Notes:
Ok, I remembered this time that I have to write my OOC notes in the story itself ;) Smooth move on my part, new to this site. Many thanks to those who have reviewed (Feyfangirl). Many thanks for following along this far ;) Enjoy the next installment! If you have comments, suggestions or complaints, feel free to review or PM - I'm open to (and thrive on) feedback!
-Juls
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Chapter 4: Deliberation
John's fever, despite the administration of antipyretics, remained steady at 40 C. Helen wrung the cool towel out into the bowl of water and dabbed it on his forehead with her right hand. In her left, she scanned once more over the blood tests that she had conducted thus far. Balancing the tablet on her lap, she swiped her fingers across the screen, opening the next page of results. His platelet and white blood cell counts were well below normal, his fever was soaring and his pulse had fluctuated between high and dangerously high.
He had slept for the last three hours. Magnus had finished evening rounds of the Sanctuary and had settled in for the night at his side. It was as much for his comfort as it was for her own, still uncertain as to his motives and condition. One thing was known - whatever he had he was not contagious. Past experiences, however, dictated she keep him in the quarantined room.
Placing the tablet down, she stood and sighed softly. The diagnostic results were inconclusive as of yet – his condition could be a viral infection, a drug overdose, a thyroid disorder or any of a number of known illnesses, not to mention the list of innumerable unknowns. She decided to wait for the system to run a full body scan; after that she would have a better idea of where to begin her research.
Standing, she turned her full attention to John Druitt. Never had she imagined that one human being could cause such visceral turmoil at a glance – antagonism, trepidation, angst, desire, resentment, panic, disappointment, confusion, care. Despite the ocean of emotions that she kept buried, only one had managed to bubble to the surface in this moment and that was concern. Only once before had she seen him in such an assailable state and her memory drifted momentarily to Cambodia.
As she gently pressed the washcloth onto his forehead, she wondered what could have happened to cause him to retreat here. There was a litany of questions, all betraying her stoic mien of logic and control. Was this just an elaborate ploy? Was he really as vulnerable as he appeared? Was she his only sanctuary after all these years? Could she afford to let her guard down? At their last meeting in Hollow Earth, he made it clear that all debts were paid in full. He stated that he owed her nothing.
It had taken over a century for Helen to come to terms with the brutal acts that his hands had committed. In the past, she had clinically rationalized it by diagnosing him as a psychopath, induced by the source blood's infusion with underlying, preexisting homicidal tendencies. More recently, with Will's support, she had concluded this was more an amalgamation of depersonalization and dissociative identity disorders. But even that was inaccurate, since there was actually an external, yet internal, force driving the homicidal rage. In the last year it had been revealed that when the malignant energy being that resided in him is excised, John can be seemingly restored to his former self. Could she afford to trust his feverish claim that the beast had been excised? It wasn't her safety that she was concerned with, she could handle herself; but it wasn't she that had paid the price in the past.
Her eyes glanced at the scar that dressed his right cheek. A would that she herself had inflicted.
Helen walked along the cobblestone, her heels sounding her approach in the eerie quiet mist. London had been terrorized of late but she was heading to put an end to the hunt. She had followed him and he had chosen his next victim. She inhaled sharply. The last shreds of doubt were flushed away as she heard the near stealth sound of his rapier being unsheathed.
The scene replayed in her mind. After a century and a half, the dialogue was inconsequential. She had offered help but he was unreachable. Her heart raced perceptibly as the incident echoed in her mind.
She cocked the pistol and aimed it at the man who had been her fiancé only weeks before. The ultimatum was given. He fabricated hope of escape in front of the woman he had chosen. Three rancorous seconds passed. He sliced her neck with his blade. Before the first drop of blood fell, Helen pulled the trigger. There was a crimson flash. He was gone.
While the sanguine scene had haunted her in her youth, the more recent image of John willingly reabsorbing the malevolent energy creature after a century of uncharacteristic blood lust and self-imprisonment superseded her Whitechapel nightmare.
He had sacrificed his freedom to save her sanctuary.
"John," she muttered softly, averting her eyes from the scar on his cheek as she wrung out the towel and returned it to the wash bin. "What is going on?" She placed her hand on his chest in an uncharacteristic attempt to glean something of his intentions. Instead she felt the rapid beating of his heart and labored breathing. Something inside told her that this was a vulnerability that was more than atypical for Victorian era bred John Druitt.
Yielding to compassion, Helen returned to her seat at the side of his bed. Resting her head on his shoulder, she held his hand gently in hers and let exhaustion take over.