Remedy
part fourThey were lucky.
The village of Newton Magna had suffered quite a few losses from an outbreak of the disease in the weeks and months of panic that had covered all of England. Among the losses were the men who made the local deliveries such as milk and mail, the village midwife and gossip, three working-class families and the good doctor who had been there to diagnose and treat them all. After the purge--a nice way of phrasing murder and arson--the disease had left the village completely.
Sherlock had been right about violent introductions. His deductions on their current state of wellness and overall sustainability were not met with praise or appreciation but rather shotgun barrels in far too steady of hands. But they needed a doctor. The appointed head was a gentleman by the name of Saul Grangerford who's son suffered from asthma and was himself diabetic. It almost wasn't so much a matter of convincing the village to let them in as it was matter of bartering not to be kidnapped. Grangerford took them in under his roof to keep John close at hand, attendant to his dietary needs in a failing supply of insulin, while Sherlock maintained the unpleasant suspicion he was retained solely as future collateral.
It was still a success, though. They slept in beds and ate meals at a table. The Grangerfords gave John their study to practice out of while the community brought in supplies that had been spared from the surgery's purge. Day one saw more cuts in need of stitches and remedies for bellyaches than John had seen in quite some time. It felt good to be needed. It felt very good indeed to know there were men and women whose jobs it was to patrol the streets and keep outsiders and infection beyond the village lands. They were protected. They were cared for. This was their ark.
Out of a sense of obligation, John continued to be an early riser. His first stop was always the kitchen to check on food stores and update his list of acceptable meals and ingredients for the missus of the house who saw to it that her husband's sugar intake remained balanced and controlled. He checked that his study had been undisturbed by the younger Grangerfords, young Buck and adolescent Sophie, who had their individual curiosities towards his practice or indeed in him. There was a certain amount of delicacy involved in avoiding one's proprietor's sixteen year old daughter when generally tied down under a shared roof. And, of course, he had to do so alone as his companion carried on by sleeping long into the afternoon and keeping to his own haunts with hardly a glance spared to the family who was all but ensuring their survival. John had made many an excuse for him in just the few days they'd been there: he was tired from the drive; he used to work nights and was used to sleeping in the day; he was depressed. The latter was less an excuse and far closer to an actual reason. A rural life might offer them survival but it could never offer Sherlock answers. They needed a university, a hospital, a place of scientific research for that which would have all the machines and equipment required to isolate and study whatever protein in his blood was similar to or truly was the viral strain that was wiping out humanity. Such places were population hot-spots; infection rates were high, the death toll higher. Sherlock had been in command of their destination and in the end he'd settled for Newton Magna, safety over answers with the promise of uncertainty. John wished he could argue the sense of it for Sherlock's sake. Still, symptoms started within hours of infection and yet Sherlock had been healthy for days. John almost preferred the ignorance, which gave him peace of mind, to the thoughts that warred somewhere between denial and mortal fear.
He couldn't imagine what it would be like to be in question of one's own life and threat to others. Though there was little John could do or say to make it truly better, there were still some options worth entertaining.
Kitchen checked and study secured save for a few pocketed items, John took back up the stairs of the large house and helped himself to the room located next to his own. The white walls were adorned with hanging landscapes both painted and photographed which, in combination with the lace doyleys and side-table covers, gave the room a distinctly feminine touch despite the robin's egg blue wallpaper below the molded chair rail. It felt like a hotel even as it was meant to be a home. On the bed lay one exposed foot against the fitted sheet and a dark mop of wild hair against the pillowcase, soundless with breath as he carried on with only dreams for company. The sheers over the south-facing window did little against the morning sun already spilling in warmth as well as constant illumination from the clear blue skies. It made everything white burn hazy like watercolor bleeding through penciled outlines. Already the quilted blanket lay kicked off to the foot of the bed, most of it laying against the wood floor so only the sheet remained. It didn't bode well for the rest of the day. They were surely in store for a scorcher.
John unloaded his pocket before sitting down on a bare spot of bed, an aural thermometer kept against his palm even as his stethoscope remained tucked under his shirt to avoid suspicion. He'd hoped the shift of weight would bring Sherlock to consciousness but the man was stubborn even in his sleep. John sighed through his nose as he stroked tangled curls to tuck behind his ear, utility melting to comfort as he followed the path again. Sometimes Sherlock looked angry when he slept. Sometimes the description bordered on angelic. This morning it was the face of a schoolboy dunce with his mouth held ajar against a dampened pillow. John smirked, granting one last stroke through his dark hair to catch any last errant strand that might cause his instrument to tickle.
Upon the slow slide of the plastic cone, Sherlock stirred, rolling his shoulder and ducking his head to give sympathy to the intruded upon orifice. John did not allow him to so easily dislodge it, though, and neither did Sherlock raise so much as a finger to do it himself. It wouldn't take long and even sleeping scientists had to be curious on some level.
The thermometer gave three beeps and to John's expected relief the numbers stopped within two whole digits. "Ninety-eight point six," he read out loud, and slid the instrument away. John held his friend's head with his empty hand and bent his lips to it in a thankful press, lips pursed white rather than extended to kiss the hair that still smelled of soap. And Sherlock let him.
Since the trigger of the red alarm they'd sat feet apart, no touch passing between them, no contact given between even Sherlock's flesh and the food he offered for John to eat. They'd never been particularly tactile, physical contact on an as-needed basis whether it was 'hand me that' or a controlling steer. It was hardly a thing they avoided, but one did not just sit in the jeep and hold their friend's hand to let them know it would be alright. Words were so often less effective than a hand to the shoulder in sympathy or a pat on the back to congratulate success. Anyone could use words but only special people could slip into that physical space that allowed for a pat on the knee instead of 'I'm here for you'. There was no call for touch when sitting in a vehicle, no reason to initiate any sort of contact when packing supplies and filling petrol cans. It still wasn't necessary to touch Sherlock's hair and hug his head between his face and hands. But he knew Sherlock. He knew what fear and isolation looked like in the mask of a man who was used to ignoring both. Sherlock was afraid of his own body and all that John had the power to do was prove that he was not.
Sherlock hummed on a comfortable exhale, the sound vibrating in the hollow of John's own throat. John smirked, sitting up from his steep lean till his elbows no longer creased the linens. "Even if you do have it," he said. "You're not even stage one. Unless you've got plans to have sex with everyone left, right and center or start blood-letting in the kitchen, I say you come downstairs and maybe give me a hand getting a decent surgery put together."
Sherlock smiled with silent laughter as he turned his face into the pillow. "Am I your patient now, John?" he asked, sleep slowly rising from his back in the tension of daylight.
"Nah." John ruffled his hair as he stood, rolling the thermometer back into his pocket to be secreted downstairs once more. "You're my friend."
--
Mrs. Hillary Grangerford, seated beside John for the simple fact that they were both left handed, was a homely woman with dark brown hair patched in grey who smelled of lavender hand soap and lemongrass. There was an earthiness to her that John quite liked, really, even thought it seemed to come with the price of ignorance in certain fields. It was impressive for all the wrong reasons to find her uninformed as to what a carbohydrate was and yet John was sure it would be her books on homeopathy that would be the biggest aid to him in the future. It got a bit old reminding her that sweetness was not a gauge for the glycolic index but overall he found her rather charming if a bit on the quiet side.
Mr. Grangerford more than made up for that. Mustached and boisterous, John half thought him to be a character from a children's story as he laughed at his own remarks and took to beating against tables for emphasis. He was perhaps the most impassioned man John had ever met. When he was happy, he was exuberant; when he was angry, he was furious. He almost had Sherlock beat, truth be told, if not for the fact that Sherlock's skills as an actor at least allowed him to mimic restraint. John was pleased to have only seen Grangerford mad once in the few days they'd been there. It hadn't been a sight worth revisiting. Thick but still well fit for his grey age, he was perhaps one of the last men on Earth John would want to come to blows with in lacking the proper utilities to re-set his own jaw afterwards.
Neither Buck nor Sophie had deigned to dine with them this morning. John was sure it was for the best considering Sherlock's general temperament. It was two less pairs of eyes set to watch Sherlock play with his dry eggs and glare at the over-ripened tomatoes. It wasn't Michelin star cuisine but it was hardly worth the scrutiny. John gave his toes a stepping on under the table as a quiet warning to behave. Sherlock stabbed at his bare ankle with his toenails in retaliation. It was going to be one of those days already.
"Sherlock, was it?" Grangerford asked, mustache clinging slightly to his last bite of egg. "Funny name. Familiar though. Any reason why I should have heard it before?"
Sherlock shrugged, uncharacteristically demure. "Probably not," he said, bushel set wide before his light. He seemed disinterested in impressing their hosts with his famous intellect or tales of their adventures which may have been told even this far from the city. It was annoying in a way to have to downplay the better parts of their past. John understood though. They were outsiders; they weren't to be entirely trusted and all ills would be blamed on them first. Better to have Sherlock as an ace up the sleeve then lay all their cards out from the go.
Grangerford's knife squeaked against the ceramic plate as he ate. "Well, good to see you up and out of that room at any rate. I was beginning to think we'd let the plague in."
Sherlock smiled, thin lipped and acidic, while Grangerford laughed at his own attempted humor with his wife and John adding to the casual chorus of chuckles.
Sophie walked past the doorway, a blur out the corner of John's eyes that her father had been much quicker to see and decipher. "And where are you off to this morning?" he called, bringing the blur back into the doorway as the young girl stepped back between the arch of wooden columns, her short sundress and wide-brimmed hat an all-white flavor of juvenile sophistication.
Sophie gestured towards her dress with an audible eye-roll. "Church," she said.
"On a Thursday?"
She nodded, gently swinging the end of her skirt with her hand. "The vicar said every day is a holy day."
Grangerford scoffed, sitting back with his arms folded over his chest. "The vicar's an idiot," he announced with a voice of authority and no care to any contrary opinion.
Used to the display, Sophie shook her head and continued on her way, smiling at John as she went with a little wave of her fingers.
Sherlock, for the first time since he'd joined them, seemed actually interested in what Mr. Grangerford was saying. John could read it in his body language from the slant of his shoulders to the turn of his chin. Sherlock had found an inconsistency with his observations, some intrigue in the dissonance. Perhaps a bit of life would come back to him through a harmless interrogation. So long as it remained harmless. He leaned aside to better see the man to his left. "That's a rather interesting sentiment for a man who keeps religious iconography is his study," he said, referring to the crucifix between the windows in the room where John now ran his rudimentary surgery. Man's study, man's decor--less likely for it to be put there for the benefit of the missus. "Most people tend to hold tighter to faith in a crisis."
Grangerford seemed somewhat impressed with his astuteness but made no comment on it, instead giving a warm chuckle as he let his fork ring against the plate as he set it down. "Oh, the Lord is my Shepard, make no mistake about that, but Shepherdson is exactly the sort of git you wish came down with the plague just to have the pleasure of putting a buckshot into his skull. The Lord sent the sickness because we're wicked and only the righteous will be saved? Tell that to Mrs. Hardgrove. Wasn't a more saintly woman in village. Took in animals, people, strays of all sorts. Charity was what she lived by and it was charity that killed her. That Shepherdson's nothing but a moron who takes the good book far too literally for my liking. Always has." He beat on the table in time with his impassioned speech, neck growing red as a sure sign of his frustration with the vicar. John made a mental note to ask about family history of high blood pressure the next they conversed on the older gentleman's health. Grangerford pounded on the table again, wide palm flat on the table as though it were the bible itself. "You can all be my witness--I said it now and you'll see me proven right--that false prophet is going to try and amass himself a harem for the godly work of repopulating the world like Noah himself."
Hillary went tense beside John, practically emanating anxiety like an odor as her eyes darted towards the empty archway. "I wish you wouldn't say such things," she said with muscles tight along her jaw.
Grangerford either hadn't noticed or didn't much care that he was upsetting his wife. He at least seemed to understand her worry. "I'm telling you, I don't like Sophie spending any amount of time with them. They're the same people who thought you could pray away the plague if you were truly saved. You could hear the idiots who believed him screaming in the night. Then suddenly the plague was a sign that the devil was in you, corrupting your flesh through the consumption of your soul. That's when the purge started. Cleansing fire. He's an absolute nutter."
"And people listen to him?" John asked, his professional opinion never favorable to faith healers or anyone who diagnosed a lack of religious conviction as a cause for sickness.
"Of course they do. He's the vicar; he's God's servant. He's got Sophie just as brainwashed as the rest of them. If he had his way, you and your friend here would have had some sort of dark ages trial by fire to prove yourselves worthy to stay."
"Everyone reacts to stress differently," Hillary said to the good vicar's credit, though she still remained just as tense and uncomfortable. "I think once we get some distance from all this, everything will calm down and be just as it was before."
"He was still a pretentious arse before," Grangerford reported as the final and most knowledgeable opinion on the topic.
His wife frowned at him with a bitter scowl as she took up their plates and left the room for the kitchen while Grangerford himself huffed self-righteously and rose to the fanfare of his own grumbles and groans. "Women," he said, shaking his head as he strode away.
It was nice indeed to not be the only stranger at the breakfast table again.