Conduit
At this bald statement, John turns slightly away, his face paling. Sherlock sees his jaw tighten in a spasm of emotion: fear, confusion, a flash of uncontrollable terror. They are still standing in the sitting room, and the healing magic remains taut and coiled around John's arm.
Sherlock tries to raise his hand, attempting to pull the magic free, but he finds he cannot: the streamers only tighten around John's arm, even refuse to leave the tips of Sherlock's fingers. He frowns in dismay. This sensation is horribly strange, like having several whip-thin, abnormally-coloured hairs growing from his fingers. It doesn't hurt when he pulls, but the streamers don't fall away, either.
"John," he says, pulling gently at the streamers again. They remain immobile. "John. John."
The other man is staring without expression at the dark window, seemingly oblivious. His shoulders are tensed; his hand is locked around the streamers, and the other is pinioned at his side, caught in a white-knuckled fist.
Sherlock says, very softly, "John."
John blinks.
Then he realizes, and he releases the handful of streamers. Sherlock steps back. The magic dangling from his fingers falls away into nothing, gone before the thin bluish streamers finish wafting to the floor.
John staggers. It is very slight, and Sherlock would not even have heard it if he wasn't looking, but John's step falters as he moves away. He teeters momentarily in his lost balance, and Sherlock immediately catches hold of his elbow. His friend's skin is very cold.
"Sit down," Sherlock says sharply. "Here, sit down." He guides John to the sofa.
John sinks precariously onto the edge of the sofa, drops his head into his hands.
Sherlock looks him over, places his violin on the table, and goes into the kitchen.
When he returns, John has found a sort of equilibrium: he can relax his left hand, and he is able to breathe normally, but he still can't look at Sherlock. He feels the detective's eyes running over his face as he hands John a mug of tea, but John only takes the mug and stares at the gleaming mahogany wood of the coffee table.
He has to explain. He has to apologize. He cannot believe what has happened.
He opens his mouth, unsure of what to say, but Sherlock cuts him off before he can speak.
"No. Drink that first."
John looks at the steaming mug in his hands.
Sherlock moves away to the opposite side of the room, returns dragging his armchair behind him, and John takes a cautious sip of scalding, over-sweetened tea. Honey; too much of it. Sherlock still doesn't know how to make a decent cuppa. He takes another swallow, then another, and finally some sense of calm returns to his spinning, frantic mind. Setting the cup on the table, he looks up into Sherlock's grey eyes.
There is no shock in that all-knowing gaze, no condemnation, no reproval. John considers this.
"You already knew," he says, after a moment.
Sherlock nods gravely. He doesn't seem inclined to speak.
"But-" John begins, and then thinks better of it. Of course he knew; he'd been a fool, an utter fool to think he could hide this massive, appalling secret from the world's only self-made consulting detective. "What gave me away?"
"You don't drink," Sherlock says. "And yet you are always thirsty. You carry small pebbles in your jacket pockets, you never stand too close to people, and you are a doctor."
He holds up one long white finger as John begins to speak. "You thought that your profession would draw suspicion away from your healing power. It did, initially. I only deduced that you were a Withe late last month."
"When?" John bursts out. "How? I thought-"
"You'd hidden all of the signs? Yes, you had," Sherlock agrees, "except for one. The last few weeks I grew suspicious; you haven't been yourself these past days. After noting your daily habits – each innocuous by itself, but when pieced together, almost irrefutable – I thought I'd go through your things for more evidence. In your room, I found these."
He stands up and goes to the bookshelf, pulls a thin, faded copy of 1984 from the bottom shelf. Flipping gently to the last page as John watches in silence, he pulls a much-folded, water-stained slip of paper from the binding.
Sherlock holds up the wafer-thin paper to the light, and seven names stand out against the smudged paper.
"Harry Watson," he reads. "Joanna Morrison. Cooper Dervish, Steven Wells…"
He is about to read the fifth name when he looks up and sees John's face crumple.
Sherlock stops. He crosses the room and drops the paper into John's lap. "My apologies."
"No," John croaks, waving a limp hand. "No, it's not you. Not the paper. I just thought… I never thought-" He gestures weakly to Sherlock, then to the slip of names. "I never thought anyone would find out. And now you're – you're a –"
The unspoken, unspeakable word dies in his throat; he blinks hard and stares past Sherlock's shoulder at the blurring lines of the crammed bookshelf.
"There is nothing shameful in being an Anchor."
His voice is strong, piercing; John can't help but look up at him. "John, you know your power is nothing to be ashamed of. You must know that."
"It's not what I wanted to be," John says hoarsely. "I never wanted to be a Withe."
"And yet you are."
Sherlock says this with perfect equanimity.
John stares up at the detective, at his calm, unlined face. "You can't honestly think that this is nothing to be worried about. I am a Withe, Sherlock – do you know what that means? It means if anyone finds out, there's no telling what will happen to me! To us! You can't understand –"
He breaks off, rises abruptly to his feet. The list of names, the people he has healed, drifts carelessly onto the coffee table.
The consulting detective stands quite still and watches him.
"I never should have come here," John snaps out, fisting his hands at his sides. He closes his eyes, breathing sharply. Then his eyelids flick open and he stares fiercely at Sherlock. "I've put you in danger. If I had known – if I'd told you, or if I'd done something, anything – I've been such an idiot –"
"Oh, shut up," Sherlock snarls, finally fed up with this drivel. "That's enough, John."
John's eyes open wide; he blinks twice. His stomach turns over, then rights itself.
Sherlock nods coolly, sprawls into his armchair and laces his fingers comfortably under his chin. His voice is a relaxed murmur.
"That's better. Do you really think I'd have rejected you as a flatmate if I'd known you were a Withe? Do you honestly believe I'd want to kick you out, or that we're somehow in more danger now than we were before? Sit down and drink your tea. I want to ask you some questions, and I can't do so if you're pacing and shouting. Not to mention you'll have Mrs. Hudson up here in a few minutes."
John swallows hard, looking at him. He sits down.
"Good," Sherlock pronounces, and inclines his head in the direction of John's tea. "Now please do finish your tea. It took me much too long to prepare it. I even had to wash a mug."
There is a distinctive edge to his voice, an undercurrent of light humour that recalls John to himself. He is not being interrogated. He is in 221B, in his flat, speaking to Sherlock Holmes.
Of all people, a sociopathic, misanthropic, misunderstood man like Sherlock should be able to understand his secret, understand his hidden fears, his buried guilt, and his bewildering sense of shame. He is safe here. Here he can lay down his weapons, put aside his armour.
Here, he can stop fighting.
John allows himself to lean against the back of the sofa and finish his too-sweet tea. He allows himself to put the mug aside, to drop his hands into his lap, and he looks across the distance to Sherlock.
Without a trace of dread or panic or distrust, he says, "What do you want to know?"
And Sherlock smiles.