. The man is like a raging bull, full of hormones and hate. He looks down at the knife poking out of his ribs and pulls it out, dropping it to the floor. John taunts him while backing towards the open door. He only has one chance to get this right.

"You bastard. What have you done?" John calls out to the big man.

"Gonna teach your pansy little half-breed a lesson, boy. Who the hell are you…" Ian coughs and John sees bloody flecks on his cruel lips. Ian swipes his mouth with one hand. He wipes his hand on his jeans without looking at it. His eyes are frighteningly intense, seemingly lit from within with an unholy glow that has only grown worse since he's been feeding it a steady diet of alcohol and opium.

"Wouldn't that make you a pansy, too, then?" John is playing a game that only one of them can win. He doesn't see it that way; however, his focus is only on getting rid of this threat so that he can help Sherlock.

"You little redskin lover! Don't know yer proper place, do you now? Is it 'cause daddy always takes care eh yer problems for you? Come here sweet thang, let me learn you a lesson, too!" Ian takes a breath and wobbles slightly, reaching out towards John with both hands curled into claws.

"You don't know nothin' boy! Ain't you never seen a berdache afore? This is his whole purpose in life!" More blood spills from his lips as Ian lunges for John but John, even exhausted, isn't wounded or enraged beyond reason so he's faster. Ian falls with his upper body hanging out of the train car. John places one foot on the big man's rear end and shoves with all of his remaining strength. Ian flails uselessly as his body plummets towards the ground.

John slides the door closed and rushes to his friend. He drops to his knees and pulls Sherlock's clothes back onto him as fast as possible. He sits down with his back to the wall and drags Sherlock to him. His hands are no longer shaking as he yanks open his coat and settles Sherlock's torso onto his chest. He digs in his coat pocket for the extra pair of socks he forgot to put into his saddle bags. Very carefully, John slides the woolen socks over Sherlock's deathly cold hands. He carefully runs his fingers over Sherlock's skull, looking for any lasting damage. John's heart is heavy with the realization that he has just taken another man's life. Sherlock is safe. He draws his coat around them both and holds Sherlock close to him. It's the best he can do and they ride out the night this way, sharing body heat on a frigid westbound train that neither of them have a ticket to ride.

Chapter 8: Questions

Shadows and light play through Sherlock's dreams. He sees dark things in his mind, boogey men hanging from tall trees, their legs kicking as the last of the life in them fades. Though their faces are covered with sacks, he can still see their manic grins in death from their slit throats. He cries out, his hands scrabbling for a hold on anything, expecting there to be nothing. There is something, and he grabs and holds on tight. His sore legs beat against the floor of the train car, kicking up dust motes that are ignorant of the pain they bear witness to, there on the floor of the westbound train.

A soft voice just above his head whispers calming little nothings. Not his mother. Who then? He surges upward through the ocean of his dreams, fighting to break the surface of the suffocating water that isn't water at all but a pressure on his mouth, a hand over his nose, he kicks harder, straining for the surface…his head breaks through and his whole body drops backward, fighting for breath. Something warm around his waist, more soft words dropped into his ear. His eyes slip closed and this time he slumbers in a dreamless world.

~0o0~

While Sherlock fights his demons, John talks to him. His voice, though not as deep in register as Sherlock's, is still enough to calm the fevered mind. John talks for hours. He tells Sherlock about the college he attended to learn medicine. He talks about the man that he shared a home with there, in the city. He opens up about the pain when the man walked out on him and then his mother's death. He tells Sherlock about the books he's read. He is recounting a little story by Benjamin Franklin when Sherlock begins to stir and wake.

"…my enemy, for you would not only torment my body to death…" John has his eyes closed and his head resting against the wall of the train car. He thinks fondly of the little passage whereby Franklin's gout is admonishing him for his lack of exercise. Under the circumstances, though, it's possible that the statement could apply to Sherlock's present condition.

The man in question moves against John's chest, at first rubbing at his eyes and then very slowly turning to face John. As he has been the past few months, John is forever captivated by those green eyes. John can see clearly that the physical pain is beginning to diminish. He leans down and kisses Sherlock's mouth, searching for a connection that he believed lost. The younger man pushes upward towards John's face and answers those questions with his lips, tongue and teeth. Their kiss is passionate yet reserved; John can almost feel the pain in Sherlock's head. He tentatively caresses the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock pulls away and sighs, dropping his head back to John's chest, his ear over John's heart.

John is aware of everything as if the cold is a whetstone to his senses. He can hear every breath that the man lying against him takes; he is happy not to hear any wheezing. He hears plainly the click clack of the train's wheels against the track. He has listened to the whistle give its mournful cry more times in the last hours; he's been unable to keep track.

Sherlock is holding his hands up in front of his face, studying the rough woolen socks that adorn them. His fingers are sore, but the feeling of pins and needles in them proves that he did not get frostbite. Any other time and John would find the situation absolutely humorous. John reaches out to pull them off but Sherlock yanks his hands just out of reach. His little chuckle vibrates through his body and resonates off of John's chest. John pulls his coat tighter about the two of them, though the air in the train car has warmed up just a bit.

"Thank you." It is a simple statement, but within it John finds gratitude for following Sherlock and being there in the midst of a dangerous situation. He is quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

"Sherlock, will you tell me something?" Sherlock's lean body is a warm blanket against him. John's stomach growls loudly. He searches in a coat pocket and pulls out a little paper-wrapped package. Some of Jessie's beef jerky. He found it sometime while Sherlock was out. He doesn't remember putting it there, perhaps she stuck it in on him while he was eating the scrambled eggs…god. How long has it actually been? He pulls a slice away from the paper and hands it down to Sherlock.

"Yes, John." Sherlock answers as he holds up a hand. John deftly removes the sock, trades it for the slice of jerky. The stuff is tough but flavorful and Sherlock savors it against his tongue before chewing.

"Would you mind explaining to me what a berdache is?" Sherlock stiffens almost imperceptibly against John. He speaks, but his answer is yet another question.

"Where?"

"Keller. He called you that twice. Once that day at the stockyard and then just before…" John lets his thoughts trail off. He's not sure of the wisdom of bringing up such a volatile experience so soon.

Sherlock's eyes find the hunting knife lying on the floor. He carefully notes the rust-red color of dried blood against the silver of the blade. "You got him." It's a statement, not a question.

"Yes." John feels absolutely no need to add any more details at present. The threat was neutralized and he is not the least bit sorry; especially because he can feel the warmth of life against his own body. A life he had almost lost.

"A berdache is a person who carries two spirits within themselves. A female spirit and a male spirit; they do not conform to traditional gender roles within the tribe."

"Is that why you left?" John asks in a reserved voice.

"No. It was…acceptable. It was my mother's refusal to be bound to…someone who wanted her whom she did not love. They did not turn me out because of the sprits I carry within. They let me leave because of the spirit I carry without."

John considers that for a moment, thinking of pale skin, high cheekbones and light-colored eyes. "Your father was a white man?"

"My cousin told you?"

"No. I never asked him. It is your story to tell. You said your mother had been murdered."

"She was." Sherlock's statement seems final. John understands that he does not wish to discuss it. He nods. Sherlock turns around to face him again. He lays one palm against John's chest and leans his body against the man. He wants to ask John about Jack and what happened after he ran from the house, but his tired mind finds solace in John's body heat. John rests his chin against Sherlock's forehead and holds him. Sherlock pulls his legs up as far as they will go and his exhausted body is lulled back to sleep by the sound of the metal wheels hitting the tracks.