A Single Syringe

Daniel's office is unlocked and empty when John arrives, which does nothing to soothe the worry that he'd felt after recalling the memory of Daniel saying goodbye. He couldn't mean... he wouldn't. Would he?

There is a white envelope sitting in the middle of an empty, ornate wood desk, with his name written simply in tidy copperplate. He tears it open and glances over the content, catching only a few words. 'My apologies ... should have a very long time ago.... they would never let me, and would kill innocents when I tried, but now it will have no consequence...' He doesn't need to read more, because he knows what this is, what it means, and his fear clamps into an icy shock in his stomach.

Panicked, he closes his eyes and sends his awareness out into the city, like he'd done so easily when he'd created Shell Beach. Sensing matter, where and what and how much. But this time he's searching, trying to find the somehow familiar golden flicker of life that means Daniel. There is something, the tiniest pinprick of light in the corner of the city, and he is out the window in an instant, letting his mind propel him, grateful more than ever that it is dusk, but not caring if anyone sees at this point. He realizes, as he arrives on the roof of the building, that this is the hotel that he'd woken up in that first night, and he knows immediately to go to room 614.

At first John thinks that he's too late, simply because there's so much blood. The water that covers most of Schreber's body is crimson, and his right arm has fallen over the side of the tub, ribbons of scarlet winding from the neat vertical slice that runs almost the length of his forearm, down his fingers and into a brilliant pool on the muddy green tiles. Where the water stops on Schreber's chest, there is a myriad of angry scratches - no, cuts - that he thinks at first are self inflicted, and then realizes to be scars, and it begins to sink in what life had been for this man, what had brought them to this moment. He'd thought that people were supposed to look peaceful in death, but instead, Schreber just looks very sad. Alone.

"God, Daniel...." The name leaves his lips, helplessly, though he's never used it in reality before now, and he rakes his fingers through his hair, staring in horror at what was in front of him, not accepting it. Then his mind registers the very slight movement of the chest that means breathing, the very weak throb of a pulse under his skin.

He's never thought about the possibility of tuning flesh before, tuning people - it just wasn't part of his lessons. But it's the only thing that comes to mind, as he rushes to the side of the tub, soles of his shoes half slipping on the slick tiles. He wraps his hands around Daniel's right wrist and concentrates, finding all the places where things just aren't right, where things don't meet up, and willing them back to their natural state. There's blood on his hands, on his shirt cuffs, but he doesn't care, reaching in the bathwater for his other arm and doing the same.

"Daniel..." he murmurs again softly, and reaches into the bathwater to pull the doctor into his arms, cradled, pull him from this nightmare. It would be easier to lift him with tuning than human strength, but he isn't thinking about that, just praying that he's not too late after all. His form is much lighter than John had expected, but still warm, which cheers him enough to keep him going.

He doesn't think about Tuning again until he has Schreber laid out on the hotel bed. His skin is so pale that it's almost colourless, his lips faintly tinged with blue, and John struggles to understand what it means. Cold? No, not cold. No oxygen. But he is still breathing, shallowly. He remembers how haggard and troubled the doctor's breathing always was, and places a hand gently on that scarred chest. This he can tune as well, the burned and damaged tissue made whole. It's the blood that he keeps coming back to, however, crimson spilled on white porcelain, on the green tile. So he reaches out with his mind again, sensing, learning, trying to understand matter and the building blocks of life, to follow the path of the blood through his veins, his weak pulse, muscle and sinew and bone, until he can slowly, very carefully begin to duplicate the plasma and red cells, rich with oxygen, to replace some of what has been spilled in the bathroom.

The task is detailed and exact, and the concentration required begins to make his head ache, a dull throb of pain right behind his eyes. But finally, he feels the pulse strengthen, and Schreber's breath comes slow and deep, the colour slowly returning to pale cheeks.

Wearily, he wraps his arms and one leg around the bare form beside him to keep him warm, tugs the lumpy hotel comforter over them with a thought, and falls asleep.

~~~~~