From part II onwards the chronology of the eras will no longer follow each other, but their stories still connect.
Also the Post-Apocalyptic era is cracky sometimes, because Nathan is still alive and Harold is less damaged. They need a few laughs even at the end of the world, right?
The Impossible Cure, Part II
The Stronghold, Post Apocalypse, 2107
Harold yelps as his foot makes contact with something warm and alive. "I'm armed!" he warns, scrambling in his pockets frantically.
"It's only me," a vaguely bemused voice tells him as the obstruction to his door slowly unfolded itself. Harold jumps back; John stretched himself to full form a moment later. He peers at Harold's torchkey with a mildly amused look.
"You are holding it all wrong," John points out helpfully. "I really don't think this qualifies as being armed."
"Oh for Aurora's sakes," Harold exclaims, more than a little annoyed. He lowers his torchkey anyway. "Third time this month. What is it you are looking for this time? Sentiment?"
"I uh, came for a checkup," John says, grinning unabashed, completely without shame.
"You are fine," Harold says, looking him over. John had grown a little thin, but nothing out of the ordinary; his cheeks is no longer sullen and his eyes are brighter than before, which Harold takes as a good sign. "I wouldn't believe it myself, but you healed quite nicely. Now kindly remove yourself from my door."
John sidesteps him into the shadow and leans against a wall. The lighting is questionable at best in the corridor, but somehow Harold still has the distinct feeling that the man had an entirely inappropriate lewd look on his face, half flirtatious, as if he is expecting to be invited in.
"No," Harold says, unprompted.
"What," John says, smirking.
"I'm not taking in a stray," Harold says. "Go somewhere else, Mr. Reese. In fact, go to Leon, I think he'd be more than happy to take you in."
"If you had any idea what Leon wants to do to me you'd know what you just suggested is pimping," John replies.
"Please stop," Harold mumbles. John pokes his face out of the shadow again and Harold sees a wide grin.
"Give the poor homeless man a shower, please," John says. "Aren't you all under some Hippy's oath? Help in whatever way you can?"
"The Hippocratic Oath," Harold says, seething; he is sure this unshakable patient is just prodding him for fun. "And it's much more complicated than that, above all do no harm -"
"Which you will be violating if you throw me out," John says smoothly.
The door finally opens with a crack and Harold throws on the light. "What do I need to tell you to get you on your way, hmm?" he says, exasperated, "You smell fine, Mr. Reese? Because as inappropriate as it is, I -"
He turns, and his gaze freezes on the carpet.
"Sorry," John says, waving an apologetic hand, only to get a few drops blood on the door frame. For once this stubbornness of a patient had the decency to look sheepish, as he hesitates near the doorway, peering in with unmaskable interest.
"What happened?" Harold says, discarding the key on the floor with an audible clack. He grabs John by the arm and forcefully turns the man, inhaling sharply when he sees the damage on John's back. "Those are deep lacerations. Who did them to you?"
"A stray cat or two," John replies, dismissive. He smiles again. "How about that shower now?"
Harold gives him an annoyed look. "There is no way these wounds are touching water," he says.
"A sponge bath then," John says, hopeful.
Harold narrows his eyes. "Drop to the floor," he says.
John immediately does so with military trained swiftness and precision. No question, not even a look of doubt. Despite himself, Harold is secretly impressed.
"Strip," Harold orders.
John peers at him. "Well I was hoping for dinner first," he says.
"Strip," Harold barks again.
John obeys; a small smile that is too sly for Harold's liking tugging at the corner of his lips. Pointedly ignoring the look on John's face, Harold quickly gathers the medical supplies he keep stashed under the desk and kneels down to survey the damage; the lacerations were deep but clean, no grave injury, no infections (so far).
"Nothing worse than what you've already seen," Harold announces reassuringly. "I still need to stitch those together, though."
"Sounds good," John says, voice muffled against the carpet.
Harold hesitates. "It would be, but I have no anaesthesia," he says. "Not even lidocaine. I took the last to the hospital when there was a shortage, and..." he trails off, brows furrowing in contemplation.
John lifts his head a little to look back at him. "Just do it," he says, "I can handle pain pretty well."
Harold laughs, a little nervously. "I don't think so," he says, eyeing the laceration and doing a mental count. "This is going to need, what, thirty stitches? You'll go into -"
"Would it help if I told you that I like it?" John asks.
"- No," Harold says, determinate. "Besides, you don't."
John twists his neck this time, so he can get a proper look at Harold. "And you would know because?" he asks, eyes half lidded, voice playful but his hooded gaze uncannily sharp.
"I know you," Harold replies absently as he considers different options in his head. "Because you are my patient. I watched you."
John arches a brow.
"You asked for the morphine to be dialled down because you didn't want it to dull your senses," Harold explains, noticing his expression. He pauses for a few seconds, then adds distractedly, "Something I would have done."
John's face goes blank.
"Is this a comfortable position for you?" Harold suddenly asks. "I mean, of course we'll move you to the sofa, or bed, but if you can lie on your stomach through the night, I can get you some lidocaine tomorrow. If, of course, -"
"Just stitch me up," John interjects, with a small wave of the head. "I'll be fine."
Stubborn, stubbornness of a patient.
Harold harrumphs, and decides against active protesting: he picks out a shorter laceration to work on first, one that probably needs four or five stitches instead of ten. He dabs some disinfectant on the skin, then threads through the first needle without so much as a warning.
"There we go," John proclaims agreeably, laying his head back down.
Harold stares at him in blatant disbelief. His hands does not stop working on auto-pilot, though, and its three stitches later before he asks, "...really?"
John flashes him an attempt at a languid smile, but he can see easily enough the clipped edges of pain. Harold falls silent, his hands steady despite the pounding of his heart (completely irrational, since he had seen much worse).
He places two fingers on John's jugular afterwards, just to see if the man's physiological response is as calm as his exterior claim to be. It isn't. John's heart is racing, the skin a little flushed, and Harold starts to worry.
"I think it's best if you take some antibiotics for caution," he says.
"How very caring of you, Doctor," John purrs.
Harold flicks it away as he gently helps John to his feet, and then to the sofa. "You've already stained my carpet with blood," he quips, "I'd prefer if you didn't add gangrene to it."
John stumbles over just a little and Harold catches him in time. "Steady now, solider," he says. "There's quite no need to prove anything to me. Or anyone, for that matter."
John's eyes slide towards him. "Are you going to finish what you started, or shall I?"
"I'd like to see you try," Harold says. Then, to the look on John's face, "No. No. I retract that, do not try. Surgical tape is all you are getting tonight, Mr. Reese."
"Then I'm going to stain the sofa too," John smiles. He doesn't sound nearly bothered enough about that. Harold furrows his brows again.
"Bed," he decides.
John's face splits into a wide grin and has the words too easy written all over it. "Dinner," he counters.
Harold pointedly ignores him.
After a few more snipes and a barking order ("bed, now"), the insufferable patient is finally strong-armed into lying face down onto a pillow while another propped up his hip.
"You do realise doctors are not supposed to have intimate relationships with their patients," John says, voice muffled as he peers at Harold with one eye.
"Now he knows the Hippocratic Oath," Harold says through gritted teeth. "Are you sure you are not under any substance influence?"
John beams at him and Harold fights the urge to smother him with the pillow. Instead he tears off the surgical tape with brusque force, laced with petty vengeance, and adheres them with dressing to John's back with just the opposite: carefully slow and tender. John hums.
"Do not try my patience," Harold warns. John doesn't seem to take it seriously, though he does close his eyes and remained blessedly fuss-free for the remainder of the task.
At last Harold finishes with a cautious exhale. "I'm afraid you'll have to stay like this for the night," he says. "I suppose it could be worse?"
John makes a low noise at the back of his throat. Harold takes that as a yes and leaves the room, returning moments later with a glass of water and a book.
"Do try to get some sleep," Harold says as he placed himself on an armchair beside the bed.
John turns his head a little, peering at Harold again with one eye, the long lashes casting a shadow on his cheekbone. "What are you doing?"
"Making sure you don't expire during the night," Harold says matter-of-factly. "Oath and all that."
A slow smile finds its way across John's face. Unable to tear away his eye for some illogical reason, Harold watches wordlessly as John rubs his cheek against the pillow and proceeds to stretch his legs out in a luxuriously indecent position.
"Oh for Aurora's sakes," Harold breathes. He drags his gaze away from the contour of John's lower body in time to catch John's smirk. "What are you, twelve?" he says, scowling fervently.
"You said get comfortable," John replies, innocent.
"I said get some sleep," Harold snipes. "Do you always sleep with your gluteus maximus in the air?"
John stares at him blankly.
"Your posterior," Harold says, exasperated. Then, when no reaction came forth, "Your rear. Your ass, Mr. Reese!"
John promptly burst out laughing. To make matters worse, he had to go and wriggle the said body part to prove a point, shaking a piece of dressing come off in the process. Harold has to recite the first fifteen digits of Pi just to keep his hands from slapping onto the man's back, lacerations be damned.
"...two six five three five," Harold mutters as he replaces the dressing with deliberately light hands, "eight nine seven..."
John's ears perk up. "Are you really counting Pi?" he says, an amused glint in his eye that makes Harold's hand shake with temptation, "As an anger management strategy?"
"nine three two three eight," Harold enunciates. He plasters the dressing back with two deep breaths.
"Wow," John says, impressed. "I could really use that. Three point one four one five nine, must not kill this man. It rhymes!"
Harold makes a strangulated noise in his throat and circles to the front of the bed to glare John in the eye. "Mr. Reese," he starts, -
- and John darts his tongue across Harold's lip.
Unsettled, Harold snaps up too quickly; he hits the lamp on his way. John watches him with purposefully neutral expression, his face patient and open, as if waiting for Harold to make a decision, and Harold fumes.
"This is most unwarranted, Mr. Reese - "
Then John tugs gently at his hanging tie and Harold bends down instinctively, one hundred percent illogical and two hundred percent stupid, because John kisses him again, fully this time; slow and indulgent, coaxing open lips with tongue, making advantage of his daze with a playful nip here and a small peck there. Then Harold's mind floats outside his body for a moment, surveying the situation and analysing the result, looking for a solution and finding none, and the heart he forgot he had starts pounding again, roughly jerking him back into the present.
Harold stares at the smiling face, too stunned for words.
"Encore?" John prompts softly, a playful crease around his eyes.
Harold draws a stuttering breath. "Mr. Reese -"
"John."
"John," Harold says, trying to smother the conflict in his voice. "You are - I am - This is - I don't - "
"Three point one four one nine five," John suggests.
Harold lets escape a desperate noise that is halfway between a sigh and a laugh. He backs into the chair again. John merely watches him with mild interest, the way Harold would a riveting mathematical equation, and Harold exhales fully, finding his voice.
"There is this concept," he begins, grasping onto the armrest with more force than necessary, "called transference. It is typically used to describe the redirection of a patient's feelings for a significant person to the therapist -"
John stops him with a hand.
"I have no significant person," he says simply.
Harold sweeps his gaze around the room, feeling wildly inappropriate, roused, and trapped at the same time.
"Do you?" John asks after a prolonged pause.
Harold's gaze drop again. John's face is impassive, a brow arched in casual patience, waiting; and Harold almost grows dizzy with the possibilities that comes from his next choice of words. He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again.
"I -"
The front door slams open and Harold jolts; John looks up sharply, hands reaching out with lightening speed and precision to the glass on the nightstand.
"No," Harold says, just as John is about to smash the glass open, "It's okay, I -"
"Harold!" A voice bellowed from the living room, "What in Decima's name did you do to the carpet?!"
"- Live with someone," Harold finishes.
John's hands relax, though his face doesn't. "I see," he says, thoughtful.
The bedroom door flies open just as Harold's mouth does. A man in his mid-forties, of light brown hair and tall statute, appears in the doorway.
"Harold," the man says, with evident surprise and alarm.
"Nathan," Harold greets amiably. He turns his head towards the newcomer and smiles, a little sheepishly.
Nathan trails his gaze over Harold, the bed, and John, lingering for a while on the latter. John stares back, completely unflappable.
"I see," Nathan says after a few moments. He arches a brow. "So, do I still have my room, or will you turn that into an ER too?"
"Nathan," Harold pleads.
"I thought we had a no strays policy," Nathan continues, unabashed. "No offence, Mr. Nice-Ass-in-the-Air."
John coughs and Harold flushes a light shade of red. Three point one four...
"Out," Harold says through gritted teeth.
Nathan doesn't move a muscle. His gaze travel down John's exposed upper back and over the covered but clearly visible lower body, growing contemplative.
"For Aurora's sake, don't ogle my patient," Harold snaps. "We can talk in the living room -"
"Is this a new policy?" Nathan asks, amused, "No patient ogling? Because as far as our policies go they don't tend to work out very well..."
Harold pushes him out the room and slams the door shut.
The conversation with Nathan goes exactly like he would imagine it to, with copious empty threats on the indemnisation for not washing the carpet and snarky remarks on their respective choice of partners, each other included. Harold returns to his bedroom half an hour to find John staring at the wallpaper with boredom.
"What did I say about getting some sleep?" Harold says with fake annoyance, in lieu of an awkward opening.
John's face is relaxed when he retracts his gaze. "Your significant person?" he asks inconsequentially. There is a smile, but his eyes convey something else entirely, and Harold hesitates.
"Roommate," Harold replies finally, slow.
John nods. Harold waits in anticipation of further questioning, interrogation even, but none come forth; John simply closes his eyes and drops off to sleep.
Harold is jerked awake from a fitful dream at half seven. The bed is empty. There are a few blood stains on the sheet, smeared into long strokes, still fresh - made from when John rolled off the bed, Harold decides; the realisation jolts him from the chair and out the door.
"Where is he," Harold asks, breathless, shaking out the pins and needles in his feet. Nathan raises his head over the kitchen counter.
"Who?" he asks around a mouthful of cereal.
"John," Harold says, then, "My patient!"
Nathan rolls his eyes. "Shower."
Harold pauses. "Shower?" he echoes dubiously, eyeing Nathan with alarm, "How long has he been there?"
Nathan shrugs. "Half an hour or so."
Harold promptly swings around and makes for the bathroom door. Nathan calls after him, "Oh, so it's okay for you to ogle the patient?"
Harold ignores him, knocking on the bathroom door twice. "Mr. Reese," he pipes, "I would highly suggest you avoid water in your wound -"
"- Bit late for that," Nathan mumbles behind him.
"And you didn't stop him why?" Harold says with an annoyed backward glance. "Mr. Reese," he knocks again.
"He was already in there when I got up," Nathan shrugs. "Come on, Harold, let the man have a shower in peace. Maybe he wants some privacy, you know?" He arches a brow suggestively.
Harold ignores him and presses his ear to the bathroom door. After a few moments, his eyes grow wide. "I'm going in," he says.
"What?" Nathan drops the spoon into the milk with a splat, "Harold! What if you catch him in the middle of -"
"The sound of waterfall doesn't match a person moving in a shower," Harold says breathily, fingers moving rapidly over the keypad in a master override. "Either he's not in there or he's stopped moving. Mr. Reese," he calls again, and pushes the door open.
The vapour steams his glasses for a brief second and Harold squints: there seems to be a heap under the shower head. The water seems to be running at a vaguely alarming colour, rusty from the old pipes, -
"- Aurora Almighty," Harold breathes. "John!"
Rushing over to kneel next to the unconscious man, Harold fumbles to turn the water off and does a quick survey of the damage with his limited field of vision. Diluted blood is everywhere, turning the bathroom tiles a rusty yellow, John is collapsed against the shower glass, a razor blade in his limp hand.
"What did you do?" Harold murmurs, gently peeling the man off. John's back is an unsalvageable mess, with gaping wounds old and new, the stitch breaking apart with raw, angry flesh. There appears to be new lacerations on his sides, lateral with the old, the cut line made by a steady hand, determinate and clean; the person who made the cut seemed to be looking for something.
Harold's gaze drop to John's hand again. A slither of a silver lies in his palm next to the sharp razor, already rinsed clean; the familiarity of it all dawns a cold kind of horror in Harold's chest.
"My God," he breathes, "Decima."
John's eyes flutter at the mention of the unspeakable.
"Mr. Reese," Harold says, lightly tapping John's face. "Can you hear me? John. Open your eyes."
John does, though it takes time for them to focus on Harold's face. "Hey," he whispers, "Sorry about the mess."
Harold stares at him in disbelief.
"I'm okay now," John says again, in an alarmingly placid tone.
Harold turns sharply towards the door. "Nathan!" he bellows, "Get my surgical kit!"
Nathan appears through the door two seconds later. "Wow," he says, "OK. What now, bathroom is OR One?"
"Alfentanil?" Harold asks without glancing up. He unpacks the surgical tools with lightening speed, hands one hundred percent steady. Nathan shakes his head. "Morphine? Any kind of benzodiazepine?"
"Nope," Nathan says. "I asked last night, supplies haven't come in. Not even lidocaine."
Harold growls. "I hope he's delusional enough for it to work," he says, "Because it has to."
"I'm not delusional," John mumbles, on cue.
"They never think they are," Nathan says, pleasantly. "Need a hand?"
"Roll him over, " Harold instructs. "Put his head on his arm for support. Good. Now get that bottle of Vodka you keep in the attic, the '79 one."
"Wh - how do you know about that?"
"Now, Nathan!"
Nathan departs with a sigh.
Harold places two fingers on John's jugular again and finds the pulse thready at best. John is watching him through hooded eyes, a small smile upon his lips, appearing completely at ease and hence completely crazy -
"Stay with me," Harold says firmly. "I've got you."
John's smile warms a little.
"What were you thinking?" Harold tries again, because TLC is something akin to the Hippocratic Oath, tried and tested and lasts through the ages, from Tender Loving Care to Talk Loada Crap, "Why didn't you tell me you could be infected?"
"I'm not," John says, voice a little stronger now. "Not any more."
Harold looks conflicted for a while. "You don't know that," he says, finally. "There could be more -"
"Which is where you come in," John interjects. "Find all of them before they take root, please."
Harold frowns furiously. "Where did you - how did you -" he stops, because it doesn't really matter, not here, not now. "You have good hands," Harold says at last. "You should consider being a trauma surgeon for Universal Heritage. We could use people with your skill."
John laughs, until he starts to cough, then he is too weak for even that; and blood oozes out of the wounds again, feebly. Harold wants to place a hand on his back for comfort, but could find no suitable spot, the skin and flesh marred by the horrors of war. He does notice, however, an X shaped birthmark on John's neck; and in a completely insane moment of compulsion, Harold reaches out to stroke the birthmark tenderly with his hand.
John draws a soft breath, glancing backwards, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and threat of impending shock. "Harold," John says, barely above a whisper.
Harold bends down a little lower, and realises he is still wearing the same tie from yesterday. The silk fabric dips in the puddle and John wraps one finger around it, smiling; his eyes speaking more than words.
"You are waiting for me to lose consciousness," John murmurs.
Harold tightens his jaw so that he would not avert his gaze. He does not reply.
"Thank you," John says.
Harold's brow jump.
"For saving my life," John continues.
Harold closes his eyes for a moment, pained. "Why don't you tell me again after you wake up," he says.
"Is this where you tell me don't walk towards the light?" John says, smiling.
"There is no light," Harold says. "We walk in the dark, Mr. Reese."
"That sounds familiar," John murmurs. His eyes are sliding close now; each time he opens them with greater difficulty. His fingers twirled around Harold's tie, giving it an almost imperceptible tug, and Harold makes the most irrational decision of his life; he bends down to kiss John, warming the blueish lips with his own. He feels John's mouth curve into another smile, small and intimate, before going slack; Harold pulls back to see the man unconscious against the tiled floor.
A neat scramble of steps bounds off the stairs and Harold snaps up again, his eyes intent. He makes another decision then and there, the most terrible mistake or the most unerring of them all, he cannot tell, but he makes it nonetheless.
"If you are going to use all of it you might as well take a swig," Nathan's voice appear timely at the door. "Harold?"
Harold doesn't reply. His hands are already steady over John's back, making the first exploratory cut.