Necessary Faith
By Alecto Perdita
Chapter 7 - Ante bellum
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Non-descriptive mention of child abuse
Posted: May 4, 2012
Days quickly become weeks, and weeks transform into months as they follow the trail of clues in a circuitous route across the British Isle. Almost the entirety of February and March are spent in and around Manchester, where their initial investigation is sidetracked by a long string of Changeling abductions. They investigate, they hunt, and they help anyone in need that stumbles into their path. The work is fulfilling, and he and Mary continue to grow closer.
Mary used to be a teacher. It doesn't really bring much to their new shared life on the road. But she is much more tech savvy than John. He would be lost without her to take the lead in all things technological.
John used to be a soldier and, perhaps more importantly, the live-in assistant of the world's only consulting detective. His experience ends up saving them from tight situations on more than a few jobs.
But the greatest weapon that they both wield is a cloak of unassuming normality—she in her sweet but muscled petite form and he in his deceitful jumpers. They wield it so well that they warrant barely a memory in the many towns and villages they passed through. They play the married couple sometimes, each of their ring fingers donning rings they picked up at an estate sale. Sometimes, they are the ecstatic and newly engaged couple. Mary wears the ring she'd otherwise have around her neck, and the fondness and longing with which she gazes at the small inset stone is real. John knows she isn't thinking of him when she does that, and he prefers it that way. Other times they were simply partners in business and work, lying their way rather adeptly around police barriers and past crime scene tape.
They always book a single room between the two of them, as they need to carefully budget their expenses. But when they can't get two beds, they share the one while sleeping head to toe. He expected to have nightmares more often—he still does once in a blue moon. But it turns out that having another warm body next to him and working himself to physical exhaustion are enough on most nights.
He cares for Mary, worries about her when they split up. He even comes to the conclusion that he does, in fact, love her.
He's just not in love with her.
She threads her fingers through his and squeezes his hand. They're sitting side-by-side on top of the comforter in a bed and breakfast in Oxford. His thumb absently rubs circles around the small scar on the back of her hand.
"I know," she breathes, knowing shining in her bright blue eyes. "I love you too, John."
Her other hand grasps at her necklace.
But that's all they needed or wanted from each other: comforting affection and a steady partnership. Together, they tear—shooting, salting and burning, and exorcising—across Britain and make a name (names actually, as they make extensive use of aliases) for themselves.
-x-x-x-
The first time that John learns about crossroad demons is at another hunter's house in Kent, where a group of them are preparing to take on vampire nest in the next town over. He is reading through a book entitled The Classification of Demons, that he borrowed from Keith, their host. His mind immediately becomes blank as he takes in the words on the page.
A deal.
A contract.
A kiss.
Mary sweeps into the guest bedroom they are sharing, her hair still wet from her shower. "John?"
He doesn't answer her, still unable to tear his eyes away from the page and from memorizing the list of ingredients needed in the summoning ritual.
She moves closer and freezes. The stillness of her body finally forces him to look up at her. Her face is ashen white, and her eyes are glued to the book. When she meets his gaze again, he knows that she knows what he's thinking. It's the next part that catches him by surprise.
Mary rips the book from his lap as her open palm strikes his cheek. The flying volume hits a wall somewhere behind her. The force of her slap snaps John's head to the side as stars momentarily explode in his vision. He remains dazed as he tries to process the stinging pain on his face and the rage he can feel rolling off her in waves. He doesn't move his head, and keeps his face turned. So she plants a hand on each of his cheeks and forces him to look into her eyes.
Mary shakes, full of fear and grief, as she speaks, "You listen to me, John Watson. I know what you're thinking, but your immortal soul isn't worth that. He wouldn't want you to do that for him. It's not worth it. Please let him rest in peace."
John wants to protest. He wants to rage. To him, the rest of eternity is well worth the trade for ten more years with Sherlock Holmes. Hell, he's even be willing to forgo the standard ten-year contract and give his soul for Sherlock now. Sacrifice (self-sacrifice; Queen and country; brothers-in-arms; SherlockSherlockSherlock) isn't new in John's book. How can his measly soul be worth more than Sherlock's?
It's not. It can't be.
Because Sherlock is so much of a greater man.
And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.
"You don't understand—"
"But I do!" She cuts in fiercely and presses her forehead against his, so close that they can almost kiss. "I know the temptation, but we can't."
"It hurts..."
To be without him; to laugh without him; to run without him; to live without him...
The pain inside wretches and bubbles to the surface. After a long moment, he finally realizes the wetness coursing down his cheeks is his own tears. He hasn't cried in almost a year.
She throws her arms around his neck and they sink back into the bed. Between their embrace, he can feel the sharp edges of her ring digging into his sternum.
"Please don't leave me, John. I can't lose anyone else."
Through the night, they cling to each other, drowning in the inescapable sorrow of both of their losses.
-x-x-x-
John's right leg has been throbbing all day with a familiar sort of pain. It started with a slight twinge in the morning, but he can barely walk without leaning on a wall for support by end of the evening. It put a bit of a damper on that night's hunt. But John is stubborn, Mary is determined, and their window of opportunity is closing fast.
It feels like a bit like a cruel joke that the organizers of their little scavenger hunt would nudge them in this direction.
Hauntings aren't always daunting experiences with empowered and angry spirits. Sometimes they're death omens, sometimes they're not even aware that they've passed on. And there isn't always a corpse or haunted object to salt and burn. Cremation tends to throw a wrench in the works more often than hunters like to admit.
Most hunters wouldn't bother with this type—they'd wait for the years to turn the ghost bitter and menacing first before making a move.
But he and Mary aren't like most hunters. Even if this wasn't set as their next task by that sodding website, neither of them are ones to walk away from people or even ghosts in need of saving.
Mary approaches the child first. She's better suited to make first contact, being both as a woman and one used to dealing with children. John leans back against the wall and attempts to take the weight off his bad leg.
"Hello, I'm Mary. What's your name?"
The ghost of an eight-year-old boy fixes his wide-eyed stare on her, his eyes a misty gray and his short hair shining like a raven's wing. His gaze flickers over to John for a moment before resettling on Mary's face. "Benjamin, Ben."
She smiles, giving off waves of warmth and comfort. "Nice to meet you, Ben. That's my friend, John. We're here to help you."
The boy perks slightly at her words with hope shining on his face. "You'll help me find my mummy? I keep calling for her, but she won't answer." His expression falls into acute despair.
"It's a big house."
"Will you help me look for her?"
He and Mary exchange significant looks across the room. They have no reason to believe Ben might be malicious. Any injuries resulting from meeting Ben were usually because of running around an abandoned manor house that's been falling apart for the last forty years.
"Alright, sweetheart. But you have to promise to hold my hand and not run off, alright?" She extends a hand slowly to the child.
Ben nods hesitantly and folds his smaller hand into Mary's. They pick their way around a broken bed to reach John standing on the other side of the room. He holds the door open and they slip out into the dark hallway with torches in hand. The only sounds are their footfall and the noise from an old house settling. Ben presses his body close against Mary's side, his gaze darting around nervously. John limps and trails behind them.
"What's wrong with John's leg?" the boy asks after looking over his shoulder at John.
John takes the opportunity to speak for himself. "I came back from the war with it."
Ben's eyes widen at the word "war." The boy stares at John for a few moments, and John tries not to squirm at the child's curiosity. "But you didn't hurt your leg. It's your shoulders."
For once, John isn't caught off-guard by such an accurate observation. Maybe he's inundated after Sherlock, but he also knows ghosts just have preternatural knowledge sometimes.
"Nope, I didn't actually injure my leg, but it still hurts all the same. It's a psychosomatic limp." Prompted then by Ben's confused expression, John taps a finger against his temple and adds, "It's in my head."
"Oh, like the voices," the ghost boy whispers to no one in particular with a glazed expression.
Neither he nor Mary was sure if Ben had been mentally ill or possibly psychic in life. The records they searched are spotty at best and any attempts at diagnostics back then would be ten times worse.
When Ben doesn't draw away, Mary places an arm around his thin shoulders. "It's okay, we're not going to hurt you, Ben. It wasn't right, the way your father treated you."
The boy tightly fists Mary's blouse. "He said he had to beat the devil out of me. There was something wrong with me."
John approaches where the other two had stopped in the middle of the hall. "No, Ben. What you needed was help. Mary and I would like to help you."
"I know," Ben forces his attention to the rotting floorboard after examining each of them for several moments. "You're nice people. Not like the other people that usually come here."
That's as good an opening as any other.
"Have other people been here recently, Ben? Other not so nice people?" John needs to word his questions very carefully.
The boy nods. Suddenly he looks so much smaller than before, like he's trying to shrink in on himself. "A woman was here last month. She wasn't very nice. She wouldn't help me find my mummy. She just yelled at me and told me to go away, said I would regret it if I didn't leave her alone."
"Did you notice anything strange about her? Like if she had really black eyes or something like that?"
Ben shakes his head and then wrinkles his nose. "She smelled funny though, like oils and incenses."
"What was she doing?"
"She was hiding something, a small wooden box."
"Can you show us?"
Without needing any other encouragement, the boy nods and grabs Mary hand again. He leads them down the hallway to what used to be the main foyer and up the spiral staircases to the second floor. Ben stops short in front of a heavy mahogany door.
"She was in Father's study for a long time. But I'm not supposed to go in there." A shudder racks the boy's small frame.
John reaches out and palms one of Ben's shoulders gently. "Don't worry. You don't have to go in, we'll keep the door open so you can still see us from the hallway. Ready, Mary?"
She's already drawn her revolver and pressed against one side of the door frame. "Ready?"
The door falls open with a twist of the knob, creaking and moaning as it swings back on rusty hinges. Limp temporarily forgotten, John scans the room with his Browning still trained in front of him. He doesn't see any obvious signs of ritual or spellcasting, but so much of the interior is still covered in debris. He signals for Mary to wait for a moment longer and enters the room at first. After almost a minute of standing just across the threshold, John allows himself to relax slightly.
Mary tromps into room behind him after sparing Ben a few words of encouragement. She heads straight for the collapsed desk sitting in the middle of the room and starts going through the drawers. Then John spots it, the corner of a ratty rug where there's too little dust compared to everything else. He allows himself to bask in the warm glow of satisfaction; even if it was the kind of thing Sherlock would have noticed in almost an instant.
They pry back the loose floorboard underneath and find a small wooden box sitting in the crawlspace. Mary rips off the lid and lets out a loud whoop when they see the envelope within. She pockets the letter and races over to hug Ben.
"Thank you! You did very well, Ben."
The boy is wearing an expression of slight shock as he meets John's eyes over Mary's shoulder. He silently mouths the question, "Good?"
John smiles softly and nods.
Mary pulls away and cradles the boy's cheeks in her palms. "We do want to help you, Ben. You're a good boy no matter what anyone says. But you need to understand that your mum's not around anymore. She left a long time ago."
Ben turns his eyes downcast. "I know. I'm different now, different from before. I've been stuck here for a very long time."
"You won't find your mum here, but if you let go, you may see her again."
"I'm scared. What if I go someplace bad?" The child's face is frozen in terror.
Mary presses her lips against his forehead. "Never, you could never. You're too good and smart for that. I know you've been lonely for a long time, it must have hurt. You don't need to hurt anymore. You'll go somewhere better than this."
"You really think so?"
"Yes, because you deserve to, sweetheart. You don't need to stay here or be alone anymore."
Ben throws his arms around her and buries his face in her blouse. "Thank you, Mary, John. Thank you for coming to get me." Despite the underlying tremor, his voice is much stronger and surer now.
John and Mary blink in unison, and Ben is gone. They wait for several moments; there is nothing except silence. John's limp flares up again, sending him falling against a crumbling bookshelf. Mary lends him a shoulder to lean against as they make the long and painful journey to the front door. When he's settled back in the car parked outside, he gropes around for his phone in the dark.
The time is 1:42 AM on May 5th.
John had forgotten about the one year anniversary of Sherlock's jump, and he's miles and miles away from London.
When John wakes up in the next morning in his bed at the Travelodge, the limp is gone as suddenly as it had reappeared.
-x-x-x-
His first run-in with a demon, an honest-to-God demon, occurs just two weeks later. The encounter catches them both completely by surprise and leaves him with a fractured wrist (non-dominant hand) and two cracked ribs (vertebrosternal ribs III and IV). Mary manages to walk away with just a minor concussion. They're lucky that the demon was only interested in thrashing them against the wall for a bit, rather than disemboweling them. It gets away, but he and Mary also get to leave in one piece—mostly.
Mary insists they both go to the hospital.
John is drugged and kept overnight for observations. She almost never leaves his bedside in the entire time. Neither of them is thrilled with the experience.
As Mary works on both their discharge forms at the nurse's station outside, John's phone announces the receipt of a new text. It's from Lestrade.
I heard from a mutual friend that you're in a hospital in Selby. Is everything alright?
A shiver runs down his spine. "Mutual friend"? Mycroft? Is Mycroft still watching him? Why the hell would Mycroft still be watching him?
In that moment, he resolves to keep himself out of hospitals and NHS paperwork whenever possible.
John taps out a short message in reply and hopes it will put the matter to rest.
I'm fine.
Thankfully, Mary doesn't ask any questions when he asks if they can leave town a day earlier than planned.
-x-x-x-
According to everyone-in-the-know's best estimate, there are currently 23 families with an active hunter legacy going back at least three generations in Great Britain (excluding Ireland, where they proudly boast to have 28). Not everyone in these families tend to become hunters themselves, but most of them do know the basics. Older members retire if they survive the lifestyle long enough, but even then they never fully pull out of the game. Mary is a prime example of someone coming from a hunter family. There are also the people like John, the new blood, numbering at about two dozens or more. Then, there are the people who have heard stories and those people or their loved ones that have been saved by hunters. It's hard to go back to living normal lives once you've seen the other side of the coin.
What that means is there is a relatively small but close-knit network of hunters, their families, associates, occasional baddies that are not actually bad (like the rumors of several vampire nests that actually sustain themselves on animal blood alone), and the people who remember owing their lives to a hunter's work spread across Britain. Even though that last category of people do not or will not hunt themselves, they are just as important as the former. Because they are the ones with full-time employment and the normal lives that can provide alibis for hunters—the ones, when in a position of authority, who are willing to turn a blind eye so that hunters can properly do their work.
That's not to say they're all one big happy family either. They're all still human beings (mostly) with flaws and whims, and not everyone is as noble as Mary. John can already name a few known rivalries between specific hunters or different schools of thought regarding hunting. Information is made all the more valuable through scarcity, and all but the most bullheaded of hunters eventually share what they know in the face of uncertain doom (though usually at a steep price).
They are the country's shadow army against the forces of darkness. Having served himself, John can safely say they are not the most well-equipped army either.
And something has changed in the past year, making the whole network high-strung and wary with vigilance. John can only dredge up a sense of anticipation, like the calm before a storm. But to Mary, for whom this has been a way of life for so long? She had past experiences to compare with, and could probably pinpoint actual shifts in trends and patterns.
There are whispers that the entire world is on the brink of something big. Stories from contacts across the Atlantic and in continental Europe only serve to further fuel speculation.
Demon possessions are on the rapid rise. More and more hunters are now trading stories about demonic encounters and their efforts to exorcise them. Every hunter on the road starts carrying a flask of holy water—he and Mary are no exception. They all learn to draw a devil's trap and post fliers with the symbol on billboards at the pubs in towns where they encounter demons. As time passes, the number of signs they encounter increases exponentially.
By early July, nine hunters have been killed on the job. Everyone in the know is on edge. They are either carrying anti-possession charms, or the more dedicated are getting the symbol tattooed onto their own bodies.
It feels a bit like getting ready for war.
Mary still wears her charm pendant, but has the symbol tattooed on the center of her back. It'll be visible whenever she wears a tank top.
John gets his done under his right collarbone. The dark ink stands out in stark contrast against the white of his skin, a somewhat twisted and stylized mirror image of the starburst scar on his left shoulder.
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