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The illness was unexpected. It started with the peasants and the soldiers, as usual; their living conditions hardly giving them a chance. From there it spread, person to person, with a rapidity that was surprising, touching everyone from the barefoot children in the hovels to the Dons in their haciendas. Methos, currently living under the name Dr Robert Helm, knew he was safe from it, as he was safe from all infections and illnesses. No one - in the centuries he had practised medicine, off and on - had ever wondered why their doctor never succumbed to sickness. Perhaps they thought such robust immunity was what made a good doctor. What he was prone to, however, especially when there was only one doctor for a community this size (in terms of distance, not yet population), was exhaustion.

Colonel Montoya had sent for him, afraid he had caught the infection, too. With the tail of his eye the previous day, Methos had seen a man beg on his knees to be free from the call of soldiery. Most of the peasants did object to being enlisted, but not so violently - the pay was regular, afterall, not like farming. A few quiet questions revealed the man - beaten by Grisham for good measure - had a wife and children. The good Doctor Helm would probably hope Montoya did have the fever, had caught it from the men he had forced into his ranks. Methos wondered if perhaps it wasn't better to stick with the devil you knew.

"Breathe deeply," he instructed, listening as the Colonel tried. His mind was elsewhere, with his other patients, the ones who definately had the fever. Also it was with his own history. This scientific age was certainly better for the practice of medicine; drugs that could actually heal, equipment that made reliable diagnosis possible. Much better than staring at beakers of piss.
"Again."
"Where is my medicine?" demanded Montoya, and Methos pulled his attention sharply back,
"Its gone."
"Gone? Gone where?"
"To the sick, oddly enough," he tried to continue his examination, but Montoya was behaving childishly,
"You treat peasants before you treat your dying commander?" he exclaimed. Methos was used to patients like this - military men, particularly, who would take any wound in their stride, but bleat like sheep should they be struck with a common illness, "You're not dying, Colonel," he sighed, "At least not today. I can't even be sure you have the fever yet."
"Don't you dare turn your back on me!" Methos had done all he could at this point, and was preparing to leave. After all, if he stayed, he could hardly prepare the drug Montoya and the others would need. He sighed again but did not turn, "I will make some more medicine, you can have it as soon as it's ready." Sometimes he felt more like a nursery maid than a doctor.

"You just remember this," began the Colonel. Ah, the threat Methos had expected. The man was as easy to read as a book. "Your duty is to me, and to me alone."
"Death does not play favourites, Colonel, and neither do I," he was glad the Colonel was behind him. Methos hoped he kept the tiny smile out of his voice. He knew death in ways Montoya never would, never could; he wouldn't live long enough. He was barely listening as the mortal tried to have the last word, "As you rightly say, doctor, death is nobody's servant. You, however, are." He summoned guards, placed Helm under house arrest as his 'personal physician'. Well, hopefully the guards would keep other time-wasters from his door. And they wouldn't be a problem if he truly needed to get to the sick.

The guards did make it quieter, for a while. The inhabitants of Santa Helena tended not to cross their colonel. Except for brigands like the Queen of Swords. His hands busy, Methos mused on the chemical he was distilling. In a less scientific age, he would have simply prescribed chewing the bark itself, which may have taken longer and had higher risks of damage to the liver, but would have provided a similar relief. Now, he would be run out of town as a quack for suggesting such a thing, and anyone who did try it would probably think themselves out of any benefit. He shook his head slightly, wondering - not for the first time - at the foolishness of mortals.

Of course, the guards did not keep Montoya from bothering him. The peasant-soldier blundered in to his office - Methos was mildly surprised the man didn't destroy anything before demanding, "Colonel Montoya wants you."
"I'm working," he responded calmly, which was, afterall, what Montoya wanted him to do.
"It's not a request." Methos really didn't need this, and he felt not the slightest concern for the soldier's orders, particularly when he glanced up and found himself looking into the barrel of a gun. "Does the Colonel want me in attendance or in a coffin? Hmm?" He disarmed the man without a second thought and dumped the weapon in a convenient pot of water. "Thank the Colonel for his invitation." He heard the sword drawn, which honestly frightened him more, but he wasn't going to let that show, "Would you like to lose your sword as well? Tell him I'll look in as soon as I can." The guard, deciding discretion was the better part of valour, retreated through the door.

Methos didn't like dying. Even knowing he would come back, he tended to avoid situations that were nominally dangerous. It was awkward and annoying to either have to disappear unexpectedly, or worse, to have to explain miraculous survivals. The soldier was never really a danger to him - even out of practise he was fairly certain he was better than that fool - but it did make him think. Especially since his own sword had been out of reach. Once this plague had run it's course, and he'd caught up on his sleep, he really needed to start building his next identity. That certainty was reinforced later that evening. Who would have thought walking across the square in a little, out of the way place like this would be so dangerous? Methos had heard his attacker before he struck, but at least he hadn't felt him, or anyone else. He was confident he would recover consciousness with his head still attached. And that was a comfort even if he had to begin again with the salicylic acid. Dr Helm may have had reflexes trained as, among other things, one of Wellington's exploring officers, but even he could not have said who hit him in the dark. Unless she herself was sick, Methos could think of no reason the Queen of Swords should steal medicine unless it was to sell it back. Or to kill someone who needed it.

He could really grow to hate willow bark. Methos decided Dr Helm needed to send away for a pharmacist to join his practice, or to move to a larger town that already had one. The woman who entered his office was a beautiful as she was irritating and she certainly wasn't a pharmacist. Perhaps he'd stay anyway, at least for a while, "There's a sound that's made when a knuckle encounters wood. It's customarily used before entering. I don't know if you've ever heard of it - it's called 'knocking'." She appeared to take no notice of his irritation, to be oblivious,
"Really doctor? I must try it sometime. How's the medicine coming?" Methos had no idea what she was looking for, or at, he just wanted her out of the way. The sooner he could deal with their beloved colonel, the less likely his guards were to shoot him, and the better chance he could continue hiding in Santa Helena. Methos was sure the woman had said more, he may have snapped at her - he wasn't sure. He also didn't care.

The explosion killed Dr Helm instantly. He should have been paying more attention, Methos decided later. Of course, he could not have paid attention to anything other than the extremely delicate instrumentation at just that point in the process, but that was the benefit of hindsight. His shuddering in-drawn breath was full of smoke, and five thousand years of self-preservation instincts drove him out the door shouting, "Get water! Get water! Come on!" He had no interest in pretending to remain a corpse in order to be burned alive. "No, senorita! It's too dangerous!" She had actually tried to get past him, into the fire.
"The medicine!" she cried. It was Senorita Alvarado.
"It's gone," he declared, instead focusing on directing villagers with buckets to fight the blaze. Grisham ambled over, made no offer to assist instead suggesting,
"Be careful with your chemicals, doctor." Methos' mind had caught up with his body now, and he wondered why the man responsible for maintaining the town's safety was so unconcerned, "There was nothing in there that would cause an explosion." He also wondered at the change in Senorita Alvarado from vacuous young woman to attempted selfless heroine. Grisham did not seem to appreciate the challenge in Helm's tone, "Well, I guess we'll just call it an unlucky accident, then. Excuse me."

Later, sifting through the wreckage of his office, Methos found the missing piece of information. It wasn't the Queen who was trying to thwart his efforts at saving lives. After he figured that out, it was simply a matter of walking through to the conclusion. Convince Montoya. Follow Grisham. Locate the salicylic acid. Perhaps he ought not to have been so flashy with Grisham and the Queen, but he had had a moment of weakness. Methos admitted to himself he was tired of being written off as 'not a killer'. He was a killer. He was Death. Just because he had grown tired of riding out of the sun to destroy someone's world, didn't mean he was no longer capable of formulating a plan, or firing a pistol. And just because he was capable of firing a pistol, didn't mean he was necessarily going to admit all his skills.

When the Queen of Swords took the vial of medicine from his hand he thought for a moment it had all been for nothing. That he had been wrong about Grisham, about everything. Montoya had told him she was a brigand, and he had, for a moment, thought the Spaniard wrong. Then she took only a pinch, "For a friend," and he was surprised and absurdly grateful - most of the sick did not have time for him to make more, and while Methos was more than accustomed to death, unnecessary death was an offense to the healer he was trying to be. "Thank you."
"Thank you. That was a remarkable shot, doctor." There was something about her that meant he couldn't resist replying,
"I'll send you my bill in the morning."

He made sure all his patients - not just the colonel, not just the soldiers, all - were treated in due time. Once the recoveries had started, he felt a lot better about his earlier childishness. Methos also decided the local Spanish community's obsession with parties was ludicrous. It wasn't that he disliked parties, he assured himself, rather that two parties in his honour in a matter of - what had it been, days? Weeks? Too little time, anyway - drew far too much attention. Methos had learned that survival involved not being noticed. Even the Horsemen had eventually drawn those obsessed with hunting them down, and it only took one lucky thrust to render even an Immortal unable to fight back, and heads are much simpler trophies to carry than whole bodies. Wishing for good beer, he poured himself a glass of wine and thanked whatever gods were still listening for the - hopefully permanent - dissolution of the Four Horsemen.

Methos could live with this kind of party - decent food, relative cool and no one drawing undue attention to him. Unfortunately, Montoya intervened. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?," he held up a glass, "To a man who risked his life to make sure everyone received... what was that concoction, doctor?" Methos had turned away, not really wanting his praises sung just now and aware how little the 'risk' had really been. "Salicylic acid, from willow bark."
"To Doctor Helm, who's bark is much better than his bite." The assembled worthies duly tittered and Montoya commanded, "Music!"

Avoiding as many of the Dons as possible, Methos found his way around to Senorita Alvarado's gypsy woman. He had been, afterall, god-king pharaoh and slave boy and everything in-between; talking with servants was hardly beneath him, and he wanted to know more about this strange change from self-absorbed to selfless. He had recalled their conversation in his office, before the explosion, and it was this woman's illness that had prompted it. Methos did not get very far with his subtle enquiries before the woman herself appeared, "Senorita." Marta included her mistress in the conversation,
"The doctor informs me it was actually the Queen of Swords who recovered the medicine for him." The young lady looked surprised,
"The Queen of Swords?"
"Yes," credit where it was due, and any distraction from the idea of him being someone who could fight was welcome.
"Is that true?" Her incrudulity was amusing to watch.
"Yes, it is."
"But I thought she was a criminal?" So had he, come to think of it. Not that he objected to criminality as much as the rich senorita apparently,
"Who knows what goes on in her mind?" She smiled a strange smile, a teasing smile,
"Come on doctor, what do you think?" Methos realised he did not have all the pieces to this puzzle and it might be best to withdraw,
"I think it's best never to rush to a diagnosis. Ladies," he excused himself. He did not catch the look shared between the woman and her mistress, but he might have retreated all the swifter if he had.

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