Auther's Note: Cue the start of excessive paranormal activity.
"Well
I never pray, but tonight I'm on my knees yeah."
The Verve
Locke and Heather move easily—she doesn't like something about him, it makes her uncomfortable, but they work decently well together, moving on cue and without speaking. Things are so dull as to be boring, and already she has let go of some of her anger. She supposes that she's overreacted to Sawyer, but she knows that if upsetting Kate wasn't his main prerogative, then it was certainly an added benefit.
But she keeps thinking about him falling asleep with the rain, kissing with his eyes closed—more or less telling her that he can't stand when women place their guilt on him, make it his decision. Heather has lost much of that rage, and is left feeling confused, hurt even.
Then there is a scream that shatters her own introspective thought—freezes the blood in her veins. Heather is running before she realizes she is moving, before the yell begins to stop. It's the scream of a child, and she immediately knows which child.
Not too far away, she finds Walt lying on the ground, cradling his stomach—the grass and dirt around him has been stained a deep, dark red that terrifies her. Just a hair behind her Locke comes through, and for the only time she's known him, she hears a noise of utter dismay rise out of his throat.
She immediately drops to the ground, and Walt is shaking—there is no recognition in his eyes, and his face is blank. Heather lifts his hands slightly, and is immediately inclined to vomit, at the site of his intestines showing through. There are hoof marks in the damp soil nearby. Locke pushes her aside, lifts Walt, and she does not protest—she would certainly carry the boy back, but Locke is probably stronger and better for it.
Instead, she settles for racing back to the camp as quickly as possible, Locke right on her heels.
There are no tears across her cheeks, and her throat is hot and burning. By the time she reaches the camp (screaming "Jack!" all the while), her arms are covered in her own blood where plants and bark have cut her. Upon seeing her and then Locke, carrying Walt and the three of them covered in blood, there are short gasps and screams. Somehow Heather spots Sawyer—his eyes wide and mouth agape—and her heart aches; He's come to make amends, and then this?
Michael appears quickly, and this is when the true chaos begins—everyone getting too close, and Jack screaming to give him air. Michael is in hysterics, shoving and punching anyone that gets too close to his boy. Jack takes a look at the wound, and even though the horror only flashes there for a second, Heather catches it, catches it cold.
Sawyer's eyes meet hers before and they are filled with guilt and despair. She breaks the contact, can't bare it.
"He must have been following us, and a boar gored him. Must have been a big one too—the tracks all around him were huge," Locke's voice is not it's usual calm, but shaking and weak. Michael holds Walt's hand mumbling incoherent things and sobbing.
Heather has been watching Jack, and what she has seen is not reassuring; there is nothing he can do to save Walt, the chances are impossible. He will try, of course, but there is no hope in him, only desperation. A few bystanders get too close to take a look, and Sawyer quickly steps in front of them, none-too-gently pushing them back.
A steady fear is rising in Heather, high above even the terror and panic.
"Jack?" She croaks, and he looks to her, and she sees him as a human, not as the doctor, not as the saint. Her throat is hoarse and sore. "Jack?"
"What?"
"I have to do this."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm sorry. This is going to hurt." With that, Heather takes his wrist, and pushes--she focuses on all the rituals, all the tribes, the medicine men and women. Lastly she sends him the image that eventually landed her on the damned island itself: the healing. She senses him trying to pull away (because having someone force their memories into your mind cannot be a pleasant feeling), but she doesn't let go until it's all there, willing him to see and understand, knowing that he'll have to overcome his hard-line devotion to practicality. When she lets him go, he backs away as if shocked—Locke is watching her with suspicion. "You can't help him Jack. I can." Her voice is like steel now, undeniable. "But I have to start now." He is afraid, terrified of what she has shown him, but there is an ounce of understanding—an understanding that his heart accepts, that his gut agrees with, but his doctor's mind refuses to believe.
"Can you?"
"I need to try."
"What do you need?" He asks, determined to put himself to use, a lifetime of training urging him to do whatever he can.
"A torch, and water. And a screen when you can… everyone watching isn't going to help." Without questions, Jack stands, jogs to go get what she asked for—Locke goes for the tarp that has served as Jack's operating station. She can hear Sawyer glue himself to Jack, running to help. Within moments Heather has what she asked for. She sets the torch into the ground next to her, and scoots close to Walt, crossing her legs Indian fashion; leaning forward, she takes Michael's hand, and for the first time since they came back he actually sees her.
"Michael, I'm going to do everything I can. I swear it. But you have to let him go for now." He looks at her like she's crazy, and she supposes that she must sound that way. When Michael doesn't react, Sawyer (who has now added one more person to the behind the scenes population) starts—but with only the slightest turn of her head, he stops again. "Please, Michael." She stares deep into his eyes, her mouth drawn into a thin line in her determination, preparing herself for what must be done.
And then, surprising them all, Michael sets Walt's hand down on the boy's feverishly panting chest, and sits back, silent.
"Walt?" She is close to him, speaking to him in a soft but firm tone. With it, Heather opens her mind to him, gently as she can. He seems to try to form words, but she tells him (internally) not to. "Relax. Do you see the torch?" There is a pause, no real reaction from him, at least not to the others—they don't hear what she does. "Good. Focus on that for me, okay? You don't have to think about anything, all you have to do is keep that torch burning, all right?" Another pause. "All right." Heather takes a deep breath, and using the hunting knife still at her hip, cuts away the boys shirt, where underneath is a gnarled mass of flesh—Michael whimpers and she hears Sawyer grunt, looking away.
"Jack, you must give Walt water, only a little at a time, but about every forty or so minutes. It'll help."
Sitting back for a moment, Heather turns her head, looking directly at Sawyer. "You… you need to leave." His mouth opens in protest, but she looks down to the ground and though he stiffens, he takes it as well as possible, and goes beyond the screen. Locke, as if knowing when to take his cue, exits as well.
Heather turns to Jack, taking her last full breath, riding the calm before the storm. "No matter what, do not move me or stop me, or let anyone else." It's clear by her tone that this is the true reason she sent Sawyer out. And Jack is grimacing, wondering what they're getting into. "Don't stop me. Promise me Jack."
"I promise." His voice is dry and emotional. She blinks hard a few times, but does not cry, goes back to Walt.
"Walt, you need to work with me. It's going to be a little bit scary, but I'm always here Walt. You know what I said about card tricks? That a magician never reveals his secrets? Forget that. Nothing can be a secret Walt."
Open, She tells him privately, followed by a flash of emotions and pictures, the taste of sweetness and the feel of warm sunshine, small pleasantries that can't begin to cover the invasiveness of what she's about to do. Open, sweetheart.
He does.
She does not lay her hands directly unto his mangled flesh, but above it. Her eyes roll whites and then close behind their lids. Darkness folds over them both, and immediately Jack knows that this is something far removed from his expertise.